I didn't even mention the English instructor, and for some reason, on this particular day, the LSU Professor tells me of love stories between students and college teachers. He tells me of a fable about one professor from a CSU up north who falls in love with his female student, and leaves his girlfriend for her, a girlfriend who he had intentions of marrying.
"They had sex?" I ask, referring to the professor and his student.
"Yes."
"That was the start of trouble," I reply.
We move to the patio outside the little fish cafe, and the rain is coming down hard, and the plastic shield next to the table is whipping sharply. It's scaring Beck, who is on a leash next to me.
"You said something about a falling out with a professor," The LSU Professor continues.
"You didn't seem that interested in it," I say because I told him that weeks ago.
He sighs. "We were talking about other things."
So, I tell him a rough story--my initial email explaining how I felt, the English instructor's response, and then my last email in which I argue that I'm not just a student.
"I think you should contact him after a while." He rationalizes that the English instructor's email was a "maybe," which really means "yes." He asks if the English instructor is tenured.
"No." I didn't think the English instructor's email was a "maybe," I emphasized to the LSU Professor what the English instructor had originally said, which can be briefly summed up as "As I've always been, I would be happy to speak with you about literature, etc, but if you do not respect the fact that I'm an employee of the college, then I will have to terminate contact." He actually used the word "terminate," and being he's an English professor and a writer himself, he knows that "terminate" has a harsh, negative connotation. It's a verdict--no room for debate. I found the whole email odd because he never mentions in it (although I more than allude to this in my previous email--even telling him not to respond, as I've previously written here in this blog) that he's married, and has kids. Before he uses the word "terminate," he pitches this to me, explaining that I'm "self-admittedly sensitive to criticism." Sure, about my writing, but I would like to think that I'm adult enough to handle someone rejecting me romantically and/or physically.
He makes a face, one of worry. "That's not good." In other words, tenured professors can more easily get away with fucking former students--they have their ordained place in the system. "He has five kids? Do you know how many balls he's juggling? Do you want him to juggle one more?"
"I told him in my last email that I didn't want to make him uncomfortable, that that wasn't my intent."
"He's uncomfortable," the LSU Professor concludes.
"I don't want to complicate his life."
"That's not your decision. That's his."
"Yes, but I've found that men make poor decisions in this area," I say, quickly ashamed of myself since I shouldn't say "all men"; it's an unfair assessment.
"You make him sound like he's Clark Gable. Is he handsome?"
"Yes," I answer simply.
"You have no idea how many students have said what you said. He might have a ready response."
I laugh at this. "Yes, cut and paste into an email."
"Yes! Right!" The LSU Professor says while smiling. "It seems like you still care about him."
I don't have an immediate response, "care" is a tricky word. I care about a lot of things, and a few other professors; this doesn't mean I want to sleep with them.
I had a dream about the English instructor a few nights ago. Occasionally, despite myself, he seems to invade me while I'm sleeping. I have a mental image of him from the dream down on his knees in front of me, touching my knees or my legs, and he tells me honestly that this is all it can ever be. I don't remember anything else, including my response.
"You don't know what his equipment is like, you fall in love with the equipment," the LSU Professor says casually. To most people, this would seem like a crude, crass comment, but coming from my best friend, it sounds normal. Like everyone evaluates the people they love by how big their tits are or how big (long) their dicks. Most people, from my experience, aren't really that concerned.
But there is a small bit of truth in what he's saying: if I had sex with the English instructor, and there was no chemistry between us (for whatever reason, and there are a variety of those), I would probably quickly lose romantic interest. Is that fair? I'm not sure, but I'm not the only one who highly prizes the physical aspect of a relationship. And in the past, haven't I been judge by "how good" I am "in bed"? I mean, wasn't that my job?
At the end of our meeting in the cafe, I offer to the LSU Professor that I don't have any class on Monday, and that we could meet again if he wanted to.
"Something might happen in between that time," he says.
"Oh, I could get a love letter," I say, referring to either the English instructor or to Morpheus.
The LSU Professor finds this humorous. "No, I was thinking more of a message telling you to meet him in a hotel room." He is also referring to the English instructor or Morpheus, jokingly, of course. He doesn't actually believe it would happen.
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