Professor Poison

Chapter 4

I didn’t tell anyone at Mercer Chemicals Incorporated (MCI) of the writing class I wanted to attend at Rassner College. No one at my full-time job needed to know what I did and with whom after five in the evening, Monday through Friday. Nor did they need to know what I did on the weekends. Besides, do chemists really have any interest in cozy mysteries? I doubted they did.

On Tuesday, September 24, I finished my shift at MCI, which consisted of reviewing contracts between MCI and their chemical-needy clients. Thereafter, I ate a quick salad at a fast food chain and headed to Rosser College campus, walking.

The early evening’s high temperature, because of global warming, offered a shorts-wearing kind of day. Young men, in tank tops to show off their biceps, jock-trotted from one campus building to the next with books in packs on their strong and muscled backs. The eighty-nine degrees left nothing to my imagine as their T-shirts and tanks sweat-stuck to their well-built and carved chests, outlining pumped pecs, hard n*****s, and ab-lined stomachs; all of which gained my attention. Although the men were far too young for me, I didn’t object to a quick glance, drooling at the corners of my mouth. How succulent those young men were, delicious looking in every way. Each was so different: of various heights, weights, and hues. Hairstyles were mussed, military buzzes, and simple comb-overs. There were dorkable men on campus, young men in pressed shirts and ties who looked like Mormons, bare-chested hotties, and attractive geeks in handsome glasses. Most were attached to women, but a few walked alone across the campus, youthful prey for a campus rapist, a mad serial killer, or even me.

I did not bump into anyone I knew, not that I expected to. Students perceived me as a professor, different from their selves, probably because I wore thin chinos, a navy polo, and sand-colored loafers, overdressed for classes. I looked professional and astute, but not out of my element. Perhaps I wanted to see someone I knew. Such as one of the young employees who attended the college and worked a part-time position at my local coffee house, Dunk. Common chatter would have been nice to share, relaxing me. Nothing of the sort happened, though. As Ulana had told me often, “You come into this world alone…and spend most of your life by yourself.” Whatever. Sometimes she knew what she was talking about. Most of the time she didn’t.

As I walked to Darwin Hall, passing the campus library, and a bronze statue of William Penn, some hunky, broad-shouldered jock in a wrestling singlet of bright college colors, gold and purple, bumped one of his massive shoulders into one of my smaller ones. The brunette practically knocked me to the ground but was polite enough to stop to see if I was harmed because of his carelessness.

“No problem,” I said, and eyed up his popping pecs and the tube of concealed meat between his legs (a wrestling singlet left nothing to one’s imagination: strongly-defined abs, narrow hips, huge pecs with firm n*****s, and an outlined c**k the size of Mason Hall, a smaller version of the Empire State Building), finding the man extraordinarily sexy for all my selfish reasons.

“My bad,” he said, reached for my shoulder he bumped into, and soothed it with a comforting touch. Then he winked at me, smiled. “You’re new to campus, aren’t you?”

I nodded, placing him at nineteen, maybe a tad older.

“What classes are you teaching?” He checked me out from toes to head, studying the khaki material at my center.

“I’m a student. I have a writing class in a few minutes.”

“Impressive. You look good for an older man. And you look smart with the pack on your back.” He reached forward with his right hand and placed its palm flat against my stomach. “I like an older man who works out. What do you say we wrestle together some time? I can be quite the top…if you know what I mean.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

He didn’t offer me the time to politely respond to his comments. As he pulled his hand away from my stomach, he said, “I’m Adam Adamson. No joke. If you want some fun, find me online.”

What kind of fun? I wondered. No, I really didn’t wonder at all. I wasn’t born yesterday and knew what he wanted from me: s*x with an older man, a badge on his chest of s****l doings, and a tick on his bucket list that explained: I have f****d a daddy.

“Nice to meet you, Adam.”

I was just about to tell him my name when he rattled off, “Gotta run, man. See you around. I’m going to be late for class.” He bolted away as quickly as he had bolted into me. Gone like the wind. Tight ass bouncing left and right.

Youth. Such a mystery. I would never understand them.