He was my teacher (a gay professor) the day he sat listening to me think out loud and I swear I didn't mean to hit him over the head with me (because I'm not a tease or a flirt or a "can I play with your husband" type because I'm generally very thoughtful and sensitive toward others) but I think something in me called to something in him because his face began to get all red and he started to run and hide behind furniture when he'd see me coming and he would look so startled when he saw me like someone had just screamed "fire!" and his face would fill with blood and he would press his lips together like he just wanted to run away and leave the country at the same time as he wanted to just to grab me and throw me to the floor and fuck me like I was the man he always wanted which I'm not and wouldn't you know my worst fear in life is coming off like I'm a man because I'm not and I reminded him of that hoping that would ease the fire in his pants but somehow it just made it worse because he started to get all frustrated and hyper and began snapping at me like a heterosexual turtle whose wife had just scorned him and then he would come into class in a new shirt and tie (oh la la) wearing a silver band on his wedding finger like that was supposed to do something to attract or repel me when all i wanted to do was to have him hear my ideas and see me as the woman I am like I was someone in my own right and I did not exist to trouble his gay identity and didn't he all ready know that these categories are fluid things anyway (good god he claimed to have read [and understood] Foucault) so you'd think this wouldn't have hit him as something that he alone had just discovered that sexual categories are "suspect" and that he should have been able to find his way through this kind of thing without me having to provide the freakin' commas and the semi colons like it was up to me to write the narrative and make meaning of all this when it isn't even my problem because I'm not the gay man who is on fire for a woman I'm just me and I go either way because it's not like it's a cock I'm looking to lie next to on the coldest night of winter but wouldn't you know here I sit here waiting for winter to bring it on (the snow and ice I mean) and all I can think of is this one gay man and the effort it took for him to push the fire in him down and it pisses me off that I can't lose thought of him even though it's been six years and all I wanna do is leave the country or throw him to the ground and fuck him like he's the woman I always dreamed of and suddenly I can't live without him and the memories of him getting all red in the face are so hard to shake and wouldn't you know the last time I saw him I had to run and hide behind furniture because I felt so raw and naked like he could see through me which of course he can't but I still hate him for doing this to me and interrupting what I had to say to him that day by making me think that he thought I was the fucking orange sun at the centre of the universe which of course forced me to tell him that he was a pink sky and now all my firends think I'm in love with a gay man just because I can't have him and that's not even in my nature to want what I can't have because I'm so the opposite of that and so I can just imagine how he feels having the scholarship and the male mate to prove it qualitatively on paper that he's gay cause that's what social scientists do when they strive for reliability and validity in their research so that oversights in data can be minimized and objectivity can be assured and so that nobody else can come along and throw a wrench into the entire research project because that would make it more like art or something like that but it wouldn't be scientific and it wouldn't be the kind of thing that would make a man look like a real man (or something like that)
The End.
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