Professor Feelgood (Page 39)

He grunts. “Yeah, clearly, you love the taste now. It’s like you’re an entirely different person.”

I ignore him as I take off my coat and unpack my laptop and notebook. Against my will, my gaze occasionally wanders over to his naked back. The ink I’ve seen glimpses of in his pictures is on full display, but I can’t see it clearly enough to make sense of it. I can only assume he’s had, “I’m a dick,” inscribed in several different languages and various pictograms.

I tilt my head and wonder how many hours of exercise he has to subject himself to in order to keep his body in super-human shape. I mean, I doubt he got all those muscles from occasional bouts of Prancersize.

As I watch, he rolls his neck before stretching his arms behind him, completely indifferent to me being there.

It’s so weird to me how guys have such confidence in their bodies; even ones who don’t look like Jake. So often in New York when the mercury is firmly in the red zone, guys of all shapes and sizes just wander around shirtless, without exhibiting an ounce of self-consciousness. As girls, we’re told not to wear certain types of clothing unless we’re a certain size. “No chick bigger than a size two should wear booty shorts/tank tops/miniskirts.” Meanwhile, guys are all, “BEHOLD MY JIGGLY MAN BOOBS AND BEER GUT IN ALL THEIR NAKED, SWEATY GLORY! HOLD YOURSELVES BACK, LADIES!”

I aspire to be so bold someday.

“Just out of interest,” I say after a particularly shameful few seconds of focusing on the two dimples above his butt, “do you plan to put on clothes this morning?”

He turns and leans back against the table. I try to ignore his physique, but dammit, it’s all right there.

“Oh, I thought our business relationship was clothing optional. I mean, you exposed your chest to me, so I thought it only fair I return the favor.” He gestures to his pecs. “Sure, I have a little more hair than you, but still, can yours do this?” He makes them dance, and I give him a well-practiced eye-roll. If he’d witnessed me doing the boob-a-copter in my bathroom mirror, he’d be embarrassed to even compete.

“Of course,” he says in a condescending tone. “If you’re having trouble concentrating because of your enormous physical attraction to me, then …”

I let out a short laugh. “You know what? Forget I said anything. Doesn’t matter to me if you’re wearing a snowsuit or a star-spangled jockstrap. Your body holds zero appeal for me.”

When he doesn’t say anything in response, I look up to find him staring at me, an amused expression on his face.

“What?” I ask, feeling immediately defensive.

“You think you’re fooling me, but you’re not. It was beyond obvious you had a thing for the professor before you knew it was me.”

I look straight at him and don’t even blink. “I do not now, nor have I ever, had a ‘thing’ for you, Jacob Stone, no matter who you pretend to be. Feel free to take that to the bank.”

I sound so convincing, even I start to believe it.

Take note Streep/Pacino/De Niro. This is how it’s done.

He shakes his head in disappointment. “Well, you may look different these days, but there’s one thing that hasn’t changed about you.”

“And what’s that?”

This time, he’s the one who stares me down. “You still can’t lie for shit.”

I look away from the smug curl of his lips and go back to setting up my laptop. I know color is blossoming in my cheeks, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it except pretend it isn’t happening.

“Now I understand why he doesn’t have any walls,” I mutter to myself. “He needed the extra space to squeeze in his gargantuan ego.”

“What was that?” Jake says as he scoops what looks like the world’s cheapest instant coffee into two mugs.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself. Let’s get started.”

“Okay. How?”

I open a new file in my writing app and label it Professor Feelgood Book. “Well, first, we need to establish a narrative in which we can frame your poetry. So, stories from your life, moments of interest in your development. You know, things that will inform your journey up until you met your lady love.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Stories from my childhood? Are we going to sanitize it? Or go with the NC17-rated version?”

I shift in my seat. Any detailed examination of Jake’s childhood is going to require a large can opener and some extra-strength worm killer, especially when it comes to our shared history.

“Uh … well …” I clear my throat. “No need to decide on that right now. We can circle back to it later.”

Or, never. Whatever.

Is it possible to feel oneself developing an ulcer? Because right now it feels like my stomach acid is trying to burrow through my skin.

“Do you have more poetry? We can use some of the stuff from Instagram, because that’s what made you popular, but it would be great to have some fresh verses as well.”

He points toward a storage box beneath the coffee table. “In there. Knock yourself out.”

I open the box to see it’s almost full, stuffed with dozens of sheets of loose paper, some napkins, torn sections of cereal boxes, Metro cards, and bar coasters from locations I’ve never heard of. Clearly, Jake writes on whatever-the-hell is in front of him when inspiration hits.

Looking at this trove of words, I feel like a stoner who’s found a giant, unexpected stash of medicinal-grade hash.

Lord … so many poems.

The moment I found out the professor was Jake, I quit his daily posts, cold turkey. But now that I’m faced with this buffet of wordy goodness … how can I resist?

I have the strongest urge to just sit here and immerse myself in his words. Bathe in their literary richness like Scrooge McDuck bathes in money.

I pull out some of the pieces of paper to examine them more closely. Everything has been written in Jake’s small, neat writing, and each one has numbers written in the bottom-left corner. “You’ve dated all these?”

“Yeah.” I look up to see him frowning. “Not sure how accurate all those dates are, though. I wasn’t always sober.”

“Still,” I say, “It will be useful for us in establishing a timeline for the narrative.” At least that’s something.

I smooth out a particularly crumpled piece of paper and read what he’s written.

Hollow bones and lonely skin. Muscles stiff with lust and aching for touch.

Blood pounding, throbbing,

Everything growing tighter and harder with thoughts of you.

I could have other hands, but I don’t.

I could hold other hearts, but I don’t.

You could haunt other minds, but you don’t.

I tug at trails of swollen memories,

And as I arch and spill my love for you in tight, sharp groans,

I should call out someone else’s name …

But I don’t.

Jesus.

I realize my mouth is open and dangerously close to overflowing with saliva. I clamp it shut and swallow hard.

I place the poem facedown so I don’t accidentally read it again. Damn, that stuff is dangerous. I thought the ones he posted online were hot, but they all look like nursery rhymes compared to some of this hidden cache. I swallow again as I skim over phrases about sliding, and thrusting, and how much he wants to watch his woman’s face as he makes her come.