Someone Special

I wrote this a few years ago about one of my favourite men. A mentor of mine who changed the course of my life. He saw me, as a lost little bunny in his ‘Society: Challenge and Change’ class, and he got through to me. My whole career was shaped by the lessons I learned in his classroom. I adored him. I found out a few days ago that he passed away. I have nothing but good memories of him, I can hear his voice if I close my eyes and picture him standing at the blackboard teaching us Family Systems Theory with stick figure representations of his dysfunctional family and normalizing things I didn’t have words for yet. The words came, thanks to him.

I remember being 16 and learning feminist theory in his class, now that’s a way to fall for a teacher. He taught Gender Studies and Intersectional Feminism, he opened my mind to everything I believe in, he helped build my world view. It was much more than a school-girl crush, he was a mentor, his lessons shaped my life. We kept in touch after I graduated. I worked in a field relevant to his classwork and he would have me in as a guest speaker every Spring. After class we would talk in the teachers parking lot, he would smoke and sprinkle our conversations with his sarcastic brand of wisdom and tastefully casual comments about how beautiful I was.

He was old. And big. And rough. And I wanted to fuck him senseless. He would never believe it, I could tell. He thought of himself as too old and clumsy. He would chastise himself for even letting the thought cross his mind. He was too principled, too conscientious. Later, I would think about seducing him with my hands between my legs, I would imagine his surprise, his shame, his disbelief. I’d imagine taking his shaking hands in mine, reassuring him while I was on my knees and smiling.

Sometimes I thought about it being reciprocated, him welcoming my passion and returning it with force. But usually I thought about him turning me down, embarrassed and pulling away, unable to meet my gaze as he insists I stop. Imagining his rejection made me wetter than imagining him under me.

He emailed me a few days ago to say he’d accepted a job offer across the country. When I asked if he would meet me for lunch today he replied simply “It’s a date.” I wore pigtails and a cute floral dress, lipstick the same shade as a cherry snow-cone in the summer. He didn’t stand a chance.

As I sat across from him and tried my best to give all of the right signals it occurred to me that the only way to ruin this would be to go through with it. If I sat on my hands and enjoyed this goodbye I could happily masturbate to my flustered-rejection fantasies for all of eternity. The ones where he takes my wandering hands into his and tells me sincerely he could never take advantage of me like that, the ones where I smile slyly and my dimple wins him over, the ones where he pats my head and says I’m too pretty, the ones where he cries and I hold him.

If I invited him back to my place they would be replaced by the reality of him saying no awkwardly in the coffee shop, or worse a creepily enthusiastic yes.

So I told him about my latest career moves and accepted his praise gracefully. I asked all about his new city and new plans. I smiled warmly when I asked him to keep in touch. He promised. I didn’t hug him for too long when we said goodbye. Somethings are better left to the imagination.