Confession of a College Coed

I first met Richard when I was 25 years old. He was teaching algebra at a community college. I was his student. I sometimes wonder how many women and men have walked in my shoes. Too many to count, I suppose. I recall early on, the manner in which he entered the classroom. He trudged in, wearing his throwback ‘80’s fire truck red jacket that he was too frugal to replace with something more modern. His head down, no briefcase in hand, a handful of graded papers under his arm, his demeanor was more like that of a machine than a man. I watched him lecture, watched as he scribbled notes across the whiteboards illuminated with florescent lighting. I didn’t hear anything. I watched Richard, because Richard was hot.

Richard retreated to his office when he was not lecturing. I remember the first day I entered his office. I never performed well in math and I wanted to make a good impression on him. When I entered the office I went cold a moment – he was staring at his computer screen with his back to me but he knew I had entered. I started to speak but he motioned for me to sit. I found the black wooden captain’s chair behind the door and sat down, uncomfortably far from him for conversation. He persisted in his task and when ready he turned to address me. I managed an introduction but that was all.

Over the next several weeks I began sitting outside of his office to study at a table in the corridor that adjoined the offices of the other math faculty. Often times he sat with me, offering assistance on the problems I could not solve. I felt my heart beating as we talked, my palms sweated. I did learn some math, but not enough to keep from failing the tests. This resulted in more hours spent sitting outside his office.

He was such an odd man. A drinker, I thought. Once he cut himself and he needed a bandage. I dug through my backpack seeking one and when I finally found it and offered it to him he would not accept it. That is characteristic of him, but I at a loss to explain why.

Then one night when we were both working late, me studying in the corridor and him sitting at his desk in his office, something happened. I walked into his office to talk. It was then that he showed me the book. It had lots of provocative illustrations, not pictures but illustration of n*** people. I told him that I liked them and then I placed my hand on his thigh and asked if he liked what I had done. His response was a mumbled I don’t know. I suggested he place his hand on my thigh, that it would feel good to me. He did not acquiesce.

For weeks thereafter I began making s***** overtures. I recall unbuttoning my blouse in his office as he watched in an attempt to elicit a reaction. He remained stoic. I kept trying. When we studied together I wrote him obscene notes and he wrote back, but often just in teasing ways. I remained undeterred. I would enter his office silently early in the morning and place my hands on his shoulders as he sat facing his computer. I wrote him e-mails telling him how much I wanted him. Then one day we were alone in his office, and I begged him for the tenth time to permit me to shut his office door so that we might have some privacy. He agreed.

For weeks thereafter we shut the door often, u*********, touching one another, leaving a mess of s***** fluids, and dressing again, often without words. Richard had a wet c***, and up until I met him men had never done much for me (I am bisexual). His wet c*** was the best of both worlds, wet like a woman but long and hard like a man. My heart races today just thinking about it. Our encounters in his office, although s******* gratifying, were brief and limited by the minimal space of the office.

One night I snapped and went over to his house. He wasn’t home so I waited. I went to the mall. I came back and waited longer. Finally, around 11 p.m. he came home. I was sitting on the bench on his porch. The headlights of his car gave away my position. He was surprised to see me. He had a look on his face as if the circumstances were surreal. We went inside and talked a while but we both had a better idea. He pulled my ribbed halter top off and ran his hands over my breasts. Clothing came off as we made our way up the stairs to his bedroom. We made out but we did not f***. He was tired, he needed to sleep. He fell asleep in my arms and I kissed and stroked his back as he slept. He had the sweetest flesh I had ever tasted. His scent at once comforted and excited me. The length of his body was glorious. I did not sleep at all that night.

Sometime after that I invited him over to my place. I did not intend to f*** him when I called that night, but shortly after he arrived I knew I had to and I tore the house apart looking for a condom. His long shaft felt even longer in my c***. I fucked him hard and came more than I had ever come with anyone. I knew he didn’t love me and the grief I felt after coming was unbearable. I collapsed in tears and he left.

Three years passed and we said not a word. I still thought on him from time to time, and then in January I contacted him. To my astonishment he replied. We met at his house and I told him I thought I still loved him. He told me that he did not feel the same, but then proceeded to massage my breasts. I was wearing a black satin one-piece underneath my blazer and he felt so good I wanted to go to bed with him. We went upstairs to the bedroom, got undressed, and played with each other.

Within a week I contacted him again because I wanted to f*** him. We did f***, and his c*** was twice as nice as I remembered. I felt the length of it and the weight of his body and found it impossible to protest. I left sedated.

We began meeting once a month for s**, but it soon became more often. A problem arose, however, because he would not say he loved me. I decided to stop sleeping with him as a precautionary measure, and soon our play devolved to foreplay. The foreplay became emotionally crushing. I loved him and he did not love me. I wanted him, but I could not trust him. We began looking at p*** together, reading stories. I felt my moral boundaries being pushed, and I began to question whether the orgasms were worth it. With Richard I would come and come and come, eight times, ten times, it was on command. I was wetter than I had ever been with anyone and I could not get enough.

I recall watching him in the shower and being transfixed by how beautiful he was – he was a work of art. It wasn’t because he was fit, or because he was exceedingly attractive. It was because he did it for me and I knew it. When he told me that it had to end (because he did not love me and my insistence on his loving me was becoming a drag), I was shocked. Here was the only man that had ever gotten me off and he was refusing me. I wanted to die. He was the only man who I could count on to skip the small talk and get right down to s** and now there would be no man worth desiring and no escaping the drudgery of future small talk. I had a perfect thing and it was gone, all because I had gone and fallen in love.

I was in a daze for the next few weeks. Why had he rejected me? Why was I unlovable? When I was 15 my boyfriend rejected my love. Throughout my life my father consistently chose his love of alcohol over me. I never saw him sober. This mountain of rejection by men just washed over me again when Richard rejected me. I stayed up nights thinking about how the damage could be repaired, but I could not think of a remedy. I cried. I knew that day in January when he told me he didn’t love me I should have left, but I wanted to taste him again. I wanted him to fall for me. I tried so hard to demonstrate my good qualities, but the effort failed. I was still alone. But now was worse than before because now I lived a life in which I knew there was no possibility of him ever loving me.

I decided to write this to get it off of my chest. It is my confession. In the future I think I will avoid having s** before marriage. Marriage means something – it means no false hope, it means that the person you love will actually be yours (at least for a little while) – that way you won’t end up with a rented d*** like I did.