When I was
writing my dissertation, Alisa and I had a conversation that seems more
poignant now.
“You know, I’ve
always wondered what I would do, teaching all these young girls. What I’d do if
I was attracted to one of them.”
She turned
to me and smiled. “And what did you conclude?”
“That it is
impossible to find anyone else attractive when I have you.”
It was a
lie, of course. I found those young girls attractive all the time. One time, my
mouth even dropped when one of my students walked in. she was wearing a short
skirt with high-heeled sandals. I don’t know what she was doing wearing that to
class and I didn’t care. At some point I realized that I’d stopped lecturing.
I could say
that later that day, I went home and I had especially vigorous sex with Alisa. Or
that I vowed never to look at another woman, no matter how young, again. But that
isn’t the point. The point is that I respected Alisa. I knew it would hurt her
to know I found other women attractive. So I kept it tightly coiled inside me. That
day, I let it out. But after that, I became more vigilant. Wound that tendency
tighter inside my chest.
Now, as I drive
the fifteen minutes it takes to reach campus, I find myself looking at the
women running around its ring. And walking to their classes from the dorms. It does
little for me, perhaps because I shut that part of me off so well. Or perhaps
because I am mourning my loss. Maybe I just need to give myself some time.
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