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The professor lives in a rented room where, when he’s not translating obscure Hegelian passages, he surfs websites for cheap DVDs that can be delivered in plain brown wrappers. Intermittent among errant pages of his dissertation are Girls Gone Wild, Volumes One through ad infinitum. Philosophy and sex are the two driving forces in his life and, he would argue, the entwining roots of any great historicalmovement. Case in point, take any war for instance, or the Age of Enlightenment. Who can deny or refute that the seminal cause of either is the respective enslavement (war) or freedom (invention) of sexuality and thought. And for this reason, he considers himself a total man, a manly man, who approaches life with both vigorous intellect and a staunch appetite for sex, with or without a partner.
The woman in the second row seems interested. He knows the signs – the unblinking stare, the subtle nod for him to continue. To test the waters, he walks to the window. If her eyes are still on him, there may be a budding opportunity to both explain Phenomenology and slap her rear, make her moan.
It is the beauty of his job – friendly banter with colleagues on the meaning of life during the day, sexual excursions in the evening hours with female students who want a story to tell when they
return home for the holidays – a story, he is fairly certain, about a smoldering philosopher who rocks their world.
He turns, and yes, the young woman remains intrigued. Her note-taking has suddenly stopped and no matter where he steps, her eyes follow. He assesses.
She is not unattractive, although he prefers blondes, ones with cantaloupe breasts that pull at buttons and have trouble being contained; breasts that stay full and perky no matter what position she’s in, breasts that respond to his every tweak and nibble. Unfortunately, however, this woman is seated, and of course, clothed. What lurks beneath the sweatshirt remains a mystery, but then mysteries are meant to be probed, savored, solved, and he is always up for the challenge. That is not to say there isn’t a recurrent snag, a complication of ethics, specifically whether her charms can be averaged into her grade as extra credit. In the past, this has been an issue and he’s felt rather used. So he plays by two explicit rules that must be mutually agreed upon before any bodily fluids are exchanged – neither party can be disparaging of a person’s belief or weight. Everything else, including getting a D for the course, is fair game.
He doesn’t know her name and would prefer not to, never to. There’s something about anonymity that excites him, like in the videos. Few words are exchanged, some vulnerability is shown, and magically clothes come off. The move. He’s tried many but finds one particularly successful assuming she lingers at the end of class and fumbles with her notebook. How coy some girls can be, and how so very predictable. The chase is such a curious blend of feigned advance and retreat, a dance, a cha cha cha. His motor is running.