Slick Rick
NSFW - Sexually explicit content
Dr. Ricky Morano, my professor—wanted to fuck me.
And that’s fine because I wanted to fuck him too.
I consulted my mom about it—back when we were still friends, with no filters or boundaries—and it didn’t go well.
“My teacher wants me to come to his office hours.”
“He’s probably married,” she replied.
“No, he’s not. He said come by after they close and I kind of want to,” I explained.
“It doesn’t sound smart. What’re you going to do when his wife comes after you? You don’t know people. She could be fucking crazy,” she warned.
“That’s not going to happen. He’s not married. He has kids, but never mentioned a wife.”
Mom scoffed, “Why would he?”
At the time of this interaction, we were grazing the aisles of the Ross Dress for Less, not making eye contact because the conversation was just too ridiculous.
But I was young and stupid—firm and convinced—so I skated over her concerns and tried to get to the meat of the matter, which was what to wear.
“High heels?” I asked.
This would have been a great time for her to issue a cease and desist on this conversation, but that would have been too appropriate.
“Depends on the pants,” she said, scanning the sale rack.
I picked up a pair of patent leather heels and dangled them in her face.
“Too obvious?” I wondered.
“You’re so silly,” she said.
But her name-calling didn’t work because I bought the heels and a lacy pink top, and returned his email, “What time do office hours end?”
He told me and added, “Be on time,” because he had lots of edits on my paper.
Ah, covering his tracks! This situation couldn’t be more tawdry, more cliché—but I was living for it.
Days before I was to go to his classroom to probably make out and let him flick my nipples, I was walking to class (as a 20-year-old does), and I saw him jogging up.
He was a ginger. A few strands of his long hair clung to his forehead. He had on headphones and was wearing short shorts. When he stopped in front of me, I got a good look at his legs for the first time: slim, tan, with the sharp, bony knees of the physically fit.
But before I tell you what he said, I have something to confess. During this time, I pretty much had a man. We texted every morning, and he was already calling me baby. His name was (unbelievably) Ricky, as well. I felt an allegiance to Boyfriend-Elect Ricky, even though I was primed and ready to slob on the knob of Professor Ricky.
Anyway, this ravishing man stood before me. With hands on his hips, he asked, “You still coming by?”—not quietly enough, considering I was his student and we were in public, openly discussing a potential affair.
Suddenly, I decided to be honest. “I thought about it…and I kind of have a man.”
He glared, unconvinced.
“So, it wouldn’t be right,” I qualified.
Done with the conversation, he popped in his earbud and wiped his brow. “Aww!! That’s not a problem. I can be discreet,” he stated before jogging off.
I can be discreet. Ooh, baby! A sentence both seductive and indicative in equal measures: it showed me he knew how to talk dirty (yes, please) but also emphasized that he had a malfunctioning moral compass like mine. So, feeling a flash of guilt, I decided to investigate before this rendezvous could occur.
Skipping class, I raced to my dorm and typed his name into Facebook. That bullshit website usually pulls up every individual from Timbuktu with zero consideration for search parameters, but this time it did me a solid and immediately populated Ricky’s (private) but very-much-existent profile.
I clicked on his tagged photos as one does, and LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE: his happy, handsome 2011-era Gary Oldman-looking ass, atop a mountain with his WIFE (you win, Mom) and two freakin’ children in tow.
*Enter cartoon steam billowing from my ears.*
Offspring is one thing: people are irresponsible and don’t use protection. But, HOLY MATRIMONY?! What was this asshole doing? I looked longingly at my new top and patent leather kitten heels that would never be worn, would never see the light of day, would never bear witness to me going down on him. There would be none of that.
Upon further notice, I was to study, I was to highlight, I was to annotate, and I was not to flirt with this man ever again. Although I was a strumpet for the modern times who had already decided to cheat on my almost-boyfriend, I refused to wreck a home outright.
A few weeks later, the universe paid me back for my good decisions: I officially had a new boyfriend. Still, I was trying to shake my fantasies about what Professor Ricky and I could’ve done—in the dark, during office hours: high heels, lace, an age gap, badly balanced power dynamics.
I had stuck to my internal promise of ignoring him as best I could, and it appeared to work. He didn’t follow up on our salacious plans: clearly, the ball was in my court, and I had deemed it over between me and my instructor, until one afternoon when I checked my spam folder.
—STUDY ABROAD! Travel to Germany with Dr. Ricky Morano!—
Smart as all get out, I checked the email headers for clues. And sure as shit, this wasn’t a carbon-copy situation involving all students from his German language course.
The address field contained my email and mine only.
Unfortunately, I was still curious, still lusting, still an emotionally-cheating ass bitch. So, I couldn’t help but reply to my Man Crush Monday.
My fingers connected with the keyboard and quickly did their worst. “Abroad? With you teaching? I’m interested.”
He replied, “Perfect, I knew it would be a great opportunity for you. I have an info session today at 2 p.m., but it will be quite busy with so many students signing up. Please meet me at 1 p.m. to secure your spot. Details are in the rest of the email. – R.M.”
I walked to meet him on location at 1 p.m. on the dot, like some dumb, desperate robot of a girl.
The booth he’d set up (GERMAN 102 – STUDY ABROAD INFO SESSION) was clear as day, but no philandering professor zaddy was in sight. I turned and whipped, searching for him past the bright sun and gusty wind.
Before long, it dawned on me: he was butt-hurt that I’d finally gotten some sense knocked into me. When I hadn’t shown up to his office hours, he felt rejected, so he chose to reject me in return.
That’s fair.
But what isn’t is that he made his revenge splashy, cruel, and loud. I had stopped flirting and started minding my own business. But he let me stand outside looking for him.
And although I was a fool, I wasn’t embarrassing enough to wait endlessly, knowing he’d never appear. After 10 minutes of watching the horizon for my side-piece, I walked away with my dignity on low battery and my book bag in hand. I trudged slowly to my dorm (as a shamed 20-year-old does), and I never heard from the charming, beautiful, highly discreet Dr. Ricky Morano ever again.
—M