The real problem today
My real problem is that I'm trying to let one of my girls go. Yeah, that's what I call them, my girls. Never call them bitches, because the last thing I want to do is hang out with a bitch. Never call them anything disrespectful because, after all, I do choose to spend my time with them, and why would anyone want to voluntarily spend time with someone that they despise? I'm sure there are reasons, I simply do not engage in any of them.
Student, we'll call her, was fun to hang out with for a while. She is, as you may be able to deduce, one of my former students, and, yes, that is where the initial attraction came from. There is no ethics code at my university that prohibits teachers from dating students, and we'd consummated any amount of semesterly flirtation after the last day of class, when she technically ceased being my student. However, once the whole student-teacher thing ceased to be, well, a lot of the attraction left for me.
Ack. I said the coup de grace first. I don't mean it to sound like, well, now that she's not my student (i.e. now that the temptation and lust of hooking up with a student is gone) that I'm not interested. No, there were other, more severe strikes well before that.
First off this thing got off on a very bad foot. The first time we had sex was without protection. Ack! It was drunken and fast and bam there it was.
And this story only gets worse.
At the time I was afraid that I might have some sort of venereal disease. Hella, a spunky twenty year old in the same writing program as I, had recently had chlamydia. She did the right thing: she called me right off, even though we hadn't had sex for a while, and she ran her ass to the doctor and did all the stuff that you're supposed to do. She took well care of the situation, and I was not disappointed. Hey, it happens, people get chlamydia, no big thing.
So Hella and I had some celebration sex. She's a short girl, maybe five feet, a little wide at the hips, but young and cute. She has tattoos on her forearms, bright red hair, and, oh yeah, she likes to cut herself. Definite "Secretary" material, and, honestly, I think she looks up to me as her James Spader, because she'll do just about anything with me. In fact, I think she just became my slave, but that's way ahead of the story. Anyways, we had some anti-chlamydia celebratory sport fucking (three go-arounds in twelve hours, including a quick one on the coffee table on her way out). After she had left, I noticed three red dots on my dick.
"OH FUCK!" I screamed into the empty apartment that stank like her pussy, my cum, and our sweat, and showered PDQ. Yep. Still there after vigorous scrubbing. Not good! So, even though it was a three o'clock on a Friday, I threw some clothes on and ran my ass to the clinic. The clinic would not see me, unfortunately, because it was a multi-hour process, one that could not occupy the last working hours of a Friday, and I would have to wait the weekend. And, because this was the last week of the semester, waiting the weekend turned into waiting a week. I simply didn't have time to go down and get checked out, and I pushed the thought of having some sort of infectious disease way down deep into my psyche; down into that part that turns into a burning little coal of indigestion at stressful moments.
Even better yet. The original weekend that I had to wait to go to the clinic was the weekend that Issy and I were to celebrate our one year anniversary. One thing you must know about Issy: she is a dominatrix. Okay, okay, not exactly a dominatrix, but into the SM scene, and a very well-established top. I'm not a sub to her (I'm a switch, which is like the bi-sexual of the SM scene), but I still don't want to have to make a phone call that goes something along the lines of, "Well, I'd love to celebrate our one year anniversary with our planned bout of fucking like wild animals all night long, but I can't because I fucked some dirty little piece of candy from school and now I have herpes." I mean, seriously, how do you deliver a call like that?
So I did what anyone would do. I waited until the absolute last minute and got really, really drunk. I mean, I got as drunk as someone can get in an hour. I just carried around the Absolut bottle and, every time I thought about what I was going to do, I drank enough to forget. When I realized that I would have to go out the door to get to her place at the appointed hour, I picked up the phone and dialed her number with a drunken swagger.
"Hi, how ya doin?" I said.
"Fine, how are you?" she said.
"I'm good," I said. "Listen, there's something I have to tell you, and I don't quite know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it to you."
"Okay," she said, in a very quiet way. I definitely had her complete attention. So complete, in fact, that I could feel the hollowness of every electron path that lead from the thought in my head, which would travel out of my mouth, and along the telephone line, to her ear, to create some thoughts in her head, which I dreaded with all of my heart.
"I fucked some girl yesterday and now I have three dots on my dick well at first it was just one dot and now it has friends and I can't come celebrate our anniversary because I'm contaminated and there's no way in hell I'm going to infect you."
That's the way it came out: all in one tempo that didn't stop until it was finished because if it did stop it wouldn't restart. I felt strangely elated having had the balls to deliver that type of news to someone. It's not everyday that one can follow-through with a speech that could potentially crush the person it's delivered to.
And what did Issy do? She laughed. The girl laughed. It was a kind of relieved laugh, I later learned, because once she heard the "I have to tell you something, don't know how" prelude, she had thought, "Well, here it comes, he's going to break up with me." However, learning that it was just some amount of inconvenience, that she could take. That's the thing about Issy that I know I can always count on: she'll be able to understand and cope with anything that is delivered to her in a straightforward and honest way. She is about the most rational and thoughtful person that I know. Couple that with her open sexual attitude, dreadlocks down to her ass, a black-girl ass on a dancer's body, and now you know why I've been dating her for over a year.
I went to Issy's house anyways that night ("You know," she said to me, "we can hang out without having sex."), and I did her right.
Student, however, I did not do right. I had unprotected sex with her that night, but I didn't come inside of her. That was on her request, because, even though she'd been on the pill, she'd gotten pregnant and had an abortion just a month before.
I mean, should I continue this? Can you believe that any of this is true? We're not talking about a year's worth of time here--this all happened within the span of a month at most. And it is not an atypical month. This degree of reality happens to me all of the time. It has become nearly inescapable, and I'm finding myself down blind paths of the Minotaur's labyrinth, unsure of how to get out. Who has ever been in situations such as these before? I do not suggest that I am shaming the Marquis de Sade here, but this is beyond Libertine.
Student--in addition to being my student: someone that I saw every Wednesday night for fifteen weeks--had an abortion towards the end of the semester. I found out about it because she turned in a piece of homework with a note, "Sorry I've been absent, but something really bad happened to me," with her phone number on it. I called the number, got a cousin or something, and learned that she would, in essence, be okay and return to class shortly. When she got back to class, she had a notable absence of either missing limbs, organs, stitches, bruises, hair, or anything that would identify with her some sort of major surgery. Plus, she had a pretty chipper attitude, with a mild current of, "damn, why did this have to happen to me?" What it was that had happened, she didn't say, but I had a pretty good guess at it.
The second to last class, a bunch of my students went out with me to have a drink. I brought along another teacher, MM, whom I had been hitting on and psychically attempting to convince to cheat on her new boyfriend, who lived in Germany. MM, Student, and another student, JJ, a gay male, went to our local bar and had one of those extremely open and flirtatious conversations that come from so much sexual tension. I mean, think about the different sexual angles involved here:
I was trying to get MM to cheat, and she knew it and was toying around with the idea.
Student was trying to hook up with me, and I suspected it.
JJ was trying to hook up with me, and I dreaded it.
JJ knew Student was trying to hook up with me.
MM knew that Student and JJ were trying to hook up with me.
So there were secrets, advances, probes, retreats, plotting and scheming against all of us, and I could be perceived as the focus and source of a lot of it.
JJ said that he had some pot, I said that I lived nearby, Student said sure she'll smoke some weed, and MM took her leave of us for the evening. Damn. I was a little disappointed, but Student showed some promise. JJ showed way too much promise, but I'm not afraid of being hit on by gay men, and I have no trouble rejecting them in such a way that doesn't leave them all mad or ashamed. Boys, I know I look good.
Back at my place, the energy between Student and I only increased with the pot smoking. JJ figured out that he wasn't going to get any (even though, over drinks, he had been the one to ask, "So, do you ever accept sexual favors to increase your students' grades?"), and soon he bowed out. That left just Student and I, stoned, in my bed, vibing like crazy.
The conversation, unfortunately, was on how she felt after her abortion. She'd told me about it earlier in the evening. I had dated a girl (whom I eventually married), and we had had to have an abortion, so I could be sympathetic towards her. It wasn't a play but genuine empathy, and it superceded any desire of mine to cross one of those forbidden boundaries by sleeping with a student, which I had not at that time yet done. We spent a few hours talking, I kept getting comfortable, giving her the option to make a move, but there was a little too much seriousness so nothing happened. She went home, and all was well.
She sent me an email that week telling me how much she enjoyed hanging out, and sorry about letting the conversation get so heavy. Oh. So, she would've slept with me if I'd made a move. It's always nice to get such confirmation about the intangible things in life.
Next class was our last class, the final exam. Everyone showed up, people took the test, then they left. Student left about 2/3's the way through class, I said bye, and thought, damn, that's that. After class I didn't see her, so I went over to MM's classroom, where she was just finishing up, and invited her to a drink. She was all for it (I think because she'd made up her mind not to cheat on her boyfriend, but still enjoying torturing me about it.)
We went to the bar and had many drinks, so many that I thought I had flanked her resolve not to cheat on her new boyfriend. One thing that I've noticed when going out for drinks with women is that sometimes the more they talk about their boyfriend, the more they're seeking your criticism of him. Sometimes a woman judges her man through the eyes of other men, and the dedicated usurper can sometimes pull the rug from right under the other man's feet without him ever knowing what hit him. I must admit to giving a tug or two, but I didn't attack unscrupulously, and we ended the evening with her receiving a phone call from Mr. Germany himself and walking out to her car.
She said she'd give me a ride home; a ride that, no doubt, would only increase her phone sex from Germany after she'd dropped me off from a ride where she would tease me into thinking I might get to kiss her when she dropped me off or, better yet!, come upstairs with me for a night cap. As I was leaving the bar, however, there Student sat, with her friend whom we'll call Sue.
Hey, funny coincidence!
I invited them back to my place to continue drinking, but Student didn't want to be a third wheel. "MM?" I asked incredulously. "She's on the phone with her boyfriend right now. You won't be a third wheel."
"Oh," Student said, "but I don't want to leave. Stay here with us."
So I did. Had more drinks. Munched on some soft pretzel. Sue, an old friend of Student's, told me at one point that Student, "Really wanted to fuck my brains out last week." Yes, Student was sitting right there, and after a token amount of outrage, let that hang in the air. The rest of the evening was auto-pilot back to my bedroom, and I almost slipped Sue my number as well but thought it might be a little tacky.
Back at the room, drunken fumbling, foreplay, sweaty, and then the sex. "Don't come inside of me," said Student, in obvious deference to her recent birth-control pill defeating abortion.
So I came on her tits instead.
Later that week I went to the clinic, got checked out, got the green light, all safe, nothing wrong, but what about the dots? It was a case of jock itch, and I got some cream. Jock itch. I was never so happy to have jock itch in my life.
Student, we'll call her, was fun to hang out with for a while. She is, as you may be able to deduce, one of my former students, and, yes, that is where the initial attraction came from. There is no ethics code at my university that prohibits teachers from dating students, and we'd consummated any amount of semesterly flirtation after the last day of class, when she technically ceased being my student. However, once the whole student-teacher thing ceased to be, well, a lot of the attraction left for me.
Ack. I said the coup de grace first. I don't mean it to sound like, well, now that she's not my student (i.e. now that the temptation and lust of hooking up with a student is gone) that I'm not interested. No, there were other, more severe strikes well before that.
First off this thing got off on a very bad foot. The first time we had sex was without protection. Ack! It was drunken and fast and bam there it was.
And this story only gets worse.
At the time I was afraid that I might have some sort of venereal disease. Hella, a spunky twenty year old in the same writing program as I, had recently had chlamydia. She did the right thing: she called me right off, even though we hadn't had sex for a while, and she ran her ass to the doctor and did all the stuff that you're supposed to do. She took well care of the situation, and I was not disappointed. Hey, it happens, people get chlamydia, no big thing.
So Hella and I had some celebration sex. She's a short girl, maybe five feet, a little wide at the hips, but young and cute. She has tattoos on her forearms, bright red hair, and, oh yeah, she likes to cut herself. Definite "Secretary" material, and, honestly, I think she looks up to me as her James Spader, because she'll do just about anything with me. In fact, I think she just became my slave, but that's way ahead of the story. Anyways, we had some anti-chlamydia celebratory sport fucking (three go-arounds in twelve hours, including a quick one on the coffee table on her way out). After she had left, I noticed three red dots on my dick.
"OH FUCK!" I screamed into the empty apartment that stank like her pussy, my cum, and our sweat, and showered PDQ. Yep. Still there after vigorous scrubbing. Not good! So, even though it was a three o'clock on a Friday, I threw some clothes on and ran my ass to the clinic. The clinic would not see me, unfortunately, because it was a multi-hour process, one that could not occupy the last working hours of a Friday, and I would have to wait the weekend. And, because this was the last week of the semester, waiting the weekend turned into waiting a week. I simply didn't have time to go down and get checked out, and I pushed the thought of having some sort of infectious disease way down deep into my psyche; down into that part that turns into a burning little coal of indigestion at stressful moments.
Even better yet. The original weekend that I had to wait to go to the clinic was the weekend that Issy and I were to celebrate our one year anniversary. One thing you must know about Issy: she is a dominatrix. Okay, okay, not exactly a dominatrix, but into the SM scene, and a very well-established top. I'm not a sub to her (I'm a switch, which is like the bi-sexual of the SM scene), but I still don't want to have to make a phone call that goes something along the lines of, "Well, I'd love to celebrate our one year anniversary with our planned bout of fucking like wild animals all night long, but I can't because I fucked some dirty little piece of candy from school and now I have herpes." I mean, seriously, how do you deliver a call like that?
So I did what anyone would do. I waited until the absolute last minute and got really, really drunk. I mean, I got as drunk as someone can get in an hour. I just carried around the Absolut bottle and, every time I thought about what I was going to do, I drank enough to forget. When I realized that I would have to go out the door to get to her place at the appointed hour, I picked up the phone and dialed her number with a drunken swagger.
"Hi, how ya doin?" I said.
"Fine, how are you?" she said.
"I'm good," I said. "Listen, there's something I have to tell you, and I don't quite know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it to you."
"Okay," she said, in a very quiet way. I definitely had her complete attention. So complete, in fact, that I could feel the hollowness of every electron path that lead from the thought in my head, which would travel out of my mouth, and along the telephone line, to her ear, to create some thoughts in her head, which I dreaded with all of my heart.
"I fucked some girl yesterday and now I have three dots on my dick well at first it was just one dot and now it has friends and I can't come celebrate our anniversary because I'm contaminated and there's no way in hell I'm going to infect you."
That's the way it came out: all in one tempo that didn't stop until it was finished because if it did stop it wouldn't restart. I felt strangely elated having had the balls to deliver that type of news to someone. It's not everyday that one can follow-through with a speech that could potentially crush the person it's delivered to.
And what did Issy do? She laughed. The girl laughed. It was a kind of relieved laugh, I later learned, because once she heard the "I have to tell you something, don't know how" prelude, she had thought, "Well, here it comes, he's going to break up with me." However, learning that it was just some amount of inconvenience, that she could take. That's the thing about Issy that I know I can always count on: she'll be able to understand and cope with anything that is delivered to her in a straightforward and honest way. She is about the most rational and thoughtful person that I know. Couple that with her open sexual attitude, dreadlocks down to her ass, a black-girl ass on a dancer's body, and now you know why I've been dating her for over a year.
I went to Issy's house anyways that night ("You know," she said to me, "we can hang out without having sex."), and I did her right.
Student, however, I did not do right. I had unprotected sex with her that night, but I didn't come inside of her. That was on her request, because, even though she'd been on the pill, she'd gotten pregnant and had an abortion just a month before.
I mean, should I continue this? Can you believe that any of this is true? We're not talking about a year's worth of time here--this all happened within the span of a month at most. And it is not an atypical month. This degree of reality happens to me all of the time. It has become nearly inescapable, and I'm finding myself down blind paths of the Minotaur's labyrinth, unsure of how to get out. Who has ever been in situations such as these before? I do not suggest that I am shaming the Marquis de Sade here, but this is beyond Libertine.
Student--in addition to being my student: someone that I saw every Wednesday night for fifteen weeks--had an abortion towards the end of the semester. I found out about it because she turned in a piece of homework with a note, "Sorry I've been absent, but something really bad happened to me," with her phone number on it. I called the number, got a cousin or something, and learned that she would, in essence, be okay and return to class shortly. When she got back to class, she had a notable absence of either missing limbs, organs, stitches, bruises, hair, or anything that would identify with her some sort of major surgery. Plus, she had a pretty chipper attitude, with a mild current of, "damn, why did this have to happen to me?" What it was that had happened, she didn't say, but I had a pretty good guess at it.
The second to last class, a bunch of my students went out with me to have a drink. I brought along another teacher, MM, whom I had been hitting on and psychically attempting to convince to cheat on her new boyfriend, who lived in Germany. MM, Student, and another student, JJ, a gay male, went to our local bar and had one of those extremely open and flirtatious conversations that come from so much sexual tension. I mean, think about the different sexual angles involved here:
I was trying to get MM to cheat, and she knew it and was toying around with the idea.
Student was trying to hook up with me, and I suspected it.
JJ was trying to hook up with me, and I dreaded it.
JJ knew Student was trying to hook up with me.
MM knew that Student and JJ were trying to hook up with me.
So there were secrets, advances, probes, retreats, plotting and scheming against all of us, and I could be perceived as the focus and source of a lot of it.
JJ said that he had some pot, I said that I lived nearby, Student said sure she'll smoke some weed, and MM took her leave of us for the evening. Damn. I was a little disappointed, but Student showed some promise. JJ showed way too much promise, but I'm not afraid of being hit on by gay men, and I have no trouble rejecting them in such a way that doesn't leave them all mad or ashamed. Boys, I know I look good.
Back at my place, the energy between Student and I only increased with the pot smoking. JJ figured out that he wasn't going to get any (even though, over drinks, he had been the one to ask, "So, do you ever accept sexual favors to increase your students' grades?"), and soon he bowed out. That left just Student and I, stoned, in my bed, vibing like crazy.
The conversation, unfortunately, was on how she felt after her abortion. She'd told me about it earlier in the evening. I had dated a girl (whom I eventually married), and we had had to have an abortion, so I could be sympathetic towards her. It wasn't a play but genuine empathy, and it superceded any desire of mine to cross one of those forbidden boundaries by sleeping with a student, which I had not at that time yet done. We spent a few hours talking, I kept getting comfortable, giving her the option to make a move, but there was a little too much seriousness so nothing happened. She went home, and all was well.
She sent me an email that week telling me how much she enjoyed hanging out, and sorry about letting the conversation get so heavy. Oh. So, she would've slept with me if I'd made a move. It's always nice to get such confirmation about the intangible things in life.
Next class was our last class, the final exam. Everyone showed up, people took the test, then they left. Student left about 2/3's the way through class, I said bye, and thought, damn, that's that. After class I didn't see her, so I went over to MM's classroom, where she was just finishing up, and invited her to a drink. She was all for it (I think because she'd made up her mind not to cheat on her boyfriend, but still enjoying torturing me about it.)
We went to the bar and had many drinks, so many that I thought I had flanked her resolve not to cheat on her new boyfriend. One thing that I've noticed when going out for drinks with women is that sometimes the more they talk about their boyfriend, the more they're seeking your criticism of him. Sometimes a woman judges her man through the eyes of other men, and the dedicated usurper can sometimes pull the rug from right under the other man's feet without him ever knowing what hit him. I must admit to giving a tug or two, but I didn't attack unscrupulously, and we ended the evening with her receiving a phone call from Mr. Germany himself and walking out to her car.
She said she'd give me a ride home; a ride that, no doubt, would only increase her phone sex from Germany after she'd dropped me off from a ride where she would tease me into thinking I might get to kiss her when she dropped me off or, better yet!, come upstairs with me for a night cap. As I was leaving the bar, however, there Student sat, with her friend whom we'll call Sue.
Hey, funny coincidence!
I invited them back to my place to continue drinking, but Student didn't want to be a third wheel. "MM?" I asked incredulously. "She's on the phone with her boyfriend right now. You won't be a third wheel."
"Oh," Student said, "but I don't want to leave. Stay here with us."
So I did. Had more drinks. Munched on some soft pretzel. Sue, an old friend of Student's, told me at one point that Student, "Really wanted to fuck my brains out last week." Yes, Student was sitting right there, and after a token amount of outrage, let that hang in the air. The rest of the evening was auto-pilot back to my bedroom, and I almost slipped Sue my number as well but thought it might be a little tacky.
Back at the room, drunken fumbling, foreplay, sweaty, and then the sex. "Don't come inside of me," said Student, in obvious deference to her recent birth-control pill defeating abortion.
So I came on her tits instead.
Later that week I went to the clinic, got checked out, got the green light, all safe, nothing wrong, but what about the dots? It was a case of jock itch, and I got some cream. Jock itch. I was never so happy to have jock itch in my life.
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