It is Thursday morning, he asks if I'm able to meet in person and of course I hesitate, it is a pandemic after all and being remote has been a saving grace. I reluctantly agree because I've been eager to meet him in person, eager to discover his height amongst other things I cannot denote from our video chats. He tells me if we're able to meet we could go over some of my writing and research. So, I make an appointment with him for 1pm Friday, the next day, and he emails me his office hours and the address. When I knock on the door I am vibrating with anticipation -- I have hardly been around anyone in the last two years, much less close proximity with a relative stranger. He opens the door, smiling, wearing some soviet era fur cap and a muted green jumpsuit of sorts held closed at the waist by a brown leather utility belt. Does he know of my affinity for turn-of-the-century revolutionaries? Likely not, but I'm enthralled by his appearance all the same.
Why must I always bow to my sapiosexual tendencies? Becoming weak at the witnessing of knowledge displayed in another. Perhaps I could be one of those energy vampires you hear about? All the same, I enter his office feeling particularly tense, every fiber of my being sitting on edge. I take a seat and the hair on my arm immediately notices the ever so slight change in wind direction as he passes to seat himself around the desk -- for a moment his scent fills my nostrils but quickly dissipates. His smell is like the earth or some deep musk that reeks of guilt. My guilt. Guilt at my perpetually Freudian, "hot for teacher," daddy issues, full ham -- antics. Get a grip girl! Grow up. He asks me a question, but I don't hear because my thoughts are at full volume, screaming, "JUST FUCK ME!"
I know this is fantastical because I cannot fathom a liaison that would permit this transmutation from potential to kinetic energy but somewhere in this chaos of sexual tension, something happens. We begin talking about life, and experience -- much in the vein of our usually academic chatter -- we have a few laughs together, we have more than a few awkward moments and that's when it occurs. He leans over the desk, toward me. At first, I'm wondering what we're looking at or if there's something on my face or something -- and that's when it happens -- a large palm moves past me and I feel long deft fingers slowly clutching the back of my scalp -- fingertips firmly moving across my hairline; he clenches down, and I turn my head back instinctively as he nuzzles into my neck. I feel his hairy face scratch against my cheek, ever so slightly, until just as suddenly, he pulls back. It is a whirlwind -- he slams my head to the desk; but must bypass it to get to me. He speaks for the first time in a long while, "Don't move."
-- I wouldn't dare.
