The French Professor

At the little southern college I attended, he was the most senior of the French faculty, yet I never heard him speak the language. He was a tall man, balding, with a fringe of pewter-colored hair around the shiny dome of his head.

When I started college at seventeen, he had one of the largest cocks I’d ever seen.

I met the French professor the first day my parents dropped me off in the hot, humid tourist town that would be my home for four years. I’d arrived at my freshman dormitory early in the morning and had dropped off my books and clothes and meager belongings in the little room I was sharing with a stranger from New Hampshire. I opted to skip out of some kind of pep rally at the stadium to attend an orientation day box-lunch one woman show given by Anne Baxter, who of course played Eve Harrington in All About Eve.

As I sat there in the darkened gymnasium eating a dry ham sandwich and balancing little cups of potato salad and sweet tea, Baxter stood up in front of a slide projector and talked about Bette Davis and the ups and downs of her life. I became conscious of something: this was it. It was the last few moments of my life as an extension of my parents’ household. When that clock reached the top of the hour, the show would be over and my folks would be driving back to Richmond and leaving me on my very own, for the first time in my life. The realization made the minutes fly by quickly. Soon I was out in the hallway with hundreds of parents off to say their final goodbyes to the other fledglings about to fly from the nest. 

I stood with my own mother and father, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my corduroys, wishing that the whole goodbye thing could be skipped, or at least compacted to as short as possible. “Well, okay then,” I said, and gave them awkward hugs.

After some hugs and suppressed tears, they were off. I had two hours to kill before the mandatory lecture on the school honor system. I could have gone back to the dorm and made friends with my roommate, or headed over to the last of the stadium antics. Instead, I did what any seventeen-year-old on his own for the first time in his life did with the first hour of freedom. I went hunting for dick.

I didn’t actually intend to find any cock that day. I thought it might be a wise thing, however, to check out all the possible cruisy spots on campus so that I’d know where to go when I was ready. Hey, it sounded like an efficient use of my time, in the moment.

But that’s how I found myself in a dark, quiet hallway in the campus center basement. The school’s paper had an office nearby, but other than the quiet sounds of a few people talking from within its open door, this particular corner of the student center was empty. I knew I was onto something right away when I found the men’s room there was vast, cavernous, and shaped like a large U. One entered at the top left of the U, walked past a row of mirrors and sinks, made the hairpin turn, and then found the other half of the room with the urinals and toilet stalls. I settled in the middle of the three stalls with my pants around my ankles, dick in hand, and tried to make out the scratched hieroglyphics of faded graffiti.

I wasn’t waiting long before I heard the outer door creak open and someone make his way to the stalls. I noted with satisfaction that the time between the door opening to the time the footsteps sounded across from my door was a good eight or nine seconds—plenty of time to get settled if I ever was interrupted in the middle of a sex act, there. The guy opened the door to the stall to my left, undid his belt, and let his pants drop with a crash of the buckle. When I looked beneath the marble partition, I could see that he was probably an older man, judging by the tan slacks he wore and the tan suede bucks on his feet. The rightmost foot lifted up and tapped, and shifted in my direction.

I knew the drill. I tapped my sneaker, and brought it close to his. His buck closed the gap between our feet and rubbed up against mine, tapping and nudging me lovingly. I saw the shadows shift in his stall as he knelt down. “Open your door, son,” he whispered at me.

I obeyed. And that’s when I saw the French professor for the first time. Fully erect, he was a monster—I know one of my readers who’s an alumnus of the university could give an estimate of how large the guy really was, but I know it had to be over nine inches. When he was hard, the man was rock hard, too, especially for a guy who had to be in his late fifties at the very least.

“Do you suck?” he wanted to know. I nodded. “Suck me, then.” I thrilled to the order and set to work.

I bobbed back and forth on his dick while he leaned back against the marble partition and watched. He enjoyed looking down at me, I recall, and occasionally brushing away the blond hair from my forehead while I slurped and slobbered on his massive tool. He never said much, but he always managed to make clear exactly what he wanted.

The French Professor knew how to kiss, too. From time to time he’d have me come up for air from his dick. He’d lift me to my feet and we’d stand there in the stall, our heads and shoulders protruding above the tops of the partitions for anyone to see had they come in. His arms would be around me, his mouth on mine, his tongue deep within. I’m six-foot-three, and he somehow managed to make me feel small, and young, and fragile. He’d play with my butt as we kiss; two of his fingers insistently toyed with the outside of my hole.

I don’t know how long I sucked him that first day, but I remember thinking it a miracle we were never interrupted. At last he stood me up a last time, turned me around so that he could sit on the toilet, and took my dick in his mouth.

I came almost immediately. He swallowed my load in a couple of gulps and then pulled up his pants and his hard dick inside them, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Freshman?” he asked. I nodded. “First day?” I nodded again. He really had me pegged. “Welcome to college.”

I saw the French professor all through my college career. If he saw me lingering in the television room at the campus center he’d pause outside the door and gaze in, as if watching MTV with the rest of us. Once our eyes would catch, I’d gather my knapsack and head outside to the first floor men’s room with him. Or, if that was busy, we’d head to either the basement or the second floor. Sometimes he’d see me at the campus library, and we’d retire to one of the men’s rooms there to suck each other off. And sometimes he’d find me studying under a tree somewhere on the picturesque college campus. Every time, in library or classroom or in the outdoors, when I was in earshot, he’d always ask, “Do you have time to take a walk?”

Always polite, always friendly, the French professor. He made me happy to gather my books and belongings and step away with him. Usually we'd make a beeline to the nearest quiet restroom,  but sometimes we'd use his office. When he discovered I worked at an ice cream store off campus, he would visit there with his pretty young wife and his grade school children, and buy the family ice cream while talking to me as if I were one of his former students. Then, after he’d paid and I’d be holding out my hand with the change in it, his own large hand would clasp over mine and hold it for a few seconds, with meaning, until at last he’d let me release the coins into his palm.

The last time I saw him was two years after my graduation, when I returned to campus for a retirement party of a favorite old professor. I’d gone looking for him in the little corner where the French department had its offices. His door was locked. I cursed my bad timing and took the staircase outdoors, only to find him entering the building. “Hey,” I said, blushing a little at the sight of him. “I don’t know if you remember me, but. . . .”

“Of course I remember you,” he said, leaning against the wall and smiling. “You graduated.”

“I did.” I’d come prepared with a speech, something about how I thought I’d pop in and say hello for old times’ sake, but the words wouldn't come out.

They didn’t need to. His voice was low and throaty as he leaned close. “So, do you have time to take a walk?”

I always had time for my favorite French professor.