[MF] – The Student Who Teased Me for Three Years: Part 1 – “Do You Like My Outfit, Professor?”

I've been teaching at university long enough to know that most students forget your name the second the semester ends.

Alexandra was the exception. She walked into my first-year seminar like she owned the place. Petite, blonde, pouty lips, hips that moved with purpose. She sat in the front row — always — with a notebook she rarely used and eyes that rarely left mine. I was 29 at the time, 6'1", and trying to toe that awkward line between being the "cool prof" and not a walking HR complaint.

If I had to describe myself? Serious most of the time, the kind of guy who actually enjoys structuring a syllabus, but tries to sneak in dumb jokes that only half the class laughs at — and even then, mostly out of pity. I guess I was still holding onto the idea that I wasn't that far from their generation. Spoiler: I was. Alexandra wasn't subtle. Not even on day one.

There was something in her energy — bold, playful, magnetic. She'd ask questions she already knew the answers to. Stay after class for "clarifications." Laugh a little too hard at my dry jokes. She wasn't disruptive… but she knew how to make herself unforgettable.

Then came the day the heat hit.

It was late spring, and the building's ventilation system had all but given up. My 2 PM class, just after PE electives, was always a sensory nightmare. Students came in half-exhausted, sweaty, complaining. I tried to stay composed but, that day, I made the rookie mistake of saying:

"Alright, folks. Feel free to freshen up or take off a layer if you need — just try not to die in here."

Without hesitation, Alexandra reached down and pulled off her oversized sweatshirt right there at her desk, revealing a black sports bra that hugged her chest like a second skin. She adjusted the straps casually, then leaned back in her chair like nothing had happened.

The high-waisted leggings she wore didn't help either — they wrapped around her body like they were painted on. Her flat stomach shimmered slightly with sweat. She looked... unreal. She caught my eyes drifting — of course she did — and smiled, slow and deliberate.

I tried to keep the class moving. I really did. But every time I glanced up, there she was. Hair tied messily, lip gloss catching the light, leaning forward just enough.

I kept it professional. Barely.

When the class finally ended, everyone packed up in a hurry, desperate to get out of the heat. Except Alexandra. Of course. She lingered, slowly sliding her notebook into her bag, stretching her arms above her head in a way that made her chest push forward almost dramatically.

I turned to erase the whiteboard. She walked up behind me, and in a soft, teasing voice, she said:

"Do you like my outfit, Professor? I dressed up for you today."

I turned slowly, locking eyes with her. She wasn't nervous. She wanted me to look — and I did. For half a second too long. I swallowed the lump in my throat, shifted behind the desk to hide what was clearly betraying me under my slacks, and forced a chuckle.

"Alexandra… you know this isn't appropriate." She pouted, not moving. "You told us to get comfortable." "Not that comfortable."

There was a pause. Her eyes flicked down — knowingly — then back to mine. A long, charged silence. Then I stepped aside and opened the door.

"Out. Now." She grinned, grabbed her bag, and walked past me with a sway that felt like punishment. "See you next week, sir." And just like that, she was gone — leaving behind the scent of her perfume… and the hard-on I tried to ignore for the next hour.

The final lecture of Year 1

Fast-forward a few weeks: finals looming, attendance dwindling. Maybe fifteen out of sixty students bothered showing up for the last session. Alexandra arrived late, quietly, and instead of taking her usual spot up front, she climbed to the very back row, dead center.

I didn't think much of it. The heat was back, the room was quiet, and I was in auto-pilot mode reviewing key points for the exam.

But midway through the lecture, I glanced toward the back — and caught something I wasn't ready for.

The way the light caught under her loose T-shirt, I could see the faint curve of tan lines crossing just below her collarbone. And just under that: the unmistakable shape of skin where there should have been fabric.

No bra. Clear as day.

A slow pulse of heat shot through me. I didn't let my eyes linger more than a second — but it was too late. The image was there, burned into my brain.

I snapped my gaze back to my notes, heart thumping like I'd been caught doing something wrong. I made no comment. No gesture. No change in tone. Just finished the lecture, dismissed the class, and packed up like nothing happened.

I didn't glance back once. But I felt her eyes on me the entire time.

Heat, silence, suggestion.

That was Alexandra's version of goodbye.