“You sure you don’t want any help with the midterms?”
“No, it’s cool. Though, you should make sure to have your office hours packed next week with disgruntled students, looking for a bump before finals.”
“I don’t have much going on. I can definitely grade some now.”
I see my bus barreling down the hill, making its way to my stop, another complete mismatch for me. I love cars, fast ones, but in this stupid city I’ve come to like quite a bit, they don’t make sense. All the stopping and starting, the hills, the parallel parking, and door and fender dings that come with it. So I take the bus to and from work, and keep my car in the garage.
“What’s going on, Tim? What’s your deal with wanting to help me on these midterms?”
“Um, there’s a student, Missy Peters?”
He states a fact I already know, his voice rising in question, and I decide to put the dude out of his misery.
“Listen, Tim, I was a grad student once too. And while it’s a real dick charger to be on the receiving end of attention from a pretty undergrad, you’re her teacher. Go home, take a cold shower, and tell Missy you’ll see her when the semester’s over.”
What I didn’t add?You’ll know then for sure if she really wants you or your influence over her grade.
“Okay, well, thanks for the—”
“Advice. ’Bye, Tim.”
I end the call to prevent him any further embarrassment and climb on the bus.
With a lonely night ahead of me, I hike my messenger bag higher on my shoulder, standing on the bus as I contemplate dinner. I had a big lunch with my department chair, and I’m not starving, so I decide to write a post about grooming on the blog. My mind rifles through which products recently came in, and I settle on a new chafing cream.
Smiling, I think it’ll be fun. I’ll take a pic of me wearing my running gear, and then use a photo editor to scribble arrows on the picture, indicating where to apply the cream. I know I have quite a few female readers who send the posts to their men. That’s fine ... if they like what they see, they’ll be sure to share with their dudes. That’s what the companies who pay me certainly hope for.
After my run, I snap some photos for the blog and sit at my dining room, finishing up the post. Later, over a beer, I grade midterms and contemplate doing something else. Something very, very bad.
It’s a bad idea. Wrong, but I can’t resist.
I click the contact form and start spewing questions and compliments, pretending she’ll never see any of them among the hate mail. I can’t imagine she doesn’t get a ton of brash insults. Or maybe it’s a he, and I’ll look even more like a fool, but I can’t seem to halt my fingers. They’re typing like a scorned woman with an audience.
There’s something about those little girls on Halloween—and their mom—that forces me to want more out of life. Tenure, a wife, a family, the blog. The only way to have it all is to go a new direction with the blog. Take what’s all me and make it about someone else.
I’m sad about folding it up into some anonymous bundle or conglomerate, but fuck it. Sometimes life sucks.
Sure, I could have meaningless sex with any number of women.
I’m hot, I get it.
The sexy professor, especially when I snap on my glasses.
I’m built, I know that too.
I’m smart and make money. I have old money.
Check, check, check.
But I’m fucking alone, and I don’t want that for myself.
Not at all.
I fall asleep, my face planted on my dining room table, my beer empty, drool lining the wood underneath my mouth, and my love professed to the UnAffectionate Blogger. I can’t put my finger—or dick—quite on it, but that site turns me on. It’s well done, and although it’s mysterious, it’s funny and genuine.
Obviously, I need to get out more. Overtired and bored, I’m falling for a website, and I don’t mean a porn site.
Today, I need to attend the fall assembly at Gabby’s school. I’m pretty sure it used to be called the Thanksgiving show, back when they put it on just before the actual holiday. But we can’t celebrate anything in public school anymore. It’s ridiculous ... this is America and it’s Thanksgiving. For God’s sake, I’m half Jewish by birth, and I don’t even mind Christmas music.
