This semester I’m teaching a course on church history. It’s the first seminary-level course I’ve taught, and despite its attendant challenges, I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve especially enjoyed the presence of “Lydia” in class. Young, pretty, tall and willowy with long light-brown hair, she’s become the object of many a fantasy. On more than one occasion, I’ve desired to bend her over a desk.

“The cultural fascination with professor-student affairs seems to have grown in step with policies restricting them,” Amia Srinivasan wrote in a recent New York Times op-ed piece. She notes that the vast majority of institutions of higher education now have policies prohibiting even “consensual” sexual relationships between students and faculty. Because of the inherent power dynamics involved (the logic behind these policies goes), it is impossible for these affairs to be truly consensual. Srinivasan wants to move beyond the paradigm of consent, however, and examine the issue from an academic perspective. “Rather, it is whether, when professors sleep or date their students, real teaching is possible.”

Undoubtedly were I to have sex with Lydia, the pedagogical relationship between us would be inexorably altered. For instance, in gratitude for her sexual availability, I might be tempted to grant her a higher grade than she may deserve. (One escort I visited told me of the how she seduced her accounting professor. Needless to say, she got an A.) More fundamentally, our sexual partnership would cloud our status as scholars. The desire for learning can be improperly channeled into sexual desire. Srinivasan concludes, “The teacher who allows his student’s desire to settle on him as an object, or the teacher who actively makes himself the object of her desire, has failed in his role as a teacher.”

Like the therapeutic relationship, the pedagogical relationship can be sexually charged. “[T]eacher and student are not just abstract intelligences, but embodied creatures,” Srinivasan writes. A college instructor in Francine Prose’s novel Blue Angel observes, “There’s something erotic about the act of teaching, all that information streaming back and forth like some bodily fluid. Doesn’t Genesis trace sex to that first bite of the apple, not the fruit from just any tree, but the Tree of Knowledge?” Having taught in the church and now in an academic setting, I can personally attest to this erotic charge. Laura Miller wrote a few years ago in The New Republic, “Students sometimes nurse crushes on their teachers, and teachers sometimes lust after their pupils; these are facts of life so commonplace as to have become the ultimate cliché: a porn motif.” Philosopher Stephen Hicks holds open the possibility of an ethical sexual relationship between a professor and a graduate student as long as there is “a real commitment by both to the integrity of the educational experience.” My experience with sexuality, however, is that it can obliterate all other values. My interest in Dr. Sheffield, especially when she wears her black boots, admittedly transcends my wanting to acquire her knowledge about the origins of the Dead Sea Scrolls. (As a student, I confess that I’d rather “know” her intimately than learn more about the Essenes.)

A dissent from the prevailing orthodoxy came from Christina Nehring in Harper’s twenty years ago. In a disquisition on “academic eros,” she described the erotic energy that fuels much academic work: “To say that chemistry between a student and a teacher distracts from learning is like saying that color distracts from seeing. It does not distract; it enlivens, enhances, intensifies….” She went on to say that “sex is a great ‘leveler.'” That is, sex can open up communication between persons of dissimilar backgrounds and broaden perspectives. History is laden with notable scholarly lovers, from Heloise and Abelard to Hannah Arendt and Martin Heiddegger. Or as one student put it in a Cosmopolitan article entitled I Hooked Up With My Professor!, “My school prides itself on cultivating close student-professor relationships. Let’s just say it succeeded. Oh, and I got an A in the class.”

The prohibition of these relationships paradoxically heightens their allure. Knowing that a tryst with Lydia is verboten makes me want to bend her over the desk that much more.

“Come inside and close the door,” she whispered.

“Holly’s” provocative posts on Twitter intrigued me. A late cancellation enabled me to see her Saturday night. She met me at the door in a simple black dress and invited me into her apartment near the university. As I entered, I was stuck by her features. Slender with long black hair, dark eyes, and alluring lips, she looks like a cross between Anne Hathaway and Stoya. She offered me a bottle of water and invited me to sit next to her on the sofa.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever been with a theologian before.”

Then she told me a little about her own background. “Being raised a conservative Catholic was not easy,” she said. “If the ladies at church only knew.” She’s a community activist and academic when she’s not entertaining men behind closed doors.

“So what are those thoughts that are whirling between your ears?” She seductively placed her hand on my thigh.

From there it was on to the bedroom.

She reached for my belt and unbuckled it. She unbuttoned my pants and pulled the zipper down. When my pants came down, the bulge in my boxer briefs signaled my arousal. She slowly pulled my underwear down, then gently stroked my cock, drawing out a few drops of precum. Then, still in her black dress, she dropped to her knees. I gazed into her eyes as she took my cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around my shaft. I put my hand on the back of her head as it bobbed up and down. The sensations were exquisite.

But I needed to be inside her.

She got up, peeled off her dress, and removed her bra and panties. Grabbing a condom from the nightstand, she tore open the package and rolled it on my cock. I lay on my back on the bed, and she moved her lithe body on top of me. As I felt the tightness of her cunt wrap itself around my cock, I let out a deep sigh. She placed her hands on my chest and slowly started to ride me. My hands grabbed her waist and guided her. Our movements harmonized, a symphony in flesh. She began riding me harder. I felt myself moving more deeply inside her. By now she was wantonly fucking me, her breasts bouncing, primal sounds coming from her mouth. My hips thrust back in response. In that moment, we were purely animal. I felt a surge of sensation in my groin. I did my best to prolong the pleasure. But I was about to be overtaken by orgasm. That sound, so familiar yet still so alien, emerged from my throat. I felt myself erupt into the condom.

My libido, already highly excitable, has been supercharged so far this summer. Sex has rarely been off my mind. Starting with my hookup with Sheryl, it’s been difficult restraining my erotic instincts. The end of a difficult semester, a quiet season of ministry, plus the loosening of pandemic restrictions, has given me more opportunity to indulge my lascivious vices.

Apparently I’m not alone. A story on the BBC asked, “Are we heading towards a summer of sex?” Condom sales surged this spring. Some users on dating apps advertise themselves as “vaXXXed.” Others have predicted another hedonistic “Roaring Twenties.” (The 1920s, one historian said, was marked by the popular discovery of the clitoris.) Ashley Thompson, associate professor of psychology at the University of Minnesota who specializes in human sexuality, speculates that possibly the aftermath of the pandemic “may lead to more casual sexual behaviour, to sort of combat those negative feelings of one’s own mortality.”

The heat seems to have intensified my lust. Lack of an easily available partner makes hooking up impractical. “Have you ever tried Tinder?” I was once asked. Given the my sensitive position in the community, plus my preternatural shyness, I’ve been hesitant to explore hookup aps. I am communicating on one adult website with a girl in her 30s, albeit from a distance. I’ve entertained the thought of establishing with Sheryl a friendship with benefits, but she’s been unresponsive. After a day of writing and research, I wanted an erotic escape. So I called Tina at the agency. (She’s sensitive to my position in the church.) She recommended “Angela,” who she described as a petite blonde “All-American cheerleader” type. I took her up on her offer. As usual Tina set it all up, and I booked a room at the casino hotel down the expressway.

Tina’s description was enticing. The cheerleaders at my private Christian high school, with their purity rings conspicuously displayed, were too good to touch. So I lusted after the cheerleaders at the public high school. Their inaccessibility only enhanced their allure.

Later that night, I heard a knock at my door. Standing outside my room was a pretty young tanned spinner — just the type I used to lust for. I let her in and we sat on the edge of the bed. She was friendly, but the conversation was a little awkward. My experience with escorts is that they’ll generally make the first move, but I eventually realized that she wanted me to take the lead. I finally leaned in and kissed her. She tentatively responded. Then her dress quickly came off.

“What do you like to do?”

I started exploring her breasts. They were implants, but they were nicely done. We kissed again, then I obliquely suggested she pleasure me orally. She didn’t get the hint. I asked her to go down on me. She reached for my boxers, pulled them down, and started sucking my cock. She then got the condom and lay down on the bed. I moved on top of her, entered her, and started pumping. Her responses were somewhat mechanical, but I enjoyed the feel of her beneath me. After a few minutes, I couldn’t hold out any longer. After I finished, she got me a warm washcloth and cleaned me up. She immediately started stroking me to assist my recovery. She asked me if she could be on top. My cock quickly responded. She put on another condom, and I let her climb on top of me. I gripped her hips and dug my fingers into her ass as she rode me. She moved faster, leaning forward so I could suck on her nipples. I bucked my hips, then exploded into the condom once more.

We tidied ourselves up and dressed. As at our introduction, the conversation was strained. She called her driver to signal the hour was up. I escorted her to the door, and we bade each other good night.

The sense of relief after my interview was palpable. “Describe ways you take care of your physical, emotional and spiritual self” was the closest the committee came to any scrutiny of my personal life. Afterwards that almost ineffable sensation of acute arousal came over me. When I returned home, I looked over listings for call girls, then I booked a room in a hotel at the casino. Right after I checked in, I called Tina at the agency. She recommended “Kat.” Kat is new with the service, and Tina thought she might be compatible. I was intrigued. We made an arrangement for later that evening.

Then I began to wait. As my watch ticked, I couldn’t untangle my anxiety from my excitement. As the time approached for when I would hear the knock at the door, the anticipation grew almost unbearable.

Then finally I heard it.

I opened the door. Kat was everything Tina had promised. I let her in the room, admiring her athletic physique attired in a tight red dress. She sat down, and we chatted for a little while getting to know each other. Born and raised on the East Coast, she’s educated and well-traveled. “But there’s only so much books can teach you” she said coyly. I tried to behave like a gentleman, but my intentions were anything but gentlemanly. I notice the pendant dangling at the top of her cleavage. Little did my committee know this was how I was marking the successful completion of my interview. A former call girl observes, “Just the act of inviting a hooker over is like a little party in itself—a human ice cream cake, bought to provide a little treat.” This little treat sat next to me in stiletto heels.

“You’re a tough shell to crack,” she said. “Let’s see if I can make some progress.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out two condoms. Then she started to tug at my belt.

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

She started to unbuckle my belt. My pants fell to my ankles. My boxer briefs bulged with my erection.

“Nice to see you could rise to the occasion,” she teased. Then she dropped to her knees….

The intensity of my lust had propelled me to this point. Sexual release is my remedy. Despite my supposed values, I’m driven to seek the satisfaction and relief that only comes from falling in sin. The moral schizophrenia produced by my prolific promiscuities is disorienting.

Tangled bodies. Sweat dripping onto bare skin. Rhythmic thrusts. Deep strokes. I could hear my crotch smack against the soft flesh of her ass. The intensity of sex obliterates my sense of self. Then came the sound of a loud grunt.