During my junior year in college I became obsessed with my Philosophy Professor.
I think it was his voice that led me to believe he was ten years younger than his actual age (34). It was almost whiny, but in a charming way—the antithesis of deep and booming. His spoke like a motherly mouse or an overly concerned therapist. Sometimes it even cracked. Like a teenager’s.
He was about 5’ 9” and had the body type of a scrawny adolescent who gained enough weight to no longer be scrawny. He was not trim or slender, but simply average: the result of never working out a day in his life (well maybe he jogged occasionally). But generally his physique indicated no conscious alteration to nature’s intention for him to rely on his intellect rather than his (nonexistent) muscles for survival.
His boyish face was handsome enough that on the first day of class I made the objective observation that he was objectively good-looking.
His brown hair was sincerely parted and combed. I wondered what he looked like when he first woke up in the morning. Probably outrageously sexy.
He had precisely two facial expressions (that I bore witness to): thoughtful and concerned. When he listened he looked thoughtful—mouth slightly agape, nodding, eyebrows furrowed. When he spoke he looked worried—that we might misunderstand him, or that maybe he wasn’t making his point as clearly as he could?
I never saw him zoned out, relaxed, angry or sad. The idea of him having sex or even just sleeping thrilled me. It seemed magical and surreal that he existed anywhere outside the classroom as a normal human being. He was like Santa Clause.
Every time we made eye-contact, I had to bite myself to keep from smiling like a crackhead.
I would pay so much cashmoniez just to be able to touch him. My hand would look perfect resting on his narrow chest.