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do you think I am? A pervert? Jesus, give me a fucking break!”
    â€œHow’s this year’s crop?” he asks again.
    â€œOh my god!” I gasp. “Amazing! Every single class I have a few 10s! Seriously. Could be the best semester ever!”
    Oh well, so much for holding the moral high ground.
    Thank God, what I share with the Roommate stays with the Roommate. I pride myself on keeping my relationships with my female students professional, exemplary, free of any sexual innuendoes or potentially uncomfortable interactions that could lead to any sense of inappropriateness. I do an excellent job confining my saliva to my mouth, keeping my eyes focused on their eyes, not letting my mind wander, when I’m in the classroom, to forbidden places. In the rare (very rare) cases that students flirt with me I am pretty good at shutting it down immediately with a minimal degree of awkwardness.
    I know and value my role. I know my place. I am aware of the power dynamics, the position I hold, and the responsibilities it entails. I’d be a fool to screw that up.
    Of course, none of that negates the fact that it truly is a joy and a wonder to be a daily witness to such beauty.
    And this semester I certainly had the beauties.
    Jesse can’t get enough of it. Working in the IT department at the Medical Center, most of his day is spent hunched over desks looking at computer screens, dealing with technological fuckups. Make no mistake, he certainly has his share of doctors and nurses to lust after, but he’s got nothing like I have.
    Every semester he insists on making a “visit” to my classes to check out the particular hotties that I have described in considerable detail to him. He’s good about camouflaging his ogling leers and looking just generally goofy as he strolls in at the end of lecture and fades into a corner, slyly surveying the scene.
    His presence in the classroom for the above reasons is so wrong. Just plain wrong. No ifs, ands or buts about it. And so politically incorrect. I would never, ever, dream of doing something like this with a colleague. And if the dean found out? Christ!
    But the fact is, appropriate or not, having him come in gives me an outlet to talk about the women in class with someone. Otherwise I’d lose it.
    â€œWho’s the beauty in the front row?” he asked after his scouting mission to my Introduction to Climate Change class.
    â€œLeft or right?”
    â€œLeft. Blond pigtails. Freckly. Late twenties. Scarf. Weird hat.”
    â€œYeah,” I sighed. “Phewwww … oh my. She’s a looker. And so totally into The Issue. She’s the one who teaches middle-school science in Glenfield. God, so age-appropriate.”
    â€œThey’re all age-appropriate, for Christ sake. Every single one of them. Jesus, I don’t know how you can stand it. I’d have to masturbate before every class, otherwise I’dhave a continual hard-on. I wouldn’t be able to stand up in front of them. I’d have to sit with a jacket on my lap.”
    â€œNice,” I said. “Very nice. There’s an image I can live without.”
    â€œSeriously. How do you do it? How old is she again?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe teacher.”
    â€œTwenty-nine.”
    â€œTwenty-nine? God, that’s perfect. The total prime of womanhood. Old enough to be confident, self-assured, experienced. Young enough to still glow. Is she married?”
    â€œStop it! How am I supposed to know?”
    â€œYou know she’s twenty-nine, you know she’s a teacher, you know she’s hot. Wait, she’s not even a real student, is she?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s a teacher. She’s got her degree. She’s there for some professional development deal or whatever. Right?”
    â€œAnd your point is?”
    â€œDude, you can ask her out!”
    â€œWhat? Are you serious?”
    â€œTotally. I