As a literature professor, I knew all about the professor-and-precocious-coed trope. I've read versions of it by Philip Roth and Salman Rushdie and so many others. I also knew that it could be toxic in real life, because of the differences in power and life experience. I never intended to be That Guy. But there's so much else I never expected either.
At age 37, I was in a new city, working at a new college, the only one in the entire country where I could find an open position for a literature professor. I was also coming off a breakup with my ex Laura of seven years. I had a lot of mixed feelings about, but neither of us were seriously considering getting back together. Moving across the country for this position had been the final straw, but it made us both see that an ending was long overdue.
I'm a bit on the short side. I keep up a habit of exercise, but I don't work hard at it. With my well-groomed beard and my tweed jackets, I lean into the image of a college professor, in order to fit in amongst a faculty that's mostly older and more qualified. While I haven't been known to attract all that much attention from women (or anyone really), from a certain angle, in a certain light, I typically pass muster. I've been able to find myself in a relationship when I take the time to seek it out, but it doesn't often find me. And right after Laura, I wasn't inclined to make an effort right away.
As a mostly solitary gent, I took to making the most of campus cultural opportunities, to stay sociable and entertained. One night, I ended up at an art opening. That was where I met her.
I knew I had a type, but I didn't know anyone could be so precisely my type until I saw her. It made my breath stop in my chest. The dark bob of her hair. The thick rims of her glasses. The full cheeks framing the pout of her mouth. The clothes she wore clearly weren't designed for her curvy, slightly pudgy frame, but somehow they made her look good anyway. It's like I had described my dreams to a police sketch artist, and then they'd found the suspect. It was almost uncanny. I had to caution myself that, whoever she was, she had a life of her own that had nothing to do with the inside of my head.
After both of us stared befuddled at a piece of inscrutable modern art, she struck up conversation. I learned that we both came for the wine and snack plate, and both felt out of place. Her name was Geni, which I later learned is spelled that way because it's short for Genevieve. She was studying biology. From her intelligence and maturity and confidence, I assumed she was in the graduate program.
We exchanged numbers, but I thought nothing of it. I was single, but I was not of an age to chase headlong after romantic conquest anymore.
Those days, I spent my nights alone. Sometimes I let myself wallow in the loneliness. I would replay my recollections of sexual escapades of the past, like the times Laura and I tried to get pregnant. When we first decided to go for it, it had been a trill we had forbidden ourselves until then. We never did conceive, but the trying was never the problem between us. The apartment I rented still had stacks of boxes that I hadn't unpacked, ephemera from that relationship. I wasn't yet ready to unpack and go through it all.
Sometimes I would linger on the fleeting flings of my undergrad years. Like the young woman I once had a slightly buzzed encounter with, in the back room at a frat party, and then never saw again. What I recalled of that night was mostly isolated sensory details. The smooth, cool feeling of her hair against my face. The warm, plump skin of her hip where I gripped it. The blissful moment of my release. Her aching gasp in my ear as her body strained towards its own precipice. The breaths we shared as we recovered, before our minds cleared and reality returned. I couldn't recall her name or what we had said to each other to get to that point. I had cautiously asked about her in the days afterward, but no one knew anything.
Even filtered through my fragmented memory and dulled by the years since, the extraordinary intensity of that night loomed larger in my mind than any of the thousands of times Laura and I had sex. I fantasized about recognizing her in the street, striking up a conversation, rekindling what we had that one night. I wondered who she was, and what her life was like today.
One night, Geni interrupted my self-pity and masturbation with a text, just striking up conversation. I had little interest in conversing over text, and suggested we talk in person. The next night, we met at a cafe off campus, where they have live jazz. I thought it would be neutral territory, away from the curiosities of our respective colleagues. We sat in the back, and stayed well after the music finished. We talked about art and music and literature and biology and everything but ourselves. Even so, I learned a lot about her, and found myself charmed and intrigued at every turn. Something about her made her so easy to get to know.
As I made my way home late that night, my face was sore from smiling and laughing so much. Geni didn't naturally smile or laugh as easily, so it felt like a victory when she did. I was giddily dancing on my feet, but I still told myself that it was just a friendship. In her world, I might be one of many, and there were plenty of friendships I cultivated without any ulterior motives. Yet part of me felt a magnetic pull towards her, a physical comfort with being close to her, that I couldn't entirely explain away. I wished I had kissed her, but I also didn't want to get ahead of myself.
I couldn't resist inviting her to a movie--a special screening of a silent film with live accompaniment--and we decided to have dinner together beforehand. We didn't call it date. But even just sitting next to her in the dark felt electric. It was hard not to firm up in my pants every time our arms brushed on the armrest, and I was starting to think she welcomed that contact too.
We talked more afterwards, I learned that she was an undergrad, only 18 years old. I was astonished, and conflicted. It did put me off a bit, but I still felt that instant connection to her. It didn't change who she was, and it was all the more impressive that she was so mature at her age.
There came a moment where our paths home would part, and I could tell she was waiting for me to kiss her. I sighed, and said I shouldn't, not for lack of wanting. That it wouldn't be right for a professor and a student. She declared that, as a biology major, she didn't have to take my class, and could promise she never would. I hesitated, but held my ground, and she said goodnight with a smirk. Even so, I was sad to see her walk away. I thought talking myself out of it would make me want her less, but quite the opposite.
I worried that my rejection of her had ruined everything. So it was with mixed relief that I saw her text a few nights later, inviting me over. It was bold of her to extend the invitation, and I assumed she wouldn't take that chance more than once. Refuse her now, and I might not get to see her again. I found that surprisingly hard to accept.
I told myself I'd go see her, but maybe we could get back on friendly terms from now on. Yet my mind kept returning to the electric feeling of her touch. I kept imagining that moment when she leaned up for me to kiss her, and wondering how it would have felt if it played out the other way. Her interest in me was inexplicable, probably a fad that would pass soon enough. Part of me wondered what harm there would be in entertaining it while I could.
Judging by the address, she living in a cheap off-campus studio apartment. That was good, because I didn't want to be seen with her by other undergrads, potentially undergrads in my class. They could get the wrong idea.
Her apartment was strung up with Christmas lights in an orange and purple Halloween pattern. The walls were decorated with things she was passionate about, her favorite movies, books, works of art, biological charts, the periodic table. Sure, superficially it was the decor of a broke college student, but to be in that room was to know her completely. I took it all in.
She supplied the wine that night, and the Chinese carry-out. How an 18 year old got wine was none of my business, the important thing was that I wasn't involved. It was hardly romantic, but that placated the part of me that didn't want it to be.
