The Professor by Alexis Adare Page A

improvising a new dance, just for the Professor. I gave myself the fastest pep talk on the face of the planet, grabbed my stack of textbooks and headed out onstage. My only option was to go for broke.
    The song started over again from the top and I stood center stage, with my back to my audience of one. Books clutched to my chest, one hand resting lightly on my prop chair, I clenched my legs together tightly like a shy virgin. I was petrified and trembling when the spotlight came up, illuminating my backside as Sting sang of school girls’ fantasies. I kicked into autopilot and moved my body mindlessly, small steps, subtle movements, anything to get the ball rolling.
    I danced to the front of the stage, and flipped through my text books, setting the stack down carefully with an exaggerated forward bend that arched my back and displayed my cleavage to optimum effect. As I rose, I looked up, meeting his gaze over the rim of my bright pink prop glasses. I smiled at him, and saw shock flash across his features. But the surprise was quickly shuttered, his expression changing in an instant from pleasure to apprehension, his brows drawn together over a flinty, inscrutable stare.
    Removing my glasses I arched forward again, and set them on top of the books, then straightened and lifted my hands to the scarf at my neck. I untied the scrap of pink cloth, and cast it to the side. The Professor's eyes followed the movement, then snapped back to me, and I saw heat rising in their deep blue depths. Exhilarated at his response, I waltzed the few feet back to my prop chair, and dragged it forward with me to the front of the stage. My eyes locked on his, I set the chair in place, and sat, one leg crossed over the other, a demure pose that belied my intentions. Wriggling in my seat, I squeezed my knees together and fondled the lace of my stockings. Playing the timid schoolgirl, reluctant to share the grand prize too soon, my hands flew from my thighs, to my blouse instead. I attended to the buttons slowly, popping them one at a time, my eyes never wavering from his face.
    A muscle in his jaw twitched and the soft line of his lips hardened. He took a draught from his beer, then opened his jacket and removed his wallet from an inside pocket. He flipped it open, withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, and set it on the edge of the stage. Then he pointed to his head.
    His meaning was immediately clear, but there was no way I was going to shed my wig that easily. It was my safety blanket, my mask, the last raft of pretense to which my courage clung and I was reluctant to give it up.
    Instead of removing the wig, I smiled at him and shrugged my blouse off one pale shoulder at a time, letting it slide from my fingers, over the edge of the stage, onto his table. He smirked and shook his head, held up another twenty-dollar bill and set it on top of the other. He pointed to his head again.
    I glanced at the money and back at him, then swiveled and propped my feet up on the stack of books, removing both of my heels in turn. He took another sip of his beer, set it on the table, and removed another bill from the wallet, setting it with the others. Once again he pointed to his head, this time propping his elbows up on the table he rested his chin on his tented hands, and smiled faintly, expectantly.
    The music changed at just the right moment, the ever-watchful DJ Mandy seamlessly transitioning from the sexy drone of The Police, to a striptease track that echoed their distinctive tones.
    Smiling sweetly I lifted my arms over my head, allowing my hands to fall tantalizing close to the wig and then past it. Over my breasts my fingers trailed. Along the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips and finally, gliding over my thighs down to my knees. I pried my legs open by degrees, then bunched the tiny pink skirt up my thighs to gain access to the garters. I unclipped them one at a time and rose. Resting a foot on the chair, I rolled the first stocking down slowly,