Awkward, a Love Story Ch. 03

"Is this getting to the dilemma?"

"Okay, long story short. I asked if she'd forgotten anything, and she began to blush, and said that she couldn't think of what it was. And so I reminded her that she was expected to call me professor or sir. And she said, 'yes, professor.'"

"Uh huh."

"And I told her that for the mentorship to work, for this to be a long-term satisfying experience, she needed to really explore her passion, to discover the inner kink that was truly hers, that she could own."

"And this was to help her in her career?"

"Yes, and I told her that my job as mentor is to help identify and explore and experience her very specific kink, a kink that is hers alone."

"And what did she say?"

"What could she say? She said, 'yes, sir.' And I asked her to silently visualize the first time she thought to yourself, yeah, now I see what all the fuss is about. Now I see why people will put up with discomfort and pain and boredom and judginess. I wanted her to really feel those experiences, and I wanted her to want to reveal them to me."

"So what did you do."

"I went back to my desk and looked at the legal pad and asked her questions."

"Questions?"

"Questions about her sexual past. I asked what it felt like the first time she kissed a woman. Whether it felt illicit, natural. How it was different from a guy. What it felt like to blow the 19-year-old boys. What it felt like to go down on her soccer coach, a soccer coach named Eve. What it felt like to be a rug muncher."

"You used that term?"

"Nope. I asked what her first pussy tasted like, but I figured you'd prefer rug muncher."

"This is getting to the dilemma?"

"Next time. I need to leave a few minutes early. Gotta take Gemma to an art opening. But I should add that every day, I'd ask Violet to get out her yellow pad and keep writing about the thing that most excited her."

****

Next session:

"Okay, I'm cutting straight to the chase."

"Okay."

"So every day, Violet and I went through her notes pretty carefully. Sometimes, I'd read them, sometimes I'd ask her to read them out loud. Without the blindfold, obviously. Each time, she'd wear the same outfit. Each time, we'd meet at 5:30 am before anyone showed up. And I never touched her. This went on for maybe a week, 10 days, until I was satisfied."

"Satisfied?

"Yep. Satisfied that I really knew her sexual fingerprint."

"And that helped you how?"

"Incredible material for the rest of my life. Are you kidding? I also asked her to bring in pictures. Or copies of pictures of her at these various stages. And she did. There were cute pictures of her with boyfriends, one with her coach looking dykey. On and on, including one memory stick of a sex romp with a past boyfriend. Everything was out there."

"She made herself very vulnerable."

"Yes, she did. Though I told her she'd get it all back at the end, which is true. She got it back."

"And what did you offer her?"

"I told her that I was also working on an equivalent project, which I'd give her when we ended the remediation."

"What were you doing for her?"

"I didn't tell her, but she could see 2 manilla envelopes on my desk every morning. One was labeled Violet, and one was labeled David. Her sexual history, and her pictures, and the memory stick would go into one envelope, and my work would go into the other. And then, at the end of the session, everything would go into my locked file cabinet."

"Okay."

"Okay, and so we had our routine. And I never touched her, aside from the daily frisk."

"The daily frisk."

"Yep. The night before what was to be the last of our remediation sessions, I took everything home."

"I thought you were giving it back."

"I did give it all back, but I wanted to make copies so I could jerk off to it later. My God, it was awesome stuff."

"Seems like that transgresses."

"You think? Anyway, I wasn't done. The next morning, we met up, as usual. She'd drop her gym shorts, revealing her trimmed pussy, a nice butt, and then she'd lift up her shirt to show she wasn't wearing a bra."

"Of course."

"Right, of course. In the bra could be a wire. And she put on her blindfold, of course. She knew the routine. This time, however, the room was freezing."

"Why was that?"

"Because I'd turned the air conditioner on full blast."

"Uh huh."

"I rustled loudly to my closet and asked if she wanted a blanket."

"Why do that?"

"I wanted her to be comfortable. She looked cold. So, anyway, when I draped the blanket across her body, I could feel the gooseflesh."

"Uh huh."

"And I told her she was now finished, that now was the day of reckoning, that today we would see if she was ready to get where she needed to be."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'yes, sir.' And I told her that since she was covered by her blanket, she should feel free to self-scan her body--a technique I learned from you, doctor--and I told her to think about what makes her most passionate, what emptiness lay in her that needed to be filled, and what would she do to fill up that emptiness. She didn't move, so I asked her to take her left hand--did I mention she was left handed, and still is for all I know--and feel her heart. Really rub her heart. And feel her guts, her core, and feel her sex, feel the powerhouse deep inside her."

"David, c'mon."

"You get the drift."

"Are the details necessary?"

"I think they are, because I want to emphasize that I wasn't abusive. Okay, maybe I was, but my words were intended to soothe her and encourage her to connect with her three-dimensional physical, psychological, sexual, intellectual self. I asked her to stroke those parts of her that might feel vulnerable, the parts that people think they know, but don't, that people such as myself might want to superficially paw at, but which I would want to--over the course of the next year--really connect to."

"I'm not seeing a dilemma."

"One thing you would have seen if you were there is a slight wardrobe malfunction. While I was doing a mindfulness exercise, it became pretty clear that she'd started masturbating. Much to my surprise, of course."

"Of course."

"I could see the arch of one hand under the blanket, touching herself. I couldn't see much under the blanket, at least initially, though obviously the blanket slid off one leg, so it was fairly easy to move my chair closer and watch her masturbate under her gym shorts. And obviously easy for me to video it on my phone."

"You videotaped it?"

"Yep, but don't worry, I'm pretty good at hiding such stuff. Except when I get sloppy, but I'm getting ahead of myself."

"Okay, let's get to the dilemma."

"So, basically, I coached her until she came in my office, under my blanket. It was quiet, fairly convulsive, but unusual, at least for me."

"Unusual?"

"Unusual, since I was dressed, wearing a jacket, and I don't often have junior faculty members cumming in my office."

"Okay."

"Almost done. At that point, I walked up next to her. She knew I was there."

Head nod.

"And what did you do?"

"Well, I'm sure this is obvious, but I got right next to her face, and unzipped myself."

"Unzipped yourself?"

"And asked if she was ready to do what was necessary."

"Which was?"

"Seriously. You haven't guessed?"

Silence.

"And I told her that this would not be a one-off, that she'd be expected to perform daily, for months, and she'd need to show passion. Maybe not every day, but most days, and, by doing so, she'd find herself in the passion. Now admittedly, I was going a little overboard, but I was exposed, myself, and I wanted to ensure that she knew what she was getting into."

"She hadn't known by then?"

"And you know what she did?"

"No."

"To my surprise, she just opened her mouth. It was a sweet mouth, with very white teeth. She must be excellent at brushing, though maybe she was just genetically fortunate. And I looked at her glistening fingers. Remember, she'd just cum..."

"David, just get on with it."

"Okay. And her gym shorts were sort of wet and wrinkled, and her t-shirt was exposing a cute belly button with one of those hoops that are still popular."

"Got it. Sexy visuals."

"When I pulled off her blindfold, she seemed surprised."

"At what was staring her in the face?"

"Well, yeah, I'd unzipped my jacket since I'd gotten warm while she'd been masturbating, and I have a feeling that she thought I'd unzipped my pants and was expecting a blowjob. What a miscommunication, right?"

"Uh huh. What a miscommunication."

"Awkward. So, I walked back to my chair to give her a moment. She seemed flustered, not surprisingly. She'd converted a mindfulness moment into a masturbation romp in front of her department chair."

"You're mean."

"Sometimes, I am, and sometimes I'm not. Anyway, she made as if to leave. To be more specific, she was scrambling to get out the door, but I did ask her to stay for 5 minutes, and then she could go. She looked breathless, and scared, and angry. Not sure which was predominant."

"Weren't you worried she'd just leave anyway. You humiliated her."

"It's an old building with old locks. I'd locked us in. I knew I could get a few minutes alone."

"Good thinking."

"Don't get sarcastic, again. Anyway, once she calmed a bit, I asked her for 4 things."

"Which were?"

"First, that until she left the office, she'd answer 'yes, sir.'"

"Wasn't that pushing it? Seems like you were already on thin ice."

"True, but she quietly answered, 'yes sir.'

"Okay."

"And I told her that after she left the office, she'd never again call me sir."

"Okay"

"And then I asked her to go get the thick envelope with my name on it."

"What was it, blank pages?"

"Who's being mean?"

Silence.

"What's your real guess? What do you really think I put in that really thick manilla envelope?"

"I don't know."

"It was her dissertation."

"Why would she want her dissertation back?"

"It was a marked-up version of her dissertation."

"And?"

"Well, she looked at the thick stack of pages and made to run off, but I asked her to silently read the comments in the office."

"And?"

"Well, her dissertation is 323 double-spaced pages, and she needed to convert it to a book. No book, no possibility of tenure. With a really good book, she could continue on the tenure track with us or at some other very good college."

"Okay. So what were the comments?"

"On almost every page, I'd made substantive comments, so they're hard to summarize. Typed in the front was a proposed reorganization with a new table of contents. I suggested over 50 new references, cut about 20 of hers as being extraneous, and made a strong suggestion for an altered point of view and conclusion. I'd completely rewritten the first chapter using that point of view. I wrote down the names of three senior professors at other institutions who should receive her updated dissertation. They owed me favors and would read it over from the point of view of publication and also because I knew were looking to hire someone within the next year. I also gave her the name of people at four different academic publishing houses who would read the book carefully, and who specialized in this kind of book."

"What did she do?"

"She started crying fairly quickly, but she was sturdy. She turned page after page for probably half an hour. She'd sometimes glance up at me and shake her head. She'd sometimes get silent and smile at something I'd written, and then she'd cry again. She'd also mutter occasional nice words."

"How'd you feel about that?"

"It felt good. I changed her life."

"At some cost to hers and your own."

"Yes. I embarrassed her, and I could have lost my job, but I also wouldn't have gone to all that trouble if she weren't exposing herself in such an intense way."

"What was in the other envelope?"

"You mean the three-word envelopes?"

Head nod.

"Kind of corny. 'Publish or Perish.'"

"And where was the dilemma?"

"Oh, you know the copy of all of her writings, and the pictures, and the video? The little bonus bits that I intended to hide in a way that could never be found."

"Yeah."

"Well, when I got home, they were sprawled across my dining room table. Tamara had driven all the way from Berkeley to surprise me and had found them on my desk. That's when she said I could go fuck myself and whoever else I wanted."

"That's the dilemma?"

"Well, we haven't spoken about it. She's been in Turkey, and I've been busy with the teens, who incidentally, she'd explicitly given me permission to fuck."

"I'm not sure she'd agree with that. She didn't know about the teens."

"I didn't know about the teens. Caroline's family hadn't yet visited. But I'm afraid that Tamara's more concerned about the big thick wad of legal paper with my writing interspersed with the rantings of an obviously addled young woman. She wants some explanation."

"And the dilemma?"

"On the one hand, I could explain what happened, or I could just toss the relationship into the ocean and try again. I guess there's a 3rd option, but I don't think my imagination is wild enough to make up a believable story."

"That's a dilemma."

"Y'know. The worse part is that while I love Caroline, I'd been planning to get married to Tamara. I think I've said Caroline's the love of my life, which is true, but Tamara is the love of a different version of my life. I'm headed down to San Diego in a couple of days and am already looking forward to it. Did I mention that Caroline is in a lengthy blowjob period?"

"Yes."

"Kind of like Picasso's blue period?"

"Yes. You told me."

"It's strange, but in some ways, you've been a bit of a practice run. I knew you wouldn't help me figure out which way to go on the Tamara dilemma, but I did want to chew on it out loud. I'm actually going to run it by Caroline. She's excellent at advice on women."

"Caroline knows about Tamara?"

"Of course."

"Does she know about Gemma?"

"Of course not."

"And Sarah?"

"I don't think we've clarified what Sarah and I have done, or why she left so suddenly. But she'll likely come back with me from San Diego, so maybe I can fill you in on that next time."

"Do you have a sense about what you'll tell Tamara about Violet? Is she the kind of person who'd forgive that kind of, uhm, unusual sexual exploration?

"Oh, doctor, I should have made myself clear. For Tamara, the sexual fantasy thing is relatively minor. I already laid it out for her, including the fact that I never touched the woman's genitals, never kissed her, never tweaked a nipple. All true, incidentally."

"Did you mention the rest?"

"Bits and pieces. For her, the more important bit is that I cheated."

"Cheated?"

"Yeah. Let me see if I can remember verbatim what Tamara said. Something like, 'in exchange for a bunch of jerk-off material, you sold out. You redid her dissertation, you probably got her a job. It's intellectually dishonest, and you'll probably end up placing her in some sweet gig over somebody who's more deserving. What an asshole."

"That was her reaction?"

"Yes. See what I mean? Isn't she great?"