The maths tutor opened the door in a white shirt and black boxers, wet hair and tortoiseshell glasses. I bit my lip and said hello. His greeting was a smile, “Please, Melissa, make yourself comfortable.” I felt the same sensation as when I was a child and mixed milk, oranges, chocolate, coffee, and strawberries in the space of an hour. He shouted to someone in the next room, saying that he was going into the bedroom with me. He opened the door, and for the first time I entered the bedroom of a normal man: no pornographic photos, no imbecilic trophies, no clutter. The walls were covered with old photos, posters of old heavy metal groups, Impressionist prints. And there was an unusual, seductive fragrance that went right to my head.
He didn’t excuse his obviously informal attire, and I thought it rather amusing that he didn’t. He asked me to sit on the bed while he took the chair at the desk and drew it closer, placing it in front of me. I felt a bit awkward … damn! I was expecting some dry-as-dust pedagogue in a canary yellow V-neck sweater, with his hair combed forward and dyed the same shade as the sweater. Instead I found myself before a tanned, sweet-scented, and extremely attractive young man. I still hadn’t removed my overcoat, and with a laugh he said, “Hey, watch I don’t eat you when you take that off.”
I laughed as well, displeased by the fact that he couldn’t eat me. I hadn’t yet registered his shoes: no white socks, fortunately, just a slender ankle and a tanned, well-groomed foot that made concentric movements while we discussed the fee, the syllabus, and the schedule for our lessons.
“We’re going to start at the very beginning,” I said.
“Don’t worry: I’ll have you start at the two times table.” He winked.
I was seated on the edge of the bed with my legs crossed and my hands folded on my knee.
“You have such a lovely way of sitting.” He interrupted me as I was talking about my maths teacher.
I bit my lip again and snorted as if to say, “Do you really expect me to take you seriously? What a cheesy line!”
“Ah, I nearly forgot,” he said, changing the subject. “My name is Valerio. Don’t ever call me Professor; you’ll make me feel too old.” He shook his finger in a mock threat.
I dallied a little: after so many witty remarks on his part, I obviously had to make one.
I cleared my throat and said softly, “What if I really wanted to call you Professor?”
This time it was he who bit his lip. He shook his head and asked, “And why would you want to do that?”
I shrugged and after a brief pause said, “Because it’s more fun, is it not, Professor?”
“Call me whatever you like, just don’t look at me with those eyes,” he said, visibly disturbed.
Here I go again, the same old same old. What can I possibly do about it? I can’t avoid arousing someone I find attractive, sitting so close to me. I score a bull’s eye with every word, every break in the conversation, and I feel great. It’s a game.