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“How have you been, Miss Whitley?” he asked, enclosing my shoulder with his palm. “Quite well, thank you,” I stammered nervously. “Well, what can I do for you today?” “I was hoping you’d… well, I was hoping you could proof the short story I’ve been working on. ” “I see,” John pulled a slim pair of reading glasses out of his front pocket and slid them on his face. I couldn’t help but focus my attention on his lips as he murmured while he read through my writing. He pulled a red pen from behind his ear to write comments and mark errors as he read. “Your word choice is weak in this area,” he said, directing my attention to the fourth page of my story. “Yes, I’ve been having problems trying to fix that. I was hoping you could help me. ” John stood up and rummaged around his shelves, then tossed a thesaurus into my lap. “The dictation needs to be more powerful, more emotional. Surely you understand what sort of deep emotion this stage of the plot requires. Tell me, Miss Whitley, have you been dating much since you’ve been away at school?” “No, I haven’t really,” “What? Why not?” “I just haven’t attracted anyone’s attention, I suppose,” I responded, my cheeks growing warm. John frowned “That’s not true,” he asserted, allowing his eyes to scan my features. “Um, I think maybe if I rewrote this sentence like this…” I said, in part to change the subject, and in part because his presence truly did smooth the progress of my writing. John smiled slowly as I took off in my thoughts, correcting and improving every error and weakness he had identified.

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   I worked at lightening speed. “There, you see,” he smirked “What in the hell do you need me for?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t be ridiculous; if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even have my scholarship right now. ” “Seriously, Melody, you’re a damn good writer. ” He pulled a notebook from my book bag and shuffled through its contents. “Writing a weekly column in the city paper, eh?” “You know I write journalism occasionally! I told you several times before I left that the paper had hired me. ” John lowered his head and shuffled his feet then looked me playfully in the eye. I couldn’t help but laugh at him. I caught a sideways glance at the clock and realized I had been visiting with him for much longer that I had planned. I stood up, signaling my intention to leave, then bent down to shove my papers and notebooks back into my bag. “Don’t worry about me,” John said with intentional insincerely, “I’ve seen a woman’s backside before. I’m not getting turned on. ”My lips curved into a smirk against my will. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Avery.

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   I appreciate it. ” “I didn’t do anything,” John shrugged with false innocence. “You know, Mr. Avery, one of these days you’re going to accept a compliment and just say you’re welcome. I’ll stop by tomorrow or later in the week when I have time. ” I hugged him. “Yes, I enjoy your visits,” he said in a tone that was almost sad. I drove home feeling content with myself because I had just seen John, but also upset that I had not challenged his playful flirting. “Every time I go to see this man I tell myself I’m going to do something, but nothing ever happens! I sighed loudly. I wanted to feel sorry for myself, be overdramatic. As I saw it, I certainly hadn’t anything of value to think about except John and my writing. Yet somehow, my mind had confused the two, possibly the reason I admired John so much. My desire for him was my passion for writing personified. I was very young when I had fallen in love with writing perhaps it was only natural that I should feel so strongly towards my mentor. He was, after all, everything I had ever hoped to be as a writer.

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   More confused than ever, I arrived home and flooded my mind with other preoccupations. Being at home over Christmas break was horribly restraining in comparison to the freedoms college had recently taught me. Everyday I had to find some excuse to get out of the house or I’d go crazy. The night after I had seen John, I escaped to go see a high school jazz band concert. The tiny auditorium was filled to capacity with parents and students, so I stood in the back and listened. About three songs in, I caught the scent of a unique cologne that I knew well. I whirled around. “Hello, Mr. Avery!” “Miss Whitley,” I didn’t realize you liked jazz. ” John frowned at me. “I can do more than just write, Miss Whitley. I played in a jazz group for many years. I also golf, rebuild car engines, and I’m a master at oral sex. ” Shocked by his bluntness, I turned back around (as if I were really capable of listening to the concert anymore!) I was too naiive and inexperienced to understand the difference between good and bad oral sex, though my body and my desires were not so childish. I bit my lower lip in an absurd attempt to ignore what I had just heard until I could be alone to ponder it, but my body refused this request.

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   I felt as though all of my senses were now at their fullest level of attention. I could still smell John’s cologne and feel the heat his body gave off. His words rang in my ears. Why had he told me that? Thoughts of his mouth exploring between my thighs became my imagination’s lone concern for the next several days. Each time I touched my pen to paper, the thought returned to me, though I was not brave enough to see in print what my mind had been seeing in its dreams. Even my diary knew nothing of this thought, nor of any thoughts of John other than innocent admiration. My next visit with John was the day before I was to return to school for the spring semester. I did not bring any papers to be edited or stories to be looked over; I simply walked in and sat down. He immediately began conversing with me as though we had been talking all afternoon. “I am growing old, Miss Whitley,” he sighed. “Old? You?” I was genuinely taken aback. “You’re the youngest person I know!” He shook his head and continued speaking off into the distance. “Most of my friends have died already. The reckless ones who were always smoking dope and shooting things up their arms. I used to do all that, you know.

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   Thought it was cool. I used to do a lot of stupid stuff. The good choice I made was to write. ” He looked me in the eye. “There’s not one moment in my life where I’ve regretted my career decision. ” We talked further. I told him more about school, and he began speaking of retirement. I wanted to tell him he could never do that, but I knew that this would have to come eventually. He was under pressure from colleagues to stop working, as well as to financial pressure keep writing. The attribute about John Avery that I had always admired the most was his passion for his work. Watching his career end was heartbreaking. “Oh, Miss Whitley, am I making the right decision?” Unworthy of giving advice, I laid my hand on his sympathetically. Though he had never told me in so many words, I knew he had always secretly hoped to die before he ever had to retire. His father, for whom he had been named, had died of a heart attack John’s final year of high school. Mr.

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   Avery Sr. had accumulated many debts and was under great financial pressure to finish a series of novels right when his heart attack had occurred. John finished his father’s last two books, claiming to have found the pages in his study. After graduating high school, John took advantage of his father’s name and connections to study English and creative writing at Penn State on a full scholarship. Young, foolish, and angry at the world, John fell in with the wrong crowd and paid little attention to his studies. As a result, it took him eight years to get his undergraduate degree. He would often express his amazement that he had survived such an uncertain experience. He had begun working immediately after graduation from college. “I had a wife and child to take care of by then, so I had to grow up,” he had told me, and more than once I had wondered which of the two responsibilities had actually entered his life first. In that moment, all I could think of was John as I took in his sorrowful expression. Oh, John, I could make you feel so much better for a brief moment in time! We sat together in silence as my mind portrayed the actions my body could not play out.
    In my mind, my arms would go around him and my mouth would tentatively brush his cheek. Are my eyes giving away my secret to you, John? Do you realize what I would do for you… that the sight of you unhappy is breaking my heart? For I am certain that there was never another man so deserving of happiness as you! It was as if our minds had been thinking in harmony when we both leaned in to each other simultaneously. Our kiss began not as the soft, hesitant touch I was used to from teenaged boys, but a hot, wet, expression of a suppressed lust finally unleashed. His moustache felt every bit as sexy as I had imagined it would as his hungry mouth trailed down my neck.


       He yanked my halter top over my head and unsnapped my bra with the ease of a professional. I groaned loudly as he began aggressively fondling my breasts—they were slightly more than a handful—kneading the left in his firm grip while ardently sucking my right nipple. I didn’t know which was more amazing: how mind-blowing second base could be or the fact that I was doing this with the man I held in such esteem. I dropped down to my knees in front of him. I wanted to worship his body as I already worshipped his mind, but he wouldn’t let me. As I reached to unzip his pants that I might let loose the bulge that had formed, he pinned my arm back and slid me onto the ground. “This is for you, my Melody,” he whispered, reaching beneath my skirt to feel the hot virgin silk between my firm thighs. Was it my inexperience that made his touch so electrifying? For I know mere words would never describe the rapturous shock that went through my body as the rough pads of his fingertips kissed my smooth sensitive female flesh. This feeling was so overwhelming that, had I been able to breathe, I would have asked him to stop for I was certain this consuming pleasure would somehow kill me. I never could have imagined how much more intense the feeling would get when he nuzzled his head between my legs to further his exploration with is tongue! My breath came quickly and my subdued panting had crescendoed into uncontrollably loud moaning and sighing. He slid a finger into me—oh!—and thrust it in and out, rubbing an especially sensitive patch of skin while licking and sucking the hill in front of my opening—oh!—I couldn’t take it anymore! My passion increased my physical strength as I pushed him off of me and onto his back, this time meeting no resistance as I forced him out of his slacks before undressing him completely and straddling him. I guided him into me quickly, gritting my teeth to overcome the momentary pain of my virgin resistance before I began riding him with an animalistic urgency I could never have fathomed existed only an hour ago. He reached back to clasp my rounded behind as we went, though his head was resting on the ground as he allowed me to take him ferociously. I began shaking with pleasure and squeezing him involuntarily until I was unable to ride him anymore, partially from exhaustion and partially because I could no longer control what my body was doing. I leaned forward onto him, pressing our bodies together, and whimpered.

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       He released himself in me and we laid still together for a few moment so we might rest. “The most important thing I have learned as a writer,” he whispered in my ear, “is that some moments are not deserving of words. ” Nothing else was said between us before I rose to leave. He stood with me while I dressed, then, taking my hand in his, pressed his lips to the back of my hand. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply. The first words I out of my mouth were a hoarse whisper over an hour later. “Goodbye, John. ”.

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