Don't Get Me Wrong

TNG reader Lance submitted this piece.

I wanted to kiss him the first time I saw him. Actually, not the first time; it was a few seconds after that. The first time I saw him I was slightly disappointed because he had gotten such good ratings on Rate My Professors. I had expected him to be like Brad Pitt—you know, older hot. And he is definitely older hot, not old hot, like George Clooney; if you dated George you’d have to figure you only have a few more good years with him. Hips don’t lie. But he was older hot, like a couple years past Jude Law but still in his prime. I walked in that first day and he smiled at me. His teeth were perfect, white and straight. I figured he was, too, but that didn’t matter to me. I just wanted to kiss him.

Older men can be socially taboo regardless of whether or not they are professors. I have a friend who is dating a guy who’s 38 and she didn’t tell her parents until a year later. She told them he was 30 and they thought that was old. I think after you get to 21—or a graceful level of maturity—whichever comes first, you are both pretty much on the same playing field. Unless it’s some creeper in a midlife crisis, then you could have a problem.

But hot professors, they have to be different, because they have students flirting with them all the time. It must get kind of routine. It’s like being a hot bartender. If you’re a hot bartender though, you have to make a choice: slutty or classy (although I dated a bartender once who was a third type—crazy).

It’s hard for me to meet gay guys as it is. Many gay men are closeted or only questioning their sexuality so you have to dance around the major issues and ask them questions like "Where do you get your haircut?" or "Do you like that new song by Leona Lewis?" Even then it’s hard to be completely sure. I had a friend who hooked up with a "questioning" guy once and after they were done, he punched my friend in the face. That’s the nice thing about professors; you never have to worry about the threat of physical violence.

I didn’t want to be just another of his admirers though. To that end I would answer questions in class, but only when I had something profound to say. At least my version of profound, which meant if he didn’t respond, I would have to beat myself up for the next 7 minutes because I thought it was. Then I had the dilemma of whether or not to speak again, because I might be able to redeem myself or I could dig my hole deeper. In the latter case, I would have to hide in that hole like a meerkat, just not all dirty. Most times though, he would laugh. In the way that he got my sense of humor and intelligence. I always liked that, and I wanted to text him and say "I’m smiling on the inside." But I don’t have his number, and he’d probably reply, "Who is this?"

One day I was on the way to my car and I saw him. He was sitting in his car, just staring ahead. I thought about walking by. I wanted to walk by and have him notice me. Maybe he would wave and I would smile. I decided I would go say, "Hi." I had had enough conversations with him in my head. If all else failed I would stare at him and give him the "I heart you" eyes. Not the "I love you" eyes. Those could wait.

I walked towards his car. It was slightly dirty from the salt on the roads. The back window was almost completely covered and I thought about writing, "I’m dirty" on it, but then I realized that might come off wrong. I knocked on his window and it took him a moment to recognize who I was; then he smiled and rolled it down.

"Hey," I said.

"Hi, how are you?"

"I’m good, just got done with class. And you?"

"Oh, I just got here. I was listening to my radio."

I didn’t have anything to say at that point and I realized none of the conversations I had in my head started this way. I didn’t want to talk about class either. I would feel like a groupie. If he was Brad Pitt, I was just that guy who worked on the lights. And now I see Brad at the Kraft Services table on set and all I could talk about was the movie. Brad didn’t want to talk about the movie. That’s all anyone can talk about with him. They didn’t want to get into his personal life and they didn’t have a clue who he really is, so they talk about the movie, and then he says, "Well I have to go work on my lines."

I was desperate.

"Can I join you?"

He looked at me kind of funny. Clearly he knew his lines.

"Sure."

I sat down in the passenger’s seat. It was comfortable in that surprisingly pleasing way. I wish that hadn’t been the case. It made me feel uneasy, like blowing your nose with one of those brown paper towels in the public restroom; it just didn’t feel right. I wanted to ask him one question after the other but I let him talk. He said he thought I was doing well in class. That I had impressed him with my project. I was glad that was the case because I had ditched all my friends just to spend the entire weekend working on it. I told him how I thought of professors as call girls. They have to teach anyone for a price. All of their acquired knowledge has to be turned over, day in and day out. Maybe they like doing it, but it is still theirs, and it is still kind of sacred and often goes unrewarded. I told him I would like it if professors could teach students how to love. Then they wouldn’t have to feel like prostitutes. He said he knew what I meant.

"Do you think you’ll ever get another job?" I asked.

"Maybe someday," he said. "I need the money right now though. I’m not sure what else I would do. What about you? What are your plans for the future?"

"I have a few things in mind. I guess I’m just waiting for the right thing to come along. You know?"

"I do."

"So do you have a girlfriend?" I asked.

"No, I don’t… Oh hold on, I want to turn this up. I love this Leona Lewis song."

I’m not sure what happened next. I was lost listening to the lyrics of Bleeding Love and melted into my seat as I watched the fireworks going off in my head. I did, for a second though, feel like Thelma and Louise in that car. Only if they were both men and gay, or at least questioning. I think Brad Pitt was in that.