Julius David Metcalfe was 21 years and five months old when he graduated from with his Bachelor's Degree in History with double minors in Philosophy and Education; was 24 when he finished his Master's Degree, also in History, with a concentration in Global Cultures; and proceeded to teach high school Social Studies, mostly freshman World Studies but also some American and African American History. After two years plus one year of searching for the right opportunity, he decided to focus on more "mature" students, and was fortunate enough to get a faculty position at North Central, one of the community colleges in his area. Not quite a "real" professorship, but closer. And at his age, he thought, safer for him.

He knew going in that the student body at the college had a different make-up than a "typical university;" that is, maybe 18 to 22 or 23 years old. At the community college, the average age of students was about 26 or 27 years old—more or less his peers, in age at least, from what he saw right away—with a wide range to make up that average, of course: students who finished high school and then got a job, but then realized (especially when the economy started to get rough) that they needed to get better-paying jobs, and needed more education to do that.

He also took note almost immediately that the student body having a "different make-up" also could be taken quite a bit more literally.

One of the major--if very unofficial -- "fringe benefits" of working at the community college, as one of his other male colleagues who taught in the Math department joked confidingly, was what they occasionally referred to as "the scenery." Julius especially, being young and single, felt a certain freedom, limited but real enough, to discreetly look at the specimens of womanhood that walked through the door every day, incurring none of the guilty feelings for furtively checking out over-developed but under-aged girls and then quickly shaking his head as he did when he taught high school.

He observed a lot of the female students giving him the eye as well, either while walking around in the building, or in his classroom. At 5'10'' tall and 180 pounds, with a short natural afro that he kept just a little bit uncombed to go with his scruffy look offset by wearing pristine sweater vests and wool blazers in Fall and winter (he liked to call it "Lenny Kravitz with a day job"), or pressed linen and the occasional lightweight two-piece African garment in spring and summer, Julius kept himself in shape and was used to getting attention, at least in recent years, so it didn't really surprise him. In fact, privately, he enjoyed it, even thrived on pretending not to notice. At the high school, his internal dialogue regularly shifted, or progressed, from "damn, if she was older..." to "Ignore. Ignore for your own good, J; you're supposed to be better than that." This was often while one of the girls, dressed in a shirt his mother would have politely called "incomplete," forced him to look away by leaning over while he sat at his desk, or quickly and unexpectedly squeezed his arm while cooing, "Mr. Metcalfe, I have a question..."

The two streams of thought trickled off from the wider river of Julius being young (even younger looking), and being his mother's son. When his mother didn't tell him as much, which was actually often, he would imagine in one of his own private moments, memory-induced tightness in his chest, that his father would have been proud. Whatever that really meant, he wasn't really sure, but even as an adult it was something he clung to like a teddy bear with one eye missing and open stitching rescued from a fire, peppered with soot. It wasn't until Julius was in his teens that he became aware of the truth. Not a robbery. Suicide. Depression. A note, in part: "...tell Julius when he's older—I said to never do anything he might regret." Years of being closely monitored, protected, coddled, given whatever he wanted, everything except a male figure, everything but a man's sense of boundaries, from the age of seven, began to make sense at the age of 16.

Then, too, his memories--of girls in high school and even during part of college who passed him over or wanted him to be their "friend" when he was short and overweight, his skin still suffering from the twin ravages of puberty's hormonal attack and bad diet, and when he was considered too weird or analytical or too boring, too shy or quiet, or not enough of whatever the opposite of all those things were--stayed fresh.

He had gone through an unusually late growth spurt, one inch in his last year of high school, two inches in his first year of college, one inch in the second, leaping upward from 5'6'' to his current height, as if the truth had set him free. While he grew on the outside, he paid attention to what women seemed to like, paid attention to the kind of person he could be to get what he wanted, courtesy of his mother and his aunt—his father's sister. When he went back for his Junior year with smooth skin, contact lenses and a new wardrobe, it worked. In his senior year he finally secured an on-campus job as a research assistant for the year in the History department (a position usually reserved for graduate students), and was able to move to an off-campus apartment.

Attention and affection were no longer hard to come by but he never completely let go of or forgot the pain of their scarcity. He often thought of his mother's and aunt's platitudes to his younger, less popular self that someday, a woman would love him "just for him" and recognize him for the good man he was bound to become. If only he knew more about who that was, or whether it really made a difference to anyone. Like a small piece of candy from a funny-smelling stranger, it had been at once tempting and repulsive, in the small minutes surrounded by absolutely no one except the demons of his expectations, to find out. What would it be like to disappear? Then he would run through recollections of his primary reason not to attempt to find out.

"You're a good boy, Julius."

"Thanks, mommy."

"You're a good man, Julius."

"Thanks, ma." I'll take your word for it.

Now, for the most part, Julius tried to ignore stuff like the note he got from one student, on the back of her mid-term paper saying "I would do ANYTHING (wink, wink) to make sure this gets an 'A'." Or the one who had a 'D' at the end of April who asked him in a small voice after all the other students had left the classroom,

"Professor Metcalfe, I know I've been messing up but...can I...go down on you if you give me a 'C'?" he told her "no," gave two extra three-page papers to write, and reported the conversation to his department chair, just in case. Thankfully, thought Julius a week and half later, she did the work.

When he was telling one of his friends about such experiences, the response was "Man, you're a good one; I don't know how you do it. I would be all over that. I could only take so much."

"First of all," Julius explained, sipping his Heineken, "I'm a new faculty member—I don't have the protection of tenure, so these chicks aren't worth losing or even risking my job; and second...even though I know they're basically my age, it just doesn't feel right to take advantage...not to mention it's against all kinds of codes of conduct. Ethics 'n all that, y'know? But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't tempting sometimes, 'cause some of these women have absolutely no fear." He took another sip. "Besides, I do pretty OK without having to tip into the j-o-b to get play. Remember when I was talking to..." was followed by a one-night stand story; not the first, second or third of that month.

If anybody had asked him what he was looking for, the response would likely have been a blank stare, and then a slow "for someone to want me, not what they want me to be." Beyond that, he felt, "I'll know when I see it."

He made it through almost four semesters taking the "high road."

She had been on his mind since the end of his first Spring semester when he saw her -- in the slightly light-headed way that someone "sees" and reacts to a sky-spanning rainbow -- while she was registering for classes; he was putting in overtime assisting with registration for the Summer and Fall sessions. He noticed when she got up that she walked with a limp and wondered why; felt the urge to go help her get up from her place three computers down. He did nothing.

Diondra turned up in his Monday night World Civilizations class, sitting right up front. With a class capacity of 40 students but with many of them not showing up on a regular basis—it was not unusual to have as few as 15 or 18 people out of the 30 who had actually registered—he was able to give her a lot of attention, which he was secretly happy to do, without ignoring everyone else. He had to concentrate, or sometimes just look away, to avoid focusing on her softly glossed full lips or the naturally long lashes on inquisitively wide eyes behind rimless glasses; her clear skin a rich brown on her smoothly rounded face, her hair cut short to the scalp in a way that somehow only accentuated her features.

Diondra went to Julius' office hours regularly, asking pointed questions to clarify something about the Dynastic time line of Ancient Egypt, or to make sure she understood the philosophical and scientific achievements by Africans that western scholars attributed to Ancient Greece, or the factors contributing to the demise of the Roman Empire and the transition into the European Medieval Period. She was always composed in demeanor and very thorough, taking copious notes even as she smiled widely at Julius. She never hesitated to ask him to repeat something or explain an issue differently, either in class or in his office. Her papers were well-thought-out, and always submitted early, and when he made some suggestions about writing style or organization, she always gave it back to him better than expected.

Hers was one of the few A's that was genuinely earned and easy to give that semester; and he was pleasantly surprised to see her take a seat in his History of Pre-Colonial Africa on the second Wednesday night in January as well. In the second week of the semester, Julius looked up from grading his first quizzes when he heard a knock on his open office door.

"Hi Diondra, how are you?"

"Hi, Professor Metcalfe, I hope I'm not interrupting." She looked at the stacks of papers on his desk.

"Not at all." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, Miss McNeal, I just finished grading your paper." He handed her the five-question sheet with "100" circled on top. "I need it back so I can record it, but I'm glad you stopped by."

"Whew, that's a whole lot better than my first one in your last class," she chuckled. "You definitely caught me off guard with that one, but at the same time it was good -- it let me know I can't play around."

"Well, that's the idea," he shared. "I like to get an idea of what students are really retaining -- or at least who's studying or even paying attention." She laughed at that.

Julius realized that he liked her laugh. It reminded him of a waterfall.

"It worked on me. I'm glad you drop one, 'cause that was the only the second 'D' I ever got in all my 26 years." That last bit of information took Julius by surprise; he had taken her for about 21 or 22 at the most, but he kept it to himself. That made her only about a year younger than himself.

"You certainly made up for it after that, though," he countered encouragingly. "I really hope you keep up the same level of enthusiasm. How'd you do in your other classes?"

Her eyes rolled up slightly. "Let's see...I got an A in English Comp II, and a B in Psych. I only took three classes for my first semester back since I wanted to make sure I do well, plus I work."

"Back? So you were in school before?"

"Yeah," she continued. "I went away right out of high school but I wasn't ready; I did the usual party and hanging out thing and was gone after two years. I did just enough to last that long, but a lot of the classes I took don't amount to anything. I'm a lot more focused now, though. I have a much better idea of what I want to do." She paused to give Julius enough time to ask the obvious question.

"Oh, what's that?" He obliged.

"I think I want to teach art, like painting and drawing, to kids, and dance too, or even do some kind of therapy with that. I love to do both, and I love children. I'm taking my time having my own, though." She gave a nervous laugh as if she wasn't sure she should have made the last comment.

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with putting school first." Julius started to add "and I wish more young women would do that," but thought better of it. Talking about his student's reproductive future was not exactly comfortable ground even as he found himself relieved to hear that she didn't have any kids. "But I think your goal is a good one --very doable and very admirable." He nodded slightly -- a gesture of acknowledgement.

"I am curious about one thing, though," he continued. "If you don't mind my asking—where do World Civ. and African History fit into that plan? Are they for 'gen- ed's, or were you just interested in the subject matter?"

"I would say both," she allowed. "Plus I had...other reasons." She looked at him quite directly while she said this. Julius felt vaguely warm for some reason He rushed to respond.

"Well, I'm just glad you enjoyed class. I hope you like this one too. In case you're wondering, I also teach African American Studies as a day class. You know, in case you're interested in anything else." He paused, inhaled through his nose, changed the subject and direction. "So, what else are you taking this semester?"

"I'm doing Child Psych, Statistics, and Modern Dance II."

"Two?" Julius raised his eyebrows. "When did you take Part One?"

"Oh, I took it at State," Diondra explained, looking off to the side, "but I still had to do a routine for Ms. Lewis to show what I know." She tilted her head a little. "Really, I've been dancing for a while; I just wanted to add more to my formal background...and it'll help keep my GPA up."

"I heard that...everyone needs some of those classes; I know I had my share,"

Julius said, laughing easily with his student, then waved his hand over the short piles of papers. "Now," he said as more of a friendly request than a command, "I do have to kick you out. Thanks for coming by, though. And don't be a stranger." He winked before he really thought about it. He watched her intently as she turned to leave; fought himself for enjoying the full, even sway of her baby blue sweatpants as she walked away.

She stopped and winked back. "Now, you know better than that. You'll be seeing a lot of me."

Julius rolled his eyes upward after she was gone. "Lord, give me strength."

Diondra's statement proved to be true. Not only did she come to his office in addition to seeing him in class; they also talked in the halls when she was there, saying their "hello's" with a smile, a wave, then a touch on the hand, sometimes a discreet sideways hug from her -- which prompted Julius to say with a chuckle every time, "You're trying to get me fired," but he never asked her to stop. Was it his imagination or did he feel her press the side of her sweater-encased breast against his rib cage a little more emphatically than necessary? And why was he wondering?

In class, he enjoyed her questions about the development of the school at Timbuktu, the Dogon's discoveries in astronomy, the influx of Islam and Christianity into the African continent, her willingness to explore African traditional religion as an objective subject matter for a research paper as opposed to the "crazy voodoo mess" comments he heard from other students in his class when he presented the subject in lecture.

They joked around with each other, like when she teased him about his name, claiming, "Julius Metcalfe sounds like someone who gets beat up a lot."

"Excuse me, I beg to differ...although I did take Karate for a while just in case." He admitted. "But I did used to tell my mother that she set me up. With a name like this, I had to be either a professor or a civil rights lawyer," he said, both of them laughing.

On more than one occasion, Julius told Diondra, "I admire the way your mind works;" once in a while during class but much more often with no one around to hear except maybe the angels watching them.

She invariably responded, "Thanks, Professor Metcalfe," at first with a bashful look and, "I just do what I'm supposed to, right?" in response, and then later, "I do what I can...but I have nothing on you," and then she finally asked "Why?"

"Because you're willing to challenge yourself," Julius explained. "You don't just give me what you think I want to hear, but you ask questions of yourself—and me—that aren't always easy to answer. That's not just admirable, it's essential for..." Julius' voice trailed off as he edited his thoughts.

"Essential for what?" Diondra looked puzzled.

"Ummm...you know, life." Julius answered hastily, if not convincingly. Ethics 'n all that, y'know?

Diondra narrowed her eyes, observing him eat the jerk chicken wrap she had brought him before class, knowing that he rarely remembered to eat before evening lecture, sighed and put her hand on his. "Right. Life." She smiled gently with the left side of her mouth.

"This is sooo good," he thanked her between chews.

"You're very welcome." She got up to leave, stopped.

"Ju...Professor Metcalfe?"

"Yes." He looked up.

She paused. How to tell the truth without saying anything?

"I'm...glad you're here."

Julius swallowed. Before he could respond, she left him to finish eating. She wasn't sure, but she thought she had somehow heard, or maybe felt, his heart beating. She sighed again. Just make it to the end of the semester and it'll be OK.

Starting around the middle of April, when the leaves returned, and winter jackets and heavy clothes got put away, Julius had to concentrate even more when Diondra sat in his class. Up to that point, from the beginning of the Fall Semester even, she had always dressed in nothing less than blouses or sweaters that covered her shoulders, usually most of her arms, and always her whole chest. Now, along with many of the other women at the college, whom he was noticing less, if at all, the neckline dropped to reveal what he had sometimes allowed himself to anticipate would indeed be an impressive line of cleavage; the longer dresses and jeans transformed occasionally into above-the-knee skirts that did even more to inspire his imagination, which he struggled to keep inactive. Just make it to the end of the semester and it'll go away.

After his next-to-last Wednesday night lecture, Diondra came to Julius after class.

"Hey, I have some good news I want to share with you," she opened.

"OK, shoot." Julius packed his lecture notes into a black leather portfolio.

Diondra smiled to herself, noticing the inscribed "JM" at the lower corner.

"Actually, I was wondering if we could talk about it somewhere else."

"Somewhere else like...where?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't worry, I'm just talking about getting a bite to eat so I can be comfortable. It's been a long day. I'm hungry."

Half an hour later, after driving their separate cars, they sat over shrimp lo mein and Szechuan broccoli. He was eating with chopsticks and she was using a fork. She watched him scoop the soft fried noodles drizzled with sweet and sour sauce into his mouth from across the table. She looked deep in thought, distracted.

"What's on your mind, Miss McNeal?" Julius asked.

"Teach me to how to do that." She looked at him intently.

"Do what? Use chopsticks?"

"Yes, Julius, use chopsticks. Stop being...what's that word you used the other day...obtuse?" She giggled. "I know it shows the instructions on the wrapper, but I'd rather learn from...a person."

"A person?"

She paused. You."

He leaned over the table, putting her fingers in the proper position, and was busy trying to not to get noticed as he watched her lips ask "like this?" when she whispered, "it's OK."

Julius felt his breath stop for a moment.

"What's OK?" he finally asked, sitting back but still holding her hand with the chopsticks in it.

"This." She trained her eyes on their hands. He tried to pull his own back but she reached and gently gripped it. "I like this." She watched him close his eyes and shake his head; a feeble, last ditch effort. Other than that, he didn't move until he looked at her.

"I..."

She interrupted him.

"I know. You admire my mind." She laughed again. He thought he would drown in the waterfall. She absentmindedly patted the back of her curly afro, which was pulled back by a cotton headband. "But I'm a woman, and I know for a fact you admire a lot more than my mind." She paused. One elbow rested on the table; her other hand was on her softly rounded hip as she leaned in. "And I like that too."

Julius was silent.

"I know you're probably thinking, 'Do you know how much trouble I'd be in?"

He snorted quietly and visibly tilted his head in stark agreement but didn't otherwise protest what she was saying.

Instead of answering the question, she suggested, "Do you mind if we get this to go?"

Julius felt his stomach flip just a little, tried to find a reason to say "No." When he did speak, all he could find his voice for was to say "I'd like that."

He followed her to her apartment. After the food was put away in her refrigerator and she had turned on the TV—some version of "CSI" was on -- Julius decided to plunge right in to the deliciously and uncomfortably inevitable.

"So...what now?" He turned to her from the kitchen table to where she was sitting on her sofa.

"Well, first, why don't you come over here?" She patted the spot on the cushion next to her.

"Ummm...maybe not yet." He had to laugh.

"I have an idea." She sat up perkily and crossed her legs. "Let's play a game: we'll both admit one thing that might be embarrassing." In response to his facial expression, she added, "I'll go first."

"OK, you remember when I told you I had been married for four years? Well, I got divorced because he was basically trying to control me: what I wore, how I did my hair—he always wanted it long. Didn't want me to do anything. You know, the 'I'ma take care of you' fake-me-out that was really a cover-up for jealousy? After a while, I couldn't take it anymore. I actually filed for divorce maybe six months before I came back to school. So, once that was done, I got a job working at the after-school program—which you know about. That felt good, it got me on my own, but I wanted to do more, so I cut all my hair off. And to really liberate myself," she put her head down and laughed, then audibly breathed in and out, "I decided to try to do something completely different as well as make some extra money by doing...let's just say 'exotic dance,' only a little more than a week before I came in to school to register."

Julius opened his eyes a little wider, but didn't say anything, allowing—wanting—Diondra to continue.

"The funny part is, I did OK in my audition...I have my background in ballet and African dance to thank for that, as far as being flexible enough..." she paused.

Julius suddenly felt warm somewhere inside. Again.

"...But I came down really badly from something I was doing on the pole and bruised my knee. At that point, I knew God was telling me I was out of my mind. Not that I have anything against all that...but clearly, it is not for me. So, I applied for financial aid, and when I saw what I was eligible for, I decided to come to the school to get started." She stopped. "And that's my story."

Before Diondra could say, "Any questions?" or "Now it's your turn", Julius spilled out, "I thought you were perfect from the moment I laid eyes on you, and this year has been hell. I haven't had sex since the middle of last semester because no matter how hard I tried—and believe me, I tried hard--I couldn't get you out of my head, but I also couldn't have you."

They were silent as they smiled at each other, measuring the moment, the air suddenly thicker. Diondra got up from the sofa, took Julius by the hand, guided him to sit by her.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice dense with confusion. "It's like you got me whipped and we haven't even..."

"Sshhhh." She placed his hand on the dance-toned thickness of her thigh.

"But..."

"Ssshhhhhh," She interrupted again. She put a finger tip on his lips. "I have another secret; you know, my good news."

He looked at her hopefully, warily.

"I'm transferring to the Midwest Arts Institute as a Dance major with a minor in Visual Arts. I have orientation in June. I might actually go straight through, 'cause they have a new combined Bachelor-Masters program for people who want to focus on Arts Education. Oh, and I have a scholarship, I'm proud to say." She kissed Julius' jaw near the base of his ear. He allowed himself to enjoy the wave of mild shivers.

"And I'm gonna need support to be able to keep it."

"You're also kind of perfect yourself," she added last. She kissed his cheek, then his neck. Julius remembered the words of his mother and aunt that he thought for the longest time were utter nonsense.

She slid a leg over his so that she straddled him, her multi-colored skirt spread out on both sides of his lap like a peacock's feathers. Her arms were wrapped around his neck.

"One more thing," she purred.

"What's that?" Julius murmured, still trying to figure out exactly how this was real.

"Remember when I said I had other reasons for taking your class? Well," she paused for efficiently dramatic effect. "When I was registering, I was trying to decide what classes to take as I sat there. It was between Sociology and World Civ., and then I asked who teaches both. The other advisor pointed you out while you were sitting there... and that was it for me. I didn't know for sure what I was going to do when you agreed to come eat with me tonight, but in my mind, you've been mine ever since that day...so yes, this year has been hell, and I had to end it, one way or another." She placed her lips on his, lingered for a moment, allowed him to experience their softness, and pulled back.

Julius was silent.

"What is it? Did I..."

"My father left..." He paused. Exhaled. "He committed suicide when I was seven years old." Julius looked off to the side. "Attachment is...difficult...for me sometimes." He breathed deeply.

"I don't remember the last time I said that out loud."

Diondra stared at him for a moment, sympathetic eyes starting to glisten. She started to move but he held her in place.

"I'm used to struggling. Or giving up quickly."

Julius looked at her, trying to say with his face what words wouldn't let him, eyes in pain, mouth smiling.

Smart. Beautiful. Unpretentious. Self-aware. Motivated. No kids, even. Giving. Honest. Understands me. What the hell do I do now?

There was really no need. Diondra started to pull off her purple tie-dyed halter top but he put his hands on hers to stop her. He shifted to lay down and pulled her on top of him. "No more one-nighters," Julius thought to himself.

Diondra nodded slightly, connected her eyes to his to confirm the unspoken understanding: "take it slow;" smiled, kissed him again, this time with her full mouth, and pressed her body into Julius'.

"I haven't always been too great with resistance, either. But ummm, you probably knew that."

"You did OK." Diondra reassured him, allowing herself a slight smirk. "I've been reeling you in for almost a year." She waited a moment, straightened her face. "You're safe with me," she whispered so that, at first, he wasn't sure at first what she had said. "I promise."

They pulled apart just a bit and breathed together, slow and deep. Julius embraced her, slowly running his hand over her back, massaging her neck; he inhaled her scent-—Eternity for Women, his favorite perfume (he remembered he had told her that some months back after he smelled it on her), thought of all the memories of times he got passed over and turned down, realized that his mother and aunt just might have been right after all. He remembered something else they said: "he'd be proud...but you're not him;" He let go. Giving up never felt so good