Booker: Uh…maybe you haven’t noticed, but I red flag all of them.
Ian: Fair enough. And I haven’t noticed because I grade according to class ID. I have no idea which number is yours (and I don’t want to). Plus, since I’ve been lecturing, Hannah’s been taking care of some of the grading to kind of balance things out a bit.
Booker:That makes sense. How are you handling all of it? Plus the coffee shop.
Ian: I’m not gonna lie. It’s a lot. But I love teaching.
Booker: I can tell.
Ian: Plus, Hannah’s got enough going on right now, so I’ll quit my bitching and get it done, you know?
Booker: Yeah, I know all about that.
I put my phone down and stare at my computer screen. On a scale of 1-10, how comfortable am I with my sexuality? Honestly? Negative 456.
Ok, maybe that’s a little extreme. Because the things I’m feeling aren’t wrong, and I know that on a soul-deep level. If any of my friends had brought a guy around, or even told me they were questioning their sexual identity, I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. There’d be no judgment at all.
It’s not about sexuality. It’s about me.
I’ve spent my whole life holding back and keeping my head down. My dad’s a forbidding man. He doesn’t tolerate deviation of any kind, so I learned early that the easiest path was the path of least resistance. If I fall in line, he won’t be angry. If I do what he wants, my mother won’t cry. If I pretend everything is ok, then maybe it will be. Those are the mantras of my childhood. Those were the rules I knew even before I could write my name.
So changing course now is hard. It’s scary.
But it’s also undeniable.
Whether I want to face it or not, I’m gay. Whether I want to act on it or not, I’m gay. Whether I want to tell another soul or not, I’m gay.
There’s no other explanation for the way I feel around Ian, or for the thoughts he inspires. Heck, even the thought of him has my dick twitching with awareness.
Closing my eyes, I picture him at the coffee shop last night. His sweet smile, his lean frame. Those glasses and that close-cropped hair. His beanies and his button-downs. He’s beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He’s charming and tempting. He’s comforting and thoughtful. He’s the person I’d conjure if I were tasked with making myself a perfect match. He’s everything I want in a partner, even though wanting a man wasn’t in my plan.
Plans change.
Still, he’s basically my teacher right now. And we’re friends. And all our friends are friends. I don’t want to mess with any of those dynamics. Besides, coming out isn’t something I’m ready to do. It will draw attention and that’s something I try hard to avoid.
But here, in my bed, late at night, I can picture another reality, one where I’m free to be myself. One where Ian wants me every bit as much as I want him. One where he’s not just holding my hand, but touching my body.
I reach into my sweats to stroke my cock. Closing my eyes, I bite back a moan. My dick is hard, thick, and dripping with precum. Masturbation isn’t something I do often. My body doesn’t usually crave it. But the more I think about Ian, the harder I get. Soon, I’m gripping my dick tight at the base and twisting slowly as my hand glides up my shaft. Pre-cum drips from my tip and I coat myself with it, biting back a moan. Still in my fantasy world, I wonder what Ian would think if he were here now. Would the sight of me taking care of myself get him hot? Would he unzip his pants and pull out his cock? Would we watch each other?
Or would he strip naked, letting me look my fill at his beautiful body before crawling into bed beside me? What would it feel like to have his body—all of it—touching mine?Would he kiss me? Would his hands trace down my chest and—oh, frick. Forbidden images flood my mind as my body takes over. Rolling onto my stomach, I fuck myself into the mattress, chasing my release. I picture Ian under me, his body taking everything I have. And that puts me over the edge. I spill into my own hand, onto the sheets, and all over my stomach. My breathing is labored and I’m a sticky, sweaty mess.
I need to shower and make my bed. I need to stop fantasizing about my TA.
Two of those things are easy. The last one? Not so much.
Chapter 7
Ian
The sun is shiningand I’m taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather, taking Rose on a stroll through the park. She’s nestled into her stroller with a blanket, her sippy cup, and one of those no-spill containers filled with Cheerios. She’s laughing and babbling happily while I check in by phone with Hannah.
“Everything’s good,” I tell her. It’s the truth. I’m handling all three classes, and with the new hires at Drip, I am starting to get to a place where I don’t have to choose between sleeping and eating. It’s amazing.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear that. Dad’s rehab is slow-going. Michele had a few questions about the freshman class. Do you mind if I give her your number?”
Do I mind if she gives a tenured professor my number so she can ask me pointers on how to teach a class? Yes and no. I’m flattered, of course, but I need one more thing on my plate like I need a hole in my head. Still…I’m applying to the doctoral program up and down the East Coast, and saying no to a potential colleague isn’t going to help my case.
“Yea, no problem,” I answer.
