The Poet

"...whereas if you look at Emerson's use of meter," I mumbled to the class, but Lisa Stanton was painting her nails, Justin Bridges was trying very hard to look like he was taking notes as he doodled a rocketship in his notebook, Andrew Haggerson was watching girls out the window, and Dawn Guptil was writing poetry, better stuff than I would ever do. Dawn was brilliant, so much so that in quiet moments, I almost wished she'd give it up and switch to Women's Studies or Business because she'd do things with the medium that I'd only ever dream of. And she was beautiful, and I was glad she was the only one who ever paid attention, because all I wanted to do was lean against my desk and stare at her, she had eyes the color of her skin, her hair fell in blacks waves over her shoulders, and just below that, her breasts. Ah! her perfect breasts - I once caught myself pressing my fingers into the desk, rattling on about William Carlos Williams automatically and thinking about what it must be like for whatever lucky man she loves to hold those wonderful brown orbs, what it must be like after a long day to come home and undo those buttons one by one, slowly, because wonders like that should always be nibbled at, not gulped.

But when I was invited to teach at this college, I promised myself I would never become one of those teachers who screws his students. I thought of the teachers who did that when I was in college ten years ago, bitter old men with big, white beards, giving some dumb blonde a third their age an A so long as she stayed after and sucked him off, while I struggled in the back of the class to get the grades honestly.

Of course, Dawn didn't need to suck me for an A - she deserved all that and more already - but that wasn't the point.

I watched Andrew's lips part as a half dozen cheerleaders walked past, he was making no secret of watching them. Normally, I found it hard to hold this against him, Andrew was tremendously fat, the sort that waddles while he walks, and his greasy hair and pimples must not get him many dates, but today, as I thought about Dawn and how in any other circumstances I'd be sitting by her desk asking her out for coffee, for beer, or just back to my place, Andrew make my blood boil. I don't know why, but his desperation seemed to mock mine, and I snapped very suddenly, "You people aren't even -listening-, are you?"

Every head turned to me, even Dawn's. My breath caught in my throat as her soft, surprised eyes met mine and she set down her pen. "No!" Andrew said, "We're listening! Emerson, right? Emerson."

"You're not listening!" I said. "You're watching the cheerleaders bounce," and the whole class giggled and Andrew turned bright red and stared at his notebook and I felt like a jerk. "Look," I said, "It's a beautiful day. I wouldn't want to be stuck in here either. Why don't you all go out and enjoy the sunshine - you can make yourself a better poet by living in the world than you can in any classroom anyway," and I nodded. "Class dismissed."

Lisa quickly slapped a last coat of paint on her pinky and dropped the polish into her purse. Justin capped his pen and almost ran from the classroom, and Andrew slinked out looking at his feet as he went. "I'm sorry, Professor," he muttered, and I told him not to worry about it, and apologized for embarrassing him. He nodded glumly and left. Dawn went back to her poem.

I just watched her. Maybe I shouldn't have, maybe I should have at least pretended to be working or organizing my papers or something, but I just leaned against my desk and watched. She was passionate when she wrote, she had the sort of energy I only dreamed of recapturing. On more than one occasion I'd seen her rip the page with her pen as she dashed off lines as beautiful and perfect as she herself was. She hesitated, pursing her big lips as she tried to find an ending, and then a triumphant smile burst across her face and she wrote the last line and slapped the notebook closed. "Good one?" I asked.

"Oh yes," she said. Her voice was like flowers, her voice was like a warm breeze, her voice was like the moon. There was nothing like her voice. She stood up and looked at me, and cocked her head slightly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked. Of course, I didn't say, you can talk to me until the stars burn out and God steps down from His Heaven if you like.

"Sure, but close the door, will you?" She did without asking, and I sat down in my chair and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. It's not that I normally drink in front of students, but my nerves were shaken, my heart was pounding, I needed something to calm me down. Something to keep me professional. I was alone in a shady room with the most beautiful woman I knew. It was all I could do to keep my jaw from going slack. I pured a shot, and trying to pretend it was an afterthought, looked up at her and said, "Want one?"

She smiled - God, her smile! - and nodded, "Yes please." I poured her one and lifted mine in a mock toast , sipping half of it down. Dawn lifted hers and emptied the whole thing into her mouth, slapping it down on the table maybe harder than she'd meant to.

"What can I do for you?" I asked. She hesitated, looking off to the side, her black hair rolling over her shoulder as she did, her sweet lips parting slightly.

"Do you like m-- do you like my poetry?" she stuttered. "I just started writing again when I came here to college. I stopped in high school because my mother told me I was awful, she said I was just pretending to be Anne Sexton, and I've always been afraid she was right."

"She wasn't," I said firmly, finishing my shot. "You're spectacular. And did you know Anne Sexton stopped writing when she was young for the same reason?"

"Really?" she said, and she was smiling now, her whole face glowed. I felt as though my life were complete having made this wonderful woman happy.

"Yeah," I said, "she quit because her mother told her she was just imitating Sara Teasdale. She only started again because her therapist suggested it. But you aren't imitating Anne Sexton - what you're doing is new and wonderful, and between you and me you're the best poet in the class. Probably in the whole school." I stopped myself before I could babble out "in the whole world."

"I know I don't always seem like I'm paying attention," she said gently, "but if it wasn't for your class I wouldn't have kept up with writing. This class has meant so much to me." And my heart swelled, although the rational fragments of my brain were trying to tamp out the fire by telling me that she was wrong, that my teaching had been passionless and prefabricated, but although they were right, nothing could beat meaning anything to Dawn Guptil. I felt as stupid as a schoolboy. I felt sixteen again. She said, "Do you have a girlfriend?" and I was glad I wasn't drinking when she said so, because I'd have sprayed it across my desk just then.

"Uh - uh, no," I stuttered. She smiled just little and she locked the door. I thought I was going to die as she undid the top button on her white shirt. Then the next. A little brown skin peeked out, and I feared I would explode in my pants as she moved to the third. I meant to sound firm and decisive, but when I opened my mouth all I could do was whisper, "This is probably... wrong or something."

"You don't have a girlfriend?" she said, suddenly confident and sultry, and her hand was still moving down the buttons, and she raised her other hand to her breast and I shuddered and gasped no. "A wife? You're not gay?" and I whispered no and no again and she smiled wider and slid her white shirt over her dark skin, and then she was standing in front of the desk unfastening her chaste white bra. "Then it isn't wrong," she said, lowering her bra slowly, so slowly, I thought I would die before she finished, but then out peeked her tiny dark nipples and then the bra was on the floor and she was rubbing her breasts, and they were everything I'd hoped for and more, her index finger passed over her stiff left nipple and she close her eyes for a moment. I wanted to say it was wrong, or that we shouldn't do it here, or that we should at least close the shades because we were on the first floor, but I was paralyzed. She came around the desk and shifted her long blue skirt and sat down in my lap and she kissed me. She kissed me. Her lips tasted so good, her hair smelled like Spring - how is it that beautiful women always know just how to smell? - and in spite of myself I put my hand in her skirt and rested it on her thigh, and slid it up. Her skin was smooth and soft and I moved up slowly. I wanted to pitch her on the desk and stick it in and go wild, but I didn't. This had to be savoured. She put her small hand in my hair and pressed my face against hers and the tips of my fingers met her soft pubic hair - no underwear! - and slowly, I explored her with my fingers. First the mound. Then the lips. Then the nub of her clit and she moaned into my mouth and I slid a finger inside her and she began to thrust back and forth on it. She pulled open my shirt and gave me electric kisses on my neck, my collarbone, my chest, and I took my finger out of her and unzipped my fly. My cock flew out and without missing a beat, she grabbed it and pressed it into her cunt. I was inside her before my mind even caught up, I went blank for a moment with wonder, and only her little cry as she slid down onto me broke my trance.

I stood up, lifting her with me, pushing as far into her tight pussy as I would go as I did, holding her by her firm ass as I leaned her against the desk and then I was on top of her and she was making little gasping noises and clutching at me with her cunt and I was thrusting and pushing my body against hers and her fingers were in my hair again and one of the other teachers passed by and glanced into the window and then looked quickly down at his shoes and I did not care.

"I'm going to -" I said, and

"Don't stop!" she whispered desperately, and I slid all the way in and shuddered and the whole world went white and it felt like kissing God as I burst inside her.

And then it was over, and the little details came back into my focus, the way the hair stuck to my sweating forehead, the two hard spots of her nipples against my bare chest, the way she still shook on the desk, her shudders passing slowly. I closed my eyes and put my ear to her heart and just listened - pa-dump pa-dump pa-dump - as the world's spinning slowed back down.