Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, my hand was in his for too long, my thumb gently drifting through the whorl of hair.

I stepped in it, moving my fingers to tickle his palm. He let go and wiped his palm on the pocket of his herringbone jacket.

I doubled down. "I didn't know I have cooties."

"It wasn't cooties. It was moisture."

"You reacted like it was cooties."

"We can't hold hands."

"We can. We have been. For weeks."

"We can't. Not anymore."

I left in a feigned huff. As I did, I batted around that he had said "We can't," not "I don't want to." There was a chasm between the two. I was falling through that chasm.

On Monday, he didn't have any scheduled office hours. For about half on hour, I hung around outside his door, shifting from one foot to another, meandering away and then returning to knock and try the knob, to no avail.

On Tuesday, I got my hair cut, used product to style it, shaved my face close, and put on an open collared shirt and jacket. Again, I hung around outside his door, shifting from one foot to another, meandering away and then returning to knock and try the knob. This time, it was not to no avail. At 5:15 p.m., he opened his office door and exited. He had been in there the whole time, ignoring me. I was fast on his heels.

"Professor Masters?"

He tried to keep going, but he knew he couldn't. The corridor was empty; he had to have heard me.

He halted, but didn't turn. So, I put my left hand on his right shoulder and turned him.

"Harold, my goodness, you don't look like you."

Yes, my name is Harold. Yes, it comes from Harold and Maude, a movie my parents love well beyond what it deserves. Yes, I hate it. I console myself by reminding myself "It's better than Bud," referring to the Bud Cort who played Harold.

"I know. I look like you."

"But why?"

"For you."

"Harold," he admonished, my name on his lips imbued with disappointment.

"Would you like to go for a Thanksgiving drink?" I asked.

"Sorry, Harold, but no. I don't go for drinks with my students."

The next time I visited him, there was no outstretched hand, and he was back behind his desk.

When it was time for me to leave, there was again no outstretched hand.

"What gives?" I asked.

"You need a little distance," he answered.

"I don't."

"You do. You are seeing things that are not there. You need some perspective."

He was lying, and it pissed me off. I hadn't been the only one playing whatever game we were playing, yet he was in effect blaming me for all of it. If I needed distance, then so did he. Perhaps that was the whole point.

I didn't visit him again that semester.

Over the winter break, I remembered his story about how my convincing him was me trying to convince myself. And, the memory confirmed to me that his "you need a little distance" was, in fact, "I need a little distance."

I was moving him. I didn't know how or why, but I was moving him.

He was moving me, too. I spent the break in Chicago, visiting family, hanging out with friends, and hooking up. I didn't use Grindr much in Madison, as I didn't want to be known as "that guy" in a smallish town.

In Chicago, I didn't care. I was grinding it out, some nights twice, one right after the other. At first, I searched for Jackson Masters Doppelgängers. That way, it was easier to imagine it was he who was kissing me, licking me, sexing me out and up.

Quickly, I pivoted to Asian and African-American men. I wanted to see how strong my fantasies were, whether I could see the lily white of Jackson Masters in their smoldering dark eyes and skin.

My fantasies were strong. I could see him, especially when I closed my eyes.

Most of the time, I saw him over me. Unless a guy was really big, I liked to take him on my back, my legs spread wide, my surrender complete and utter.

With a couple of them, I saw him under me. When a guy was really big, I liked to straddle him, so I could control the depth and speed. I liked making the horse run. I could ride into oblivion.

Typically, I imagined I was Claire. When I did, I wondered whether she let him take her like I was being taken, whether she rode him like I was riding, whether their sex was as carefree and careless as my sex was.

And, my sex was carefree and careless. I often got lost in it, begging for it to be faster and harder, pleading to be ravaged.

"You're in love with him," Kelly said, during one of the calls we shared over break. "I mean, he's all you talk about. And, now, he's all you fantasize about."

She'd have been more convinced if she know about my cyber-stalking. Using whatever was available to me, I had unearthed as much as I could about Jackson, including the debate mentions from high school, his time in the rowing club at Duke, his law review tenure while he was at Harvard (he was Editor-in-Chief), and his oral arguments while he was at in private practice (courts recorded arguments, and I searched for all of his).

"I am not," I answered. I didn't think I was lying. I thought I might be a little obsessed with him, but not that I was in love with him.