He gets back in the silver sedan, carrying away my whole sense of self. I think about going home, and instead have another beer at the cafe before closing time. I turn to go home, stop at the bodega for another beer, and walk past my house to sit by the river. I am still but quake within as the adrenaline turns to anger. I start to shake. I circle the peninsula of my neighborhood, another beer for every lap, until the sense of his leeching lips recedes; leeches having sucked out my strength. I imagine how his heart must have leapt and his wrinkled dick tingled reading my invitation for a date.
This is how I ended up on a date with my professor. This is how I end up the cliché impressed on too many collegiate women.
These stories are often met with casual responses about how both people are adults thus nothing bad transpired. Our social narrative that professors and students often end up in romantic entanglement is dangerous. The danger emerges because one of the people is an expert, that person has professional gravitas and can assess the intelligence of the student.
In my story it was in that moment that my view of myself as an intelligent person with valuable ideas was jeopardized by the notion that maybe it was just my perky breasts and big smile that had garnered the professor’s attention. I was left feeling dumb, naïve, and unprepared for the world, the opposite of what a teacher ought to inspire in his students.
(here is the conclusion, I will share the whole when/if it gets published)