I develop "crushes" on people of a purely intellectual nature. I have no desire to sleep with these people, but I become consumed by the frantic urge to know them, to befriend them, to find out what makes them tick. People are my addiction, and when I stumble across someone worthy, I binge to the point of overdose. From the other point of view it must be kind of creepy. In fact, I've been told that I'm creepy. That's okay with me. You don't have to fall in love with me. You just have to let me in, let me poke around for a while. It doesn't hurt, I promise.
I developed one of these crushes on a college professor once. I had him for Social Philosophy and I thought he was just the bees' knees. So after I'd earned an A in his class, I asked him if we could get drinks and I could pick his brain for a while. I think I told him I was thinking of being a Philosophy major. My boyfriend at the time was in the class with me, and as we were both good students and cool people, Professor obliged. I think my exact request was something like "we think you're cool, and we wanna hang out outside of class. Will you go on a date with us?" See, I am creepy.
It was incredibly exciting sitting and bullshitting with him. His "professionalism" kind of melted away and he became this metal rocker who only shaved because capitalist society dictated social norms and hierarchy based on appearance... or something. He introduced me to IPA. He reached across the table to light my cigarette. More than ever, I was smitten. We hung out a few times, always at the same cute restaurant. He said he invited me out for good conversation, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was anything besides vapidly idiotic.
I went to his house once after drinks once. It was a creaky old bungalow in a cute historic area of Tampa. The hardwood floors moaned with my every step, his couch cradled me as I lounged in the heat. His air conditioning was broken, and the open windows offered a modest breeze that only served to fill the living room with waves of humidity. I remember how my cheeks felt flushed.
Over a bottle of wine and many more cigarettes, we talked about music, argued whether or not punk was dead and compared venues and bands we'd been to and seen. I noticed that night how his smile curled up and then over when he is genuinely amused. His hair fell in messy disarray, such a stark contrast to his slicked back appearance in the classroom. Our conversation was easy, ebbing and flowing gently through stories about teachers, students, family, lovers. I was desperate to know everything about him in a few hours, I demanded to know his opinion on anything from The Food Network to Marx to the New York Dolls. He obliged, and I devoured all of it, drunk not on wine, but words.
He got up from the couch a few times to turn the TV off or get us glasses of water, and when I watched him weave around boxes of books and stacks of ungraded papers, I found myself wondering what it would be like to be naked with him, moving to the bass line of some obscure metal band we both saw months ago at the Brass Mug. He caught me in my reverie and I blushed fiercely. I hoped he attributed it to the sweltering Florida summer or the alcohol, anything but my ridiculous (and looking back, obvious) school girl crush. Of course, part of me, a very deep down secret part, wanted him to notice and pounce on me, our bodies tangled and sticking to the leather couch. But Professor was a gentleman and I was undoubtedly, severely awkward, so nothing of the kind happened.
I learned about his family, his upbringing and his love affair with academia. I asked questions that made him wince, but he answered with eloquent candor. I toyed with his real sense of humor, something I'd only seen glimpses of before. I saw him as a real person, not just Professor, but a man with strong ideals and wide-ranging opinions, a passionate man with confidence and charisma. He was hopeful, but jaded at the same time. I relived some of his heartbreaks as he retold them, and seeing both the smug playful Professor along with the bitter broken Professor was what sealed the deal. I saw honesty and balance and misguided ambition that made no apology for itself. I could have loved this man forever.
We met for drinks and good conversation a few more times before he moved out of state to teach elsewhere. We kept in touch through Facebook "likes" and links and casual posts, but it was nothing like we had before.
Last weekend he was in town for a conference, so we exchanged numbers on Facebook (I still had his, and I can't decide if that's endearing or pathetic) and planned to catch up. I was ecstatic. I sent one text message which garnered no response and fell into tragic self-loathing. I cursed myself for wanting to see him again so badly. I hated that being ignored perturbed me so deeply. I felt that our short but intense friendship demanded respect and a nostalgic drink for old time's sake. I listed to Clapton's "Layla" on repeat for the better part of an hour. The unplugged version. Yes, it was that bad.
Fiancé tried to console me, urging me to call him and when I refused, he made logical excuses that the conference ran late or Professor was catching up with colleagues. I pouted, made plans with other friends and got over it.
But I can imagine my 45 minute drive to St. Pete, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety. I can picture walking into a strange bar, sipping on a beer, making awkward small talk because it's been three (or maybe four) years now and it's hard to just jump back into things sometimes. I would have had fun, but I also would have resented that we weren't sitting on his couch in the summer heat, drinking wine and making sweet intellectual love for hours. I would have driven 45 minutes back home, only to cry on Fiancé's shoulder about how Professor was different and I am different and everything is different and now it's all tainted and I'm stupid for thinking anything could be as perfect as that one night a few years ago when I was innocent and curious and a man I fell for pretty hard didn't take advantage of that.
I'm glad now that I didn't go. Trying to chase something that once was might have also shown me what it really wasn't, and what it will never be. I am still irked that I got blown off, but this way I can keep some fond memories of a guy I thought the world of safely intact.
This way I can love him forever.
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