Layla and the Professor

"Good morning, welcome to creative writing 101, I'm Professor Donlon. You're here because you have aspirations, you want to be a successful, published author. Many of you believe you have the talent to be an acclaimed novelist. I'm here because I'd like to see you achieve those objectives."

Looking at the professor I could think of many objectives I'd like to achieve with him. My radar never failed me. An older, intelligent man who wanted to teach me things I didn't know, that could be more than just an objective.

"There are a number of basic implements, rules if you will, that can assist you, make your goal attainable, give you the foundation to build on.

Writing is a demanding mistress, a siren singing melodic refrain's, songs of promises filled with passion. This lady delivers orgasmic pleasure in the words that come easy and she leaves you frustrated and discouraged when she becomes silent, when she refuses to sing to you."

As he continued to speak, although I heard him talking, I couldn't tell you what he was saying, I was too busy looking around the room and asking myself "Layla, what are you doing here?"

I realized that if I were to be serious, decent at what I was doing, I needed help. What was I doing? We'll get to that. Sitting here, taking it all in, seeing the latest and greatest college hopefuls, I wasn't so sure. "Seriously Layla, back in school?"

I haven't been in a classroom for what seems like a lifetime ago. When I graduated from college I had a solid plan. My sole objective was using the degree I worked so diligently for to become independent.

I wanted to achieve financial security and pay off my student loans as fast as was humanly possible. I accomplished what I set out to do.

So why was I sitting in a lecture hall, taking a creative writing course at this stage of my life?

My divorce was final; I was certainly independent. I had achieved financial security and didn't owe a dime. What I didn't have was a someone, I didn't want one, not a forever someone.

I began writing to fill a void, an emptiness I suppose. Maybe I had to find a way to satisfy my sexual desire without being bogged down in the inevitable baggage that comes along with a person.

After being held prisoner in a broken, corrupt, extremely painful marriage, escaping with my sense of practicality still in one piece, I came to the realization that I'm a healthy, normal red blooded woman.

Wait, isn't that how we define any male with a healthy sex drive? How do you describe a single woman who has a healthy sex drive and feeds it? Oh yeah, she's a whore.

It still astounds me, that in the twenty-first century, a sexually active woman without a steady partner, is expected to be celibate. How society defines whats acceptable behavior for her is by giving that person a title. If she is sexually active with a someone, that person is commonly referred to as... the politically correct... widely accepted description of a fuck buddy... a friend with benefits...is now referred to as her "significant other", and that's fine. However, this woman would be considered promiscuous if she frequently had one night stands, because she didn't have a significant other. Why can't she just answer and satisfy her very normal hormonal urges?

God, what a ridiculous use of words, even if they are true, just to get to this point. The fact that I happen to be a woman who actually adores the indulgent satiating decadence of sex, not having a partner left me to my own devices. It became incumbent upon no one but me, to decide out how to satisfy no one, but me.

To be quite blunt, I didn't need a someone. What I needed, was a serious "sexual healing" as so aptly espoused by the great, sadly late, Marvin Gaye. His empathetic understanding of what a sexual healing was is pretty much clarified in his intensely provocative song. Yep, Marvin knew from personal experience what the pain felt like and how to ease it.

Now that I had identified my condition, analyzed it in depth, I had to find what I needed to relieve the recurring symptoms.

I found my relief where most everyone pretty much finds anything these days, usually with great success. I took a seat on the cyber space ship express and surfed the internet.

Once on board, after making several stops along the information super highway, I found my healing.

I was able to find that miracle cure. I found inspiration, sexual arousal, and decadent erotic fantasy. It was all there at my fingertips, no pun intended, well, maybe a small one. There was definitely enough stimulation for an over the counter, self-administered treatment, with guaranteed relief of the symptoms until the next flare up.

I found a bottomless, infinite supply of reasonably arousing incentive that I could best describe as low dosage, non-addictive, stimulation.

I'm a visual person, words become scenes for me. I can transport myself into any story and become one of the characters. So I became whoever I wanted to be and made love to me to complete and utter satisfaction. I certainly didn't need a significant other or anyone else for that.

Predictably; I did in fact, came across a website that offered exactly what I was looking for. The ultimate path to the curative inducement that would relieve my aching symptoms, ease my cravings and give me the healing I needed. I found everything I needed in erotic stories.

I stumbled upon a first class inspiration warehouse that advertised, actually guaranteed the consumer an unlimited inventory of encouragement. Their products were sensual, erotic, and chock-full of lust and desire. There were no high pressure salesmen making deals that reduced the cost only to realize later you paid full price anyway. No, their merchandise, strictly self-service shopping, let you cram your basket with exciting, seductive, sexy, orgasmic stories.

I whipped out my reliable credit card and bought a truckload. I quickly started to guzzle down the words and fell into a bottomless boiling cauldron of unrestrained, satiating, delicious, sweet sexual healing.

There was a medley of selections in the inventory, a menu if you will, for every sexual appetite and palate imaginable. Have a fetish, we can feed it, need a late night snack, an appetizer, well go no further, our chefs are first-rate.

Set the table, bring out the finest china, use your best silverware, light the candles. Corkscrew ready, remove the cork from a bottle of elegant aged wine, let it breathe, pour it into a sparkling crystal glass, and sit down to a five-star meal. Satisfy your hunger with quilt free consumption. No need to count calories, gluttony likely. We offer an "all you can eat buffet" of cleverly prepared, juicy and delicious, satisfying words.

Tasty arousal, simmering low and slow, was delightful. Going back for seconds now and then led to the intense pleasure you taste when you've fed a gastronomical craving. Yes, personally prepared, served by me, self-administered satisfaction was the nourishment that my body was starving for. It was a natural, organic preparation, culminating in a cure for what ailed me.

Masturbation is a little pill of self-love when that's all you have. When the need to relieve stress, tension, or just simple loneliness makes growling sounds in your psyche you can always make love to yourself and find satisfaction if even for a brief instant. Granted, once the exhilaration subsides, you find yourself back in your empty world, but just for a moment your stomach is full and you know you couldn't put another bite in your mouth.

This form of self-healing requires no Doctor's prescription. There's no lover to become involved with, no one interfering with treatment. There's nothing standing in the way, nothing to prevent full recovery, except perhaps the perfect fantasy lover that dwells deep in the recesses of my mind. This lover is a miracle pill, has no side effects and I can't overdose.

I read several stories and subsequently realized, that while a majority of the stories were appetizing they weren't giving me an entree I could devour. Knowing what would excite my taste buds, cure my ache, take me where I needed to go, I thought "I could write this stuff" and so it began. We innately know what feeds us, cures us and leaves us satisfied and healthy.

Did I know that my ambiguous thought would begin a story? Absolutely not, there was no story there. Was it this impulsive, sudden decision that would be the beginning of this story? How could it possibly be the beginning of anything?

It was the beginning.

I began writing explicit, erotic tales of lust and pleasure. Could my sexually stimulating thoughts, my sexual experiences, my personal fantasies actually become stories? I didn't have any idea I could actually write stories, let alone erotica. When I saw them coming to life I was modestly astounded. Surprisingly, they were good. Well, not really good in the beginning, damn if they didn't get better all the same.

I realized that I had to write what I thought about, not what I assumed other people thought. Once I understood that, my writing improved. With developed characters, interesting plots, choosing subject matter I was familiar with, I began to attract a following. Suddenly I was "Favorited" by readers who enjoyed my chosen subject, dirty old men.

Suffice it to say that when it comes to "dirty old men" I am a self-proclaimed expert. My initial experience with an older man occurred when I was eighteen. My "lover" was some sixty plus years my senior, I'd say that qualified him as a card carrying, lifetime member of the "dirty old man club". I could make this story his story, I won't, I've already written that one.

"Does anyone have any questions about what I've covered thus far?"

Dammit Layla, what the hell did he cover? Pay attention woman.

"By the conclusion of this course I will have given you the elements you need to become a creative writer. I will describe how to build a character, how to develop a plot. You'll be reintroduced to the rules of punctuation, grammar and syntax. You'll need to enhance your vocabulary and understand how, when and where to use words to convey your thoughts, to tell the story."

My attention was now fixed on Professor Donlon as he walked back and forth in front of the podium. He was undeniably taking the time to make eye contact with his students. I'd been in enough lecture halls, had observed the professors body language and clearly the professor was making sure we grasped what he was saying.

Then his eyes made contact with mine... there...a smile.

"And you are?"

"Layla Chapwell."

I expected him to say something else, to begin a dialog, he didn't.

For the rest of the class he never once glanced my way again. I'm sure he asked for my name because although he had a student manifest, knew everyone's name, he was putting a face with each name.

For the remainder of the class the professor essentially laid out his curriculum, gave test dates, expectations on his part and the usual first class information that everyone hears but no one listens to.

Since this was the only class I was taking rushing wasn't necessary so I took my time gathering my things when it ended. I was about ready to go when the professor turned his attention to me.

"Miss Chapwell, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Yes, by all means."

It didn't take more than a minute to see that the lecture hall was completely empty. Figures, I was the last one there so he wanted to talk to me. About what?

"Could you come down to the podium please?"

I have to admit I was very surprised by his request. What could have happened in the last eighty-five minutes that required a one on one with the Professor? Could he have realized that I wasn't really paying attention for the first half and was going to call me on it?

"Why are you taking my course?"

That was certainly direct, to the point, leaving nothing to my imagination. He didn't look at me when he posed his curious question, he was shuffling papers and resetting his video apparatus for the next class, or, I assumed that was what he doing. Maybe he wasn't looking at me because if he did a raging desire would burn in his loins and? The imagination of a writer, funny isn't it?

There was only one way to answer his question without going into a long expounding dissertation regarding my objective, I'd just be honest.

"I've written a few stories and I recognize the fact that my skills can stand some strengthening. I think taking a creative writing course would be a way of doing that and hopefully allow me to create a solid, complete, finished piece. I believe taking your course will give me the knowledge I'm lacking to achieve that objective."

No, I wasn't a sexy young co-ed sitting in the first row, crossing and uncrossing my bare legs giving him an unobstructed view of iconic gams or my panties and what heaven lay above. In fact, I don't believe he looked my way again after we made initial awkward eye contact. So what did he want?

"Why don't you send me one of your stories, I'd like to read something you've written."

"I'm flattered that you'd like to read something I've written."

"Flattered", really Layla, that's best you could come up with?

All I could do was stand there and feel my brain running rampant. How was I going to tell him my "stories" involved dirty old men, my sexual experiences with them and my personal fantasies about them? While I was stumbling, stuttering in my mind, trying to find the precise words I needed to explain the subject matter of the stories I wrote he made it a moot point.

"Miss Chapman it doesn't matter what the content exposes."

Was it written all over my face?

"I'd like to see who you are; your story will paint a portrait for me, tell me what you can't about yourself. I'll begin to understand how you think, view life, what you feel and why. If you're to get what you need to progress in your writing, you shouldn't be an enigma. Vulnerable, candid lines of communication between the Professor and the student will take you where you ultimately want to be."

"You won't object to answering a question for me then?"

A wry smile began forming in the corners of his mouth. "No, not at all."

"Why me? There are plenty of students taking your course who most likely have the same concerns I have and are lacking the knowledge they need to improve. So, I ask you professor why did you single me out? Obviously there's a hoard of impressionable students who would jump at the chance to be on your radar. "

"I've been doing this for a very long time. I meet scores of students who believe they possess the talent and heart to write the next bestseller. I have to ask myself why a lovely woman, obviously a woman who has the where with all and determination to attend a class three days a week, is willing to commit her time and energy to improve something she's already devoted a part of herself to."

Perception, it's a marvelous thing. I wasn't a young hopeful who didn't know what she wanted. I wasn't sitting in a lecture hall eyeing my male counterparts, convinced that if I couldn't write a best seller I could find a husband who could.

"I'll send you something this afternoon. Thank you for taking an interest in me."

Maybe he was attracted to a woman who had experienced puberty before she walked into the room. That sounds awful cynical. Just think, an older man who could teach me something that would help me improve stories I write for and about older men. Jesus, isn't life great?

"Fine, I look forward to reading you." His mysterious eyes smiled. I had a sense he wanted to read every single page of me.

I did send the professor a story that afternoon. I didn't expect the e-mail I received that evening.

Luscious Ladyfaire,

Just finished reading your story and want to congratulate you. You are a talented writer with even greater potential. Whatever happens, KEEP WRITING!! Yours until the sun goes blind and the stars grow cold (lol).

Prof. Gav

Yes, I am "lovelyladyfaire" the author of erotic tales.

I was to some extent surprised. Either he was genuinely impressed or harboring a rock hard, aching erection, hell, possibly both.

I receive countless e-mails from the men, and remarkably, the women, who read my stories. For the most part they're filled with heartfelt thanks, words of praise for the inspiration, to let's say, find a little sexual healing of their own.

The professor had just redefined our association. Although we would obviously remain Professor and student, he added a contrast factor, "author and reader". In the context of our continually changing relationship I now viewed the man in an entirely different light.

The professor is first and foremost a man. I smiled, a man who might be as predatory as I was. When I came in close proximity to an older man I could feel the craving inside building an appetite that needed to be fed. Could the professor have a taste for what was on my menu? Could my story have given him hunger pangs? Did he want to make a reservation at my restaurant and delight in a five course meal of lust and "luscious" me?

I decided to reply.

Thank you for your positive words Prof. Gav.

I'm afraid I suddenly feel less than a talented writer at all. I do strive to improve with each submission and receiving such encouraging feedback from many of the readers only propels me forward.

I wouldn't be a thinking person if I didn't inquire as to your belief that I have "potential"...

I've honestly searched for a mentor so to speak...perhaps the "literary gods" have gifted me one?

You can most assuredly be mine..."Until the sun goes blind and the stars grow cold"...

Layla

In the morning, I woke up with an entirely different mindset.

While I was lying in bed putting yesterday's events into perspective I became absorbed in my own thoughts asking myself why not be the "Luscious Ladyfaire" the professor was obviously taken with.

The funny thing is, I am very much that woman. Not luscious, I wouldn't have chosen that particular word to describe myself, although the fact the professor thought I was certainly didn't do anything to my hurt my self-image, in fact, now that I think about it, I appreciated his assessment.

Layla, is my alter ego. Layla can be, and most often is, the seductive sexy vixen. The woman who is often demanding, can be controlling. Layla also accepts that she is submissive. That dichotomy creates a harmony inside her. She understands and accepts the need, the hunger that drives her. Layla is well aware of what sets her loins on fire so to speak.

There are definitely heated moments of burning desire, often cooled with warmth and understanding. Layla respects pride and protects the dignity of those who need shelter from the self-defeating feelings of inadequacy, perceiving you're less than you once were, feeling less than you are

.

There certainly is no doubt that I'm fascinated with older men. There is no doubt that in reality I am a sexually submissive personality, for the most part. I've known for most of my adult life that while I am strong minded woman, I am also quite acquiescent sexually. The combination of the two traits has brought me both untold pleasure and sadness.

Dominance is a double edged sword. The man who can dominate me in the sexual arena will do so simply because it gratifies me. Conversely, the man who lacks respect for me will never earn my devotion.

The once young, strong, virile stallions, macho studs, always ready to mount any comely filly that wonders into their pasture become prisoners in the realization that with age comes certain predictable changes. The young man who could raise an impressive erection with a single thought, often finds with age, no matter what he thinks, it's not happening.