Brian Morehouse Hunter is a newly promoted professor of English with a particular fondness for the novels of Dorothy L. Sayers. In his spare time, Brian writes erotic gay romance novels. Knowing his university colleagues wouldn’t understand, and would likely be shocked, Brian keeps his two lives strictly separate. That is, until he accidentally emails a draft chapter of his latest story to Ken Tremont, a fellow professor, rather than one of his beta readers. Brian likes Ken, finds the man attractive, but is pretty sure he’s straight.
For the next few days, Brian awaits his fate, fearing exposure, ridicule, and possible expulsion. But Ken seems to be biding his time. Unable to stand it any longer, Brian decides to approach Ken.
Will Brian’s worst fears be realized? Or could this accidental outing reap unexpected rewards?
Okay. So Ken Tremont hadn't been to the chair. Yet. I still had some time before my next class, so I checked his schedule and walked along the deserted hallway to the classroom where he was teaching. The classroom doors in our building all have windows in them. I stood outside and watched as Ken taught. He had on a yellow cable-knit sweater, 501s, and leather ankle-high shoes. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was obviously leading a discussion. He walked back and forth in the front of the room, gesturing frequently, his face animated, smiling often. I could hear the class laugh from time to time, and he always joined in. As he paced around, I got a good look at both that fascinating butt and the substantial bulge in the front. The denim stretched over his package seemed faded, thus highlighting what was lurking behind it.
Face it: the man was simply yummy. And from what I could observe, he was an excellent teacher. I don't know how long I stood there, but when Tremont said something to his class and walked back to his desk, I knew the period was over. I hurried away to my office, hoping no one noticed the tent in my baggy corduroys.
For the rest of the day I concentrated on my duties. Ken obviously hadn't been to Barnstable, so maybe the situation wasn't dire after all. Or was he just delaying to make me sweat? That evening after supper it occurred to me that perhaps I should approach him about my mistake.
As it turned out, I didn't have to. The next day, Thursday, hearing someone clear his throat, I looked up. There he was, finally, standing in the doorway of my office. He had on an outfit similar to what he was wearing the last time I saw him, but the sweater was hunter green this time. He pushed a hank of his wavy light brown hair up off his forehead and gave me another one of his brilliant smiles.
"Uh, Ken, hi. Come in."
He came into the room as I stood. I offered my hand. He took it, held it just a little longer than I had expected him to.
We sat.
I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and said, "I'm sure I can guess why you're here."
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