The Legend (and Legs) of Professor Malone

By No One You Know (Hopefully)

Artwork by Jay Durrah

As two of the only few men in this class, my boy, Brett, and I used to sit in the back of the room together. It was small in there, so it’s not like we weren’t paying attention. In fact, we paid very close attention. This was not just because this was a core class for our major but also because of our instructor.

Our professor, Ms. Malone, had a body that would stop work at a construction site and wore the outfits to prove it. Some of our female classmates grumbled about it, but we didn’t. We cheered it on. Indeed, one day, I vividly remember an off-white sweater and a beige, suede skirt being the weapons of choice. The top was tight — very tight — and the skirt had a slit from the knee up to “nobody's business.”

Ms. Malone was older than us, of course, but not by a lot. It was always cool to hear her reference current music or cultural icons of that time, things most instructors never mentioned in class back then. But she knew her stuff and kept the class fun.

Now, as things would play out, this course had an internship requirement that was mandatory for graduation, as in you had to secure an internship during it, or your “cap ’n gown” were gonna hang up in the closet for a while. For the record, I did not secure an internship that semester because I was heavily involved in student government. When the semester ended, I tried to explain that to Professor Malone, hoping she’d let me slide. And she did. She told me that due to my work as a student leader, I had satisfied my internship requirement, and all was well. 

I was excited, to say the least, and I thanked her profusely. Or so I thought. 

That was the fall semester of my senior year. Now, fast forward to the end of the school year, as I was officially preparing to “walk.” Before the graduation festivities started, I dropped by my former professor’s office again and told her how much I appreciated the help and that once I landed a job, I’d love to treat her to lunch or dinner as a thank you. She agreed (but I’m sure she didn’t take me seriously) and gave me her contact info. 

Well, lo and behold, about two months after graduation, I landed my first post-HBCU gig; I was a salesman at an internationally recognized company. I hated the gig, but they did pay me, so I had some money for a change. After a couple of paychecks, I called Ms. Malone to make good on my promise. I left it up to her to decide on lunch or dinner. She opted for the evening fare.

I wanted to send a signal of my appreciation, so I picked a well-known, very expensive restaurant by the water — a joint I could never afford as a college student. I remember picking her up at her apartment and feeling that weird kinda "kissing-your-sister" vibe; it felt like a date but with your aunt. We went, we ate, we talked, and we had a great time. Indeed, I learned a lot about her background, much more than students ever get to know about their professors in normal class settings.

After dinner, we were walking back to my company-issued salesman’s car, and I noticed a couple of young people selling glow-in-the-dark plastic necklaces as a fundraiser for something. I thought it would be cute if I bought her one as a final thank-you. When I gave it to her, I said, “Now, you have been officially thanked for looking out for me.” 

Without hesitation and without looking at me, she replied: “Don’t worry, you can thank me for real later.” 

I didn’t think much about that comment then, but it proved telling. We hopped in my new company car (well, new to me), and I drove her home. She asked if I wanted to come up for a nightcap (which was maybe the first time I heard that said before, ’cause in high school and college, you don’t have nightcaps, you just drink). I accepted, and we went up to her apartment. 

She showed me around a bit and then left me on the couch while she retired to her bedroom to put on something more comfortable, as she put it. After a few moments, she returned wearing a different outfit. Gone was the tight, shape-showing dress she had on for dinner, much to my surprise and glee. She was now wearing what I can simply describe as something that Victoria’s Secret only sells on Saturday nights, late Saturday nights. I could see damn near all the “stuff” I could only imagine during class. It was hot, and so was she. We drank some bubbly and played a game called Dirty Words, kinda like Scrabble, but with, well, dirty words. Please feel free to use your imagination.

Needless to say, the rest of the night transpired much as you might expect. She was sexy, and I was sexed-up, and the band played on. Afterward, I expressed my amazement and told her about my private thoughts about her during class. She responded that she, too, felt attracted to me, but, as a professor who took her work seriously, there was nothing she could do while I was still a student. However, after I graduated, everything was fair game. 

Thank you, Lord, I thought. 

That next morning, when I left, I again had this weird “date-with-your-aunt” feeling. I didn’t know what to call her now – by her first name or “ex-professor,” or something else. So I just lightly kissed her lips and left the apartment. The drive back to my spot was surreal, to say the least. I kinda wanted to tell all my friends and no one at the same time. 

Later that day, I called my former classmate, Brett, who shared a mutual lust for our professor, and his response was classic and too profane to write here. His laughter is still in my head. He was mostly mad it wasn’t him, but happy for me. 

Truth be told, I visited her a few more times after that, and it always remained a light, respectful, casual situation, but very, very sexy. And I respected her as a professional – she was a well-known Black female leader in the industry, the industry I was just starting to navigate. As time marched on, I went back to her for advice and guidance as my career unfolded. She was always helpful and available as a mentor. 

As the years progressed, we lost contact (though we did have a hook-up in New York City once, years later), but I never forgot that class or the great times we shared afterward. It was a very special part of my Black college experience, one that I cherish as a reminder that HBCUs are, too, like a box of chocolates—you never know what you’re going to get. But bet your bottom dollar, it will all be life-enhancing. 

Just remember: wait until you graduate. 

Endnote:

Of course, the names have been changed. The events are real. The author hopes Professor Malone sees this and understands our need to share the story. This essay will be included in HBCU Experience – The Book, Vol. 2.