I have of late noticed a certain infirmity, a small indulgence, of mine that if not for its innocence and lack of material consequence might be taken for a perversion or sickness.
I have been, with frightening regularity, falling in love with my tutors on a rotating basis that renews itself every six months.
It’s like clock work.
Like a menstruation cycle. Messy and cyclical, early signs of onset, but easily shrugged off and ultimately nothing more than a fact of life, another inevitability in this existence of love, death and taxes.
Happened again today. Jeeeeez! What a surprise! The media department at my university has a disproportionate amount of both female students and tutors/ lecturers. This is not surprising as the Media and Cultural Studies department is the bastion of feminism and a form of discourse that is beautifully verbose, literate and highly impractical. While the heavy weights have always been middle aged French men (they are highly tenacious and convolute their language to such a mind numbing complexity that most rational, you might even say sane, people give up long before reaching the pinnacle of such dizzying and, for all intents and purposes, useless heights), the grunts in the trenches have always been women. Most of the tutors are PhD students so this means that a very advantageous percentage are female and young, taking into account that the PhD’s a drawn from Bachelor degree holders in the same field, and…do I have to remind you that most of those Bachelor degree holders are women.
The winner of course is… ME!
This particular tutor (woe is me, I don’t even recall her name) had a face that, if given enough alcohol, could remind one of a particularly cute piglet *any snickering about bestiality will have to be cut short here*, she wasn’t thin and not particularly stylish, but man could she speak and think and look at the ditsy, fumbling almost-adults around me with eyes that flickered with condescension and hatred (I liked this most of all, if only because it was warranted).
I wanted more than anything to take her out of the class and sit in a room somewhere and let her talk at me. For hours!
We could have experienced a mutual identity crisis.
We could have pretended that I was a lesbian and she a gay man and transgressed both gender and prevalent modes of sexuality. We could have gender fucked and linguistically disrupted for days as far as I am concerned, because, of course, these are the things I like doing best (not really, but for her anything, and this post-modernist funk usually turns them on for some reason, they can’t get off unless they can imagine themselves occupying someone, something, else’s body).
I felt like saying “oh Goddess. Guardian of the Fount of Knowledge, let me drink of it even if in doing so i render myself a male pig, patriarchal fascist, cultural Nazi, dominator of women and addict of desires and urges that no longer have any use other than selling shoes to the repressed fetishists”
I mean, there would be no chance of a blow job, I know that, but I wouldn’t ask her for one and I doubt she would refuse what I would offer. When it comes to going down on a women, a one way street often goes in both directions.
Ok. Now that is far enough. Never meant to go that far with my confessional, but it is innocent, isn’t it? I would never go as far as stalking. I wouldn’t even go as far as asking her for a date. Just another six month infatuation with a women that knows how to use her mouth in all the right ways.
And no, I wasn’t talking about blow jobs.
