I can’t help but feel a twinge of sentiment when I think of the Lecturer. She is a prodigy of sorts in her subject, and around 24 years old. That’s 4 years older than me. She is, well, words fail me. Whenever I think of her, I find myself at a loss of words. I go silent and stutter like an imbecile when anyone mentions the subject that she teaches. I can’t think of her in a lustful way. With her, it is a longing, something that shames me when I think about it. Intimacy disgusts me, it is like a perversion that makes me nauseous if I think about it.
It is funny, considering the fact that I find lust to be acceptable and a pillar of the strength of my character, and the longing for intimacy to be a disgraceful thing. When I think of the lecturer, I find that I am willing to suspend all notions of decency, and yet, I don’t Lust after her. There is something different in her allure, and there is something in her accented English and the way she takes the marker and writes on the white board that makes me feel as if there could be nothing better than sitting and listening to her voice and the clicking of her shoes as she paces in front of the whiteboard.
I am pretty good in her subject, and this has nothing to do with the fact that she is teaching it. It is due to my own proficiency. I couldn’t help but feel a glow of warmth and victory when I received my marks for a test held a few days ago. I topped the class!
She is built like a Goddess, with long hair, smooth skin, and a toned body that is the hallmark of a healthy person. She smells of roses and marigolds and there is something that reminds me of Springtime in the way she walks. It makes my heart ache, my body longs not for her violation (good Lord no), but for preserving her in time, in my mind. I feel like Porphyria’s Lover sometimes and I wonder if I am losing my grip on reality. She isn’t like the Waitress, and neither is she like a porn flick actress. In my mind, she is a work of Art. I feel like I miss her the most when I come back to my empty room at the end of the day. I feel like I miss her when I walk in through the door of my room, and listen to the thick silence of an Eastern European town. I look out of my window and wonder where she is. It is unbearable.
She is sweet, she speaks sweetly, smiles and waves whenever we meet each other in the corridors. I am not a shy virgin when it comes to socializing, reserved and aloof though I may be. Each time I see her outside the confines of the lecture hall I feel liberated, as though I can finally see her unhindered and whole.