The Professor

The professor sat with his long legs crossed, reading Kant in vintage glasses. He sipped iced espresso drinks at the local intellectual café, a spot that came complete with black-haired baristas, flora-shaped milk foam on the tops of lattes, and NPR as white noise. The professor and I knew each other; we occasionally talked about books over a cigarette. I imagined him bending me over while reading a book on Russian politics or Greek philosophy. I wanted him to whisper in French as we fucked. I wanted to be a cliché. 

The professor hit on me only hours after I decided cocaine would be a permanent staple in my summer vacation from college. In the fall and spring semesters, I was a perfectly caricatured academic. When school ended in May, I decided to become a stripper. I spent the summer maintaining an impressively high blood-alcohol level, and danced my way into a hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit that left me chemically lustful, not to mention broke.

When the professor spotted me feverishly writing and smoking outside the café, he touched my shoulder and assured me that drug use was healthy for any inquisitive youngster. High as a kite, I proceeded to explain my life in exaggerated detail, starting with my birth. He suggested I continue my rant with him over pickled eggs, more lines, and beer. We migrated to a pub and then on to his makeshift living space — a warehouse brimming with antiques and mid-century furniture. 

When our stash turned to dust at the bottom of the plastic baggie, we turned it inside-out and gummed the rest. “Je veux faire des galipettes avec toi,” he whispered as he pushed me to the floor and started pulling off my clothes. (Literal translation: “I want to make of the cavorting with thee.”)   

As an aside, sex on coke is overrated. We humped erratically for a while. Then, exhausted and unable to get off, the professor excused himself to the toilet where he mistakenly opened the door to the warehouse basement. He toppled down the narrow staircase, breaking his toe in the process. It wasn't the finale I'd hoped for.        

Every so often when I’m in town I come across my beloved professor holding a teacup of espresso. With first edition Sartre and Nietzsche tossed about on bookshelves, he still bends me over and whispers, “Je t’aime,” before we, uh, cavort. — Jenny Heineman

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