(This is a continuation of the first part of this story. It's imperative to read from the beginning.)
After this event, I didn’t see him for two weeks, until the start of the third semester.
During this time, I tried to get back down to Earth. My mom was right. Whatever was going on was extremely inappropriate. What sort of husband deliberately targeted and flirted with a student? That he’d only been my prof the second semester and wouldn’t be teaching me anymore didn’t matter in the big picture.
My new class schedule synchronised my lunch breaks with his on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Nothing I could do about that. But I wouldn’t begin a conversation. I wouldn’t make eye-contact. Unless he talked to me first, I’d ignore him.
Life found those terms acceptable.
One week into the semester, my mom forgot her phone in the car. It was almost 6pm and I wanted to pick up a package from the packstation anyway (where the post delivery man stores deliveries for you if you weren’t home to receive it). Said station is on the other side of the main uni building which is also His office building.
I retrieved mom’s phone and went to the packstation. To get access to your locker, you need to scan a QR code.
But I had no internet signal.
Annoyed, I walked into the main building to connect to the university WiFi.
The site still didn’t load.
“The hell?”
At a loss, I exited the building from the other side away from the station and hung around the front doors, staring at my phone.
Nothing loaded.
I heard the door open behind me.
Of course it was Him. We were both stunned to see each other, but he managed a ‘Hello’ and brushed past me. He walked to where I knew he parked his bike and I looked after him until he turned the corner.
I looked back at my phone.
The site had loaded.
“Finally.”
Instead of walking back through the building, I chose to walk around it, hoping for a final glimpse of Him cycling down the street.
I got a glimpse alright, except he wasn’t cycling along the street, but made a turn to cycle across the small courtyard. The courtyard I’d planned to walk across.
I quickly turned to the left.
“Shit.” Initiate Plan B. There’s a hidden, downtrodden path to the left of the building behind the main one. If I wanted to avoid the awkwardness of meeting him in the middle of the courtyard, I had to use that path, so I did.
I’d barely stepped onto the uneven sandy ground when he cycled past me, teasing, “Well well, you’re taking this path, too?”
His tone pissed me off. I didn’t like the insinuation that I’d planned for him to follow. I couldn’t bite my tongue and elongated my “Yes” into sounding like a warning.
He picked up on it.
He slowed down to let me catch up anyway.
I countered, “You’re getting off work pretty late.” It was almost 6:30pm.
He just replied something evasive I don’t remember.
Before I knew it, we were conversing. Alone. For the first time ever. Making our way down the street. I wondered if I he’d follow if I told him about my parcel, but ultimately decided against it. I was too interested in talking with him and the situation felt strangely delicate, like he’d flee at the first sign of disruption.
We talked about Chemistry, the current goings-on in the department, their plans with PC 1, and other work-related things. All in all, we talked for good 30 minutes.
I marvelled at how. . . easy this felt.
I’d never conversed with a man one-on-one like this before.
I realised I wasn’t scared of him.
Like.
At all.
But I also noticed his flightiness. And that he let me walk on the more perilous side of the sidewalk right next to the street.
Eventually, we parted. He chomped down on the apple he’d been holding all this time and rushed off.
I walked back, finally got my parcel, and arrived home half past seven. My mom wanted to know where the hell I’d been and I told her what had happened.
She barely commented.
Years later, I asked her how she’d experienced this whole situation. She admitted she’d been worried, but hoped a married man would have enough sense not to ruin a young woman’s life. But had it been “real love” and “meant to be”, she would’ve accepted me marrying a much older man.
Another week passed.
That Wednesday we had a downpour. The weather was getting colder and colder, and I’d dusted off my winter clothes. I ran into the cafeteria, later than usual. The entry area is a little above ground level, with menu screens attached to the ceiling and stairs leading down to the self-serving stations, check-outs and eating area.
I was drenched, taking off my scarf and catching my breath. I was scanning the screens when I noticed Him and his group at their table. He had his head turned in my direction and stood, the rest following suit and leaving for the exit. He remained standing though. Not moving a muscle. Just staring for a solid minute. I didn’t move either, pretending to be reading the menu. Then he left.
I looked behind me. No one else was there and no one else had entered since I arrived. If not at me, he’d been staring at a ghost.
Safe to say, I was beginning to feel like a million bucks.
Had I really caught his attention? Why? Was he that sexually frustrated? Because a married man isn’t supposed to behave like that, especially not for months and weeks on end. He knew nothing about me, so I knew it had to be lust. I wasn’t naive enough to assume anything else.
But I also couldn’t stay away.
That Monday, I initiated.
In the lab classes, we had to do partnered homework (like writing protocols), so I suggested to meet on the first floor of the office building under the pretence that no one else ever sits at the lone desk there.
Of course, I only chose the first floor because that’s where He had his office. And I knew he’d see us on his way to the staircase when he went to the lecture building a few meters away.
And that’s exactly what happened.
Five minutes before his next lecture, I heard a door open and knew it was him.
With all the smug casualty I could muster, I turned my head to the right. He was just rounding the corner, expecting no surprises, when he saw me sitting there. He did a double take, eyes wide, a broken ‘Hello’ squeezing through as he faltered. I just smiled and blinked both eyes at him.
He trudged down the staircase, making eye contact at the first landing before vanishing from sight. I couldn’t place the look. It seemed almost apologetic.
I turned back around. Through the huge panel windows, I saw him emerge a few feet below us, walking to the lecture building without turning back, head down.
‘Guess that was a shock. Let’s see what he does when he returns.’
My partner and I worked. 90 minutes later, I see the doors of the lecture hall open. Students flow out and, eventually, so does he.
His walk was different. Confident. He had a mission. As he approached the entry, he was close enough for me to see him looking straight up at our table, a wolfish expression on his face which I’d never seen on anyone in real life before. Talk about a turn-on!
I smiled and blinked my eyes at him like a cat.
Apparently, he hadn’t counted on me to see him because immediately, the hunger morphed into the gentle, innocent expression I was used to seeing on him as he blinked back.
Inside, I was still shook though. As inexperienced as I was, I really couldn’t deny anymore that he was physically attracted to me. I’d never been looked at that way before or since, and my body deciphered the signal on instinct.
I kept my eyes resolutely on my laptop screen as he walked upstairs and approached. “You can see exactly who leaves when from this vantage point.”
I turned and there he stood, grinning smugly down at me.
I understood his insinuation. In those 90 minutes, he’d deduced that I chose that spot under the pretence of homework when my actual goal was to figure out his schedule.
Well, joke’s on him.
I’d memorised his schedule months ago.
But he didn’t need to know that.
So I smiled and said, “Oh yes, you can see a lot from up here!” And turned back to my laptop. I have no clue if he got the message that I’d seen his horny look.
I would’ve bantered more, but my lab partner was right there witnessing the scene. This was risky enough already.
He left.
My lab partner eventually spoke up. “Seems like he likes you.”
“Maybe a little bit,” I answered.
Over the next two hours, He walked up and down the corridor fetching a few cups of coffee.
As I went home, I knew I’d make this a new routine.
So the next Monday, we sat there again. We shared only eye contact this time.
The game continued for a few weeks. Sometimes I wouldn’t look up on purpose just so see what he’d do—which was usually nothing.
One Tuesday, things changed. I saw him and his group in the cafeteria. They’d arrived pretty late and I’d already finished my lunch when they hadn’t even started theirs yet. I had lab in 30 minutes, so I got up, not looking overtly at them, when I saw him wave in my direction.
‘Huh??’
He kept waving at me.
‘Well, he’s done unexpected things before, like that time he followed me on his bike. Let’s check it out.’
Smiling, I went over. Only for him to grin at me, saying, “I was waving at my colleague behind you so that he sees us here—“
I’d already nodded and left.
‘Fuck. Fucking hell. I just made a fool of myself in front of all those fucking people, holy shit.’
I was pissed off. Was it his fault? No. It was a misunderstanding. But the whole thing came too close to how I used to be humiliated in school and I now held resentment for him. To my horror, I happened to cycle past him and his group 15 minutes later on my way to the lab. He smiled, but I avoided all eye-contact.
I avoided him for a few weeks. No more Monday meetings. No more cafeteria glances.
Part of me wanted to punish him.
And that part liked to believe it worked because he also avoided eye-contact in the cafeteria, sometimes even closing his eyes as I walked past.
If his actions were pure coincidence, then they were still pretty fitting.
In November, the Chemistry department offered four extra lectures by guest professors every Saturday. I went to all four of them.
But guess who hosted the second?
Yup.
Seeing Him on the weekend wasn’t on my bingo card. But he’d already seen me and I wasn’t petty enough to leave.
Nothing remarkable happened until the end when everyone got up to leave. He had the gall to give me that same wolfish look I’d seen once before. Except this time, I wasn’t having it. I just looked away and left—and was even more pissed off when I saw him chat up two other women.
I had no right to be livid. But I was.
For a while.
One late evening, there was a presentation about something one of the departments had been working on. It was free to attend, so I thought “Why not?”
I had no idea he’d join the audience, too.
I sat around the middle height of the auditorium, close to the left. He chose a seat down at the front a bit further left from my position. I pretended I didn’t see him and focused on the presentation. The speaker was one of His colleagues. At some point, His answer to a question turned out to be incorrect—to which He then turned around to look at me with an almost apologetic smile.
I was still pissed off at him, so I kept looking at the wall screen.
After the presentation, he stood and lingered near the left stairs. Usually, I would’ve chosen those to descend the auditorium since they were closest to me. But I was petty, so I turned to the right and shuffled past the emptying seats to descend the right-hand stairs.
Joke’s on me. He was already chatting with some students at the bottom of the right-hand stairs. The doors were also at that side.
The prof who’d held the presentation had hung up some posters at the front and I’d been wanting to read them from the start—in other words, before He’d shown up. So I did that and the prof started talking to me. It was a short bout of small talk, but when I turned around to leave, I made eye-contact with Him. He was still talking with those students and gave me another pained smile and eyebrow flash, which I returned with a grin.
As pissed as I still was, part of me had wanted to talk to him. I judged that part. ‘Have you no pride? He humiliated you in public!’
Well, I certainly wouldn’t engage with him again for a long while.
Then the pull to be near him grew too strong. I felt like I was wasting my time being angry. He hadn’t sought me out to humiliate me again, so it probably hadn’t been his intention after all.
So once again, I sat on the first floor with my homework sheets on Monday. I’d arrived later than usual, so he hadn’t seen me upon leaving for his lecture. But when he returned, he saw me. I was looking down at my papers, but I heard his footsteps approach and saw his shadow take an unusual route, so I looked up.
Instead of going around the corner to his office, he’d been detouring to walk a loop past me, staring straight at me.
I smiled.
He hadn’t expected me to look up, averting his eyes and making a turn into the aisle to his office. “All alone today?” He asked.
“Yeees,” I drawled.
He grinned and disappeared.
The following nights, I laid in bed, wondering if I dared push for just 1% more. Nothing big. Nothing obvious. Maybe a gesture he may or may not catch up on. The idea terrified me. Did I have the balls to do that? It’d be the most vulnerability I’d ever displayed willingly. But I was long past the point of worrying about appearances. Might as well make a complete fool of myself.
So Monday morning shortly before 10am, I sat at the desk on the first floor and passed the time doing homework. I’d often seen him arrive around this time and assumed he would today, too. And he did.
He didn’t expect to see me so early. He faltered, said ‘Hello’, but stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed I was pointing/twirling my finger at him.
Yes, this was my genius plan.
“Just finger-gun him.”
“What? Why!? That’s so weird!”
“It’s weird in a non-threatening way, so do it.”
So I did.
He opened his mouth, eyes wide, looking more intrigued than weirded out, as if expecting me to say something.
I didn’t. I smiled, winked at him, and reached my arm out further as I pointed.
Don’t ask me why, but this did it for him somehow.
He beamed at me. Like literally his whole face lit up, blushing and grinning at the floor as he kept walking. He turned his head back around right before the corner, saw me still smiling and pointing, and grinned even wider.
Maybe I had this flirting thing more figured out than I’d thought. Or he and I were just the same flavour of ‘weird’.
That same afternoon, I discovered the answer was the latter.
When I sat there hours later, he walked past me practically vibrating, brimming with unspent energy and staring at me as he went downstairs to the lecture building.
My curiosity was piqued.
90 minutes later, he burst the doors open before any student had left the lecture building. This meant he’d ended the lecture overly punctual and ran out the room before anyone had even packed up. I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, seeing his figure rush towards me outside. The entry slammed open and I heard him run, taking two steps at a time and making a fucking ruckus in the silent building.
Pause.
Then, “Did you know the office in that building parallel to us has the same desk in the same position?”
Okay. He doesn’t know what he’s doing either. Did he spend 90 minutes trying to think of something hot to say? Because that’s one hell of a one-liner.
Of course I wanted to know more about the elusive desk lore. I was in no position to criticise his choice of conversation subject when I’d literally finger-gunned him hours before.
It was a relatively short talk, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.
Half an hour later (during which he’d gotten another cup of coffee), I had to head home. But first, I needed to use the restroom, so I rounded the infamous left corner to his office.
Guess who was already in the middle of the corridor on his way for a second cup.
We probably mirrored each other’s facial expressions: eyes wide, jaw dropping just so, unwavering eye-contact.
Walking past him in that corridor was the most sexually charged moment of my life. The electricity wasn’t kidding around.
But I was getting better at holding the intensity of it all.
When I left the restroom again, the door opposing it was wide open. No one was inside. I checked the name tag and yep, it was his office. When I looked to the left, he stood at the other end of the corridor with his coffee.
I still have no idea if this was an invitation, and if so for what.
What I do know is that his office door was closed when I’d walked into the restroom, so he’d opened it when he’d walked past to wait at the far end of the corridor.
And of course I didn’t go in. I bounced on my heels and left the building.
Today, I wouldn’t leave right away. I’d strike up an unrelated conversation. And if he were single, say something wildly ridiculous like, “This for me?”
But back then, I left.
December arrived with much fanfare. The Chemistry department had a Christmas tradition: every year, the third semester students were in charge of organising the inauguration party for the first semester students, as well as writing Chemistry-related carols to sing for each department and for some select professors at home.
Of course He was one of those who invited us.
And of course I wouldn’t pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance to see how he and his family lived!
The evening we sang in the office building, every prof and doctor came to listen except for Him. Quite noteworthy, all things considered! I’d firmly counted on his presence. I also knew he was still in his office and hadn’t gone home because another prof went to fetch Him, but came back saying, “He’s busy or doesn’t want to or something.”
I didn’t sit on the first floor anymore, so I only saw him once, two days before visiting him. I stood at the check-out with my tray of lunch, looking around and realising he was at the salad bar right behind me. I expected him to get in line behind me, but he didn’t. He chose the next check-out further left.
I made my peace with that and shrugged it off.
Until he emerged on the other side of my check-out, already having paid and taking cutlery from the designated boxes.
Boxes which stood beside every single check-out.
Were the boxes at his check-out empty? I looked left. Nope. The boxes over there were full. People were all taking cutlery out of them.
I looked back at him. He wasn’t looking at me, head held high and marching off.
Was he pissed at me for not having sat by his office for two weeks? Maybe. I still haven’t found an explanation for why else he’d choose to put himself in my line of sight and take cutlery from my check-out’s boxes. It felt petty (like me).
Two days later, 5pm. I was getting ready to drive the 30 minutes to his house, in a limbo state between panic and deadly calm. I wore a dutch braid, light blue jeans, a black shirt with my favourite red pullover on top, and lip gloss.
I prayed I wouldn’t become nauseous or sick or get stress-induced diarrhoea once there. There was nothing left in my insides though.
‘Now don’t have a car crash either and you’re set.’
I arrived safe and sound ten minutes early. A couple people were there already, too.
Once everyone was present, someone rang the bell and he opened. Unlike with the other professors, his wife and kids weren’t at the door. It was only he who greeted us.
He shook everyone’s hand, including mine, and I realised this was the first time we’d actually touched. His hand was soft, warm, and well-groomed.
There was no trace of coldness or malcontent on his face or in his body language. He beamed like he always did which immediately put me at ease. Maybe I really did read too much into nothing.
Upon entering, I noticed how sterile everything smelled. Like no one had been living in that house, even though (as I later found out), they’d owned it for 10 years. The creaky wooden floor looked spotless, but when I asked where we should put our shoes, he didn’t want us to take them off (contrary to local custom).
I was the first to follow him into his kitchen and sat down at the head of his dinner table, like I’d done during the other visits at other prof's, too, not knowing the faux-pas of doing that. Oopsie. As the host, he was supposed to sit there, but he didn’t seem to mind me taking that place. While everyone else got settled, he stood beside my chair and put his hand on the backrest as he offered pleasantries.
Some guys were opening beers and he showed them a trick how to open a closed beer bottle with the help of another closed beer bottle.
When I say them, I mean me, because he stared expectantly at me after he was done.
I smiled and nodded, to which he grinned, obviously satisfied with my approval.
This wasn’t the dynamic I’d expected to encounter here. I remembered our very first chats after class, how cocky and flippant he’d been. And a few months later, he was performing tricks for my amusement?
How did that happen?
He asked if I wanted some alcohol, too, but I declined, saying I was there by car, so he poured my requested water, then pulled out a chair to sit facing me.
I wasn’t feeling stressed anymore. I could relax.
Sure, the interior design of his house was abysmal (not sorry, my aesthetic taste was offended). The chairs were all different, he had no dish washer, the refrigerator was small, the even smaller bin was at the other side of the kitchen work space like no one ever cooked in there. Through the wooden sliding doors I saw into the tiny living room with a couch so small you could barely fit two people on it, a fucking tube television stood by the side, it was full of old, dark red carpeting, and a million other things which conveyed zero coziness and comfort.
But I was relaxed. Open.
We started off by singing our Christmas carols. I’d been told he and his family are musically inclined (and I saw pictures of him in the church choir online, a hobby he told us about later). I used to be in the choir of my Catholic school, so singing wasn’t new to me—even though I’m not particularly good, I practiced a lot and it sounded okay in recordings. I had much more practice on the piano. Either way, I fully expected him to critique our performance afterwards.
As I sang, I couldn’t resist looking up from my lyrics sheet.
Sure enough, I caught him staring at me with an unfamiliar, serene expression, and my lips quirked up involuntarily as I looked back down. The next time I checked, he’d turned his head away.
Afterwards, he clapped and complimented our efforts as the best performance students have put together in recent years. Apparently, he’s heard a lot of “shit”.
Just when I made to sit down, a fellow student said my name and pointed to the floor. “There’s a cat.”
Of course he was a cat person. I’d known he owned a cat without ever needing to know it. Just like I’d known he’d put on jazz music in the background. My intuition about him had, so far, been accurate. The suspicions I had about his relationship with his wife were also confirming themselves by the minute—she still hadn’t shown up to greet her husband’s guests.
While I was petting the cat, he was washing some dishes by hand, watching the scene, and I almost felt an air of domesticity when I asked him where the bathroom was. He got too close (as usual) and told me—right down the passage leading to the kitchen.
I went, appalled that they’d chosen a fucking front door as their bathroom door, including glass panels they’d covered with a haphazardly attached white curtain.
“What the fuck,” I thought, entering the dark room.
I was still looking for the light switch when the lights suddenly turned on.
‘Huh. Barely any privacy, but a motion sensor instead of a switch. Interesting priorities.'
The bathroom was the weirdest room so far—and the Donald Duck figure by the loo was the least offensive object. Again, the style and look of the “furniture” was without rhyme or reason. An open shelf with barely any products, a rattan chair next to a body weight scale (an object I last saw as a kid and I wondered if he or his wife were using it), two towels, a shower, and a hard soap at the sink.
Something felt off in that room.
Upon leaving, I was greeted by his cat meowing at me. Someone had closed the door to the kitchen (to my right), and I used the moment to really pet and talk to her. Her two food bowls, one with water, the other with dry food, stood on the floor to my left, on old newspapers.
“Don’t you get any wet food and a comfortable place to eat?” I asked her.
I’d never present my cats with such a gross eating area. Cats prefer to drink far away from their food, and wet food is a must for mine. Not to mention using fucking newspapers instead of a proper feeding mat. . .
A small bookshelf stood in the same corner. Just a few books were inside and I gave them a once over before returning into the bustling kitchen.
A fellow student had stolen my seat. I went over and we bickered a bit, but he wouldn’t budge, so I conceded defeat.
Not before looking at Him though like, “You see this shit?”
He looked apologetic. “Everyone needs a seat.”
From a diplomatic standpoint, sure.
From an attraction standpoint, not so much.
Now, I obviously didn’t expect Him to kick the guy out of the chair. But a comment like, “Not much of a gentleman that one, huh?” would’ve made me feel seen in that moment.
As it was, my body registered weakness in Him (again). He’d never given off protective vibes, so this cemented that impression. Not what I wanted in a man.
But I was hungry for his self-made potato salad, so I sat somewhere else and didn’t say anything else on the matter.
The girl beside me asked where I’d been. I told her I’d been to the bathroom, then asked if she’d been in there already.
She said yes.
“The motion sensor lights are pretty neat, right?”
“Huh? What motion sensor? The light switch is outside the bathroom.”
I blinked. What? Who’d turned on the light for me then?
Presumably the same person who’d closed the kitchen door. Either way, it implied that someone had watched me long enough to see me enter and miss the light switch outside. Since I wasn’t friends with any of these people, and this girl hadn’t even noticed I was gone, I doubted it was one of them, which just left Him.
‘Motion sensor. . .’ I mentally slapped myself. Talk about gullible.
It was time to eat.
My new seat turned out to be strategically inconvenient. I sat within perfect reach of the salad bowl and ended up filling everyone’s plates—including His. He’d relocated as well, to a seat opposite of me. Again.
He asked everyone where they were born. Going clockwise, I was the last to answer. This topic led to him oversharing about how he and his wife had once gotten lost driving near where one of the students came from, and she’d been annoyed and left the car and kids with him to find directions, so he hadn’t been sure whether to follow her or stay.
‘What do you mean you weren’t sure? You’re the man! You were supposed to go and find help while your wife stays with the kids!’ I thought back to my grandpa and he sure as hell never would’ve let my grandma run around unfamiliar premises.
Now I know He was emotion dumping, telling a bunch of 20 year old students about his marriage problems.
The sausages finished cooking and he got up to put them on a separate plate.
Meanwhile, I was feeling the heat of 10 people in a tiny kitchen with the stove on full blast. It was too hot in my winter sweater. Taking it off would feel beyond awkward with how cramped the table was, but I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I quickly went for it.
Not quickly enough because He saw and dropped his fucking spoon into the salad bowl.
I screamed internally.
‘Are you serious!? I must be living in a simulation because there’s no way that just happened. Now everyone knows what’s going on.’
If they did, they didn’t let it show.
What he let show were his glances at my chest whilst talking to a guy next to him. This was teenager behaviour, not ‘grown man’ behaviour. He had three adult kids, so he must’ve seen his wife naked at least three times. I wondered about the mystical powers of my C-cup when his wife came in.
The whole room went dead silent.
And just like that, I understood his fascination with feminine curves because his wife was of the emaciated sort. Most of all, she was rude and set the whole room on edge.
Now it was my turn to be fascinated as I watched them interact. He’d sprung up, one hand on her waist, guiding her away from my side of the table to his. He maxed his puppy eyes as he offered her some food at the kitchen counter—which she wordlessly declined. She didn’t say much to him at all and left whence she came, like a ghost.
A collective exhale went through the kitchen.
‘She’s not okay,' I thought back then. Today, I say, ‘Of course not. She obviously hasn’t touched her pssy in years!’
No wonder her husband had it for a woman who’d been orgsming every day since she knew she could!
And here I'd thought my sexual energy wasn’t detectable. His sexual frustration must’ve sniffed out my overflow like a hound.
In the photos I’d seen online, I’d already suspected a love-less relationship—there was no image where they stood next to each other or hugged or held hands even whilst being surrounded by couples who did all that. She’d tensed when he’d touched her waist, reluctant to be led.
This explained a lot.
I thought of the single picture I’d seen taped to the cork board earlier. His wife with what could only be her parents, stone-faced and unsmiling on a couch, with him leaning into the picture, smiling, but sitting several feet away from his wife.
I wondered if they’d been incompatible from the start or if some rift had happened.
Did he cheat on her before? I didn’t think so. He sure didn’t act like a man who had experience flirting with and attracting women. I had The Instructor as a comparison and he’d been completely different. The main reason for my obsession with Him was my parental trauma. And the more I watched him interact with others, the more obvious his insecurity and weak boundaries became, the less attraction I felt.
I’m not blaming him. By now, it was clear his marriage was an inversion of masculine-feminine dynamics. His wife was the Do’er, the leader, and it had depleted her. German women, including myself, are conditioned to be hyper-masculine control freaks, so I couldn’t blame her. But I also couldn’t blame him because I felt his desire to serve the feminine, to step up, to get out of the feminine role.
Like, I just needed to gesture to the empty jug of water and he sprung up to refill it, beaming when I thanked him.
That evening was a big lesson in feminine reception and how men drink it up. I didn’t have the words for it, but I realised our dynamic was about more than his sexual attraction. This was a chance for me to practice leaning back and letting a man serve my needs in an energetic way.
So I did just that.
Everyone was done eating, so He cleared the table. I watched some women jump up to “help” Him wash the dishes, unable to hold their discomfort of feeling “useless”. I literally saw it play out on their faces, the compulsion to “act”.
People claim this is about being polite. It’s not. It’s about women having been conditioned that they should always baby any man who’s literally doing anything, even in his own household.
My original place at the head of the table freed up and I relocated.
I engaged in some easy conversation with a few people while He finished the dishes and also relocated to sit opposite of me again. He kept stroking his clavicle and I registered this as another of his self-soothing gestures. He had a habit of rubbing his chest and arms as well.
Around 9pm, everyone suddenly left at the same time. One guy I knew asked me if I’d drive him home.
“It’s only 9! No way I’m already leaving.” And if I’d been the only person remaining, I wouldn’t have cared. This was way too early. He kept trying to convince me to drive him home, but I didn’t budge.
One other guy stayed behind as well. We waited in the kitchen while He accompanied the others out.
When he returned, he had a book in his hand. He wordlessly gave it to me and I thanked him, curious. It was a book about the nearby district. I was more interested in conversation, but I leafed through it for a few minutes anyways before joining in.
My cup was empty and he offered a refill. “You’ll have water again, since you’re still here by car?”
“Exactly.”
We exchanged a smile at the little insider.
After some small talk, he asked my age, and where and how I lived, which I answered truthfully.
We found out we both play the piano and his son’s piano teacher had been my old piano teacher from when I was 16. He told us he was in the church choir and I shared that I’d been in my church’s choir as a teen and that I missed singing. He pondered this for a moment, then said, “Well, we always need more singers here. . . Ah, but this is too far away from your home!” He immediately back-paddled, but I’d understood the implication.
We agreed on some topics. But we could also disagree on others. He challenged my point of view about something (which I sadly forgot), and I was surprised by this. He’d always been very acquiescent except two or three times, so I wondered how much of that meeker persona was actually him.
Or maybe he was just testing my ability to accept other opinions and if I’d become emotional or aggressive when someone disagreed with me.
After having visited many different profs, I noticed how they all talk behind each other’s backs. It was only a matter of time until the gossip began. Same with Him. After criticising a particular prof, he told us about that prof’s predecessor who used to be in charge of the annual Christmas lecture. That guy had once invited belly dancers, letting them touch his chest and pour wine into his mouth.
“It was completely inappropriate!” He huffed.
‘No, you’re just turned on by it and don’t know how to handle it.’ I knew that feeling in myself, except I’d been a teen when I last felt it.
He looked at me like he expected me to agree with his virtue signalling outrage.
As someone who loves belly dancing and pleasure, I did no such thing. I just smiled and shrugged like, “Sounds like a good time to me,” and drank my water.
He didn’t seem to know what to make of my indifference. Like he’d fully expected me to act disgusted. His outrage felt fake. Like he’d learned disapproval was the sole correct response to seeing sexy things in real life.
In a calm tone, I asked, “Hmm. . . Why do you think someone would do that?”
He considered me for a moment, looking like understanding was dawning upon him. I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t offended. I wasn’t disgusted. The gears in his head were turning. “Well. . . Everyone needs to let it all hang out sometimes. . .” That phrase was the best translation I found for what he actually said which sounds more obscene in German, especially with this near-sexual topic.
I grinned, nodding in agreement.
The conversation carried on.
My water was almost empty again. He asked if I wanted to drink something else maybe.
“What do you have?” I asked.
“Milk. And juice.”
“What kind?”
“Cherry and orange.”
I considered my options.
He was watching me, brows raised in anticipation.
“I’ll take cherry,” I said.
He smiled, opened the bottle and was about to fill my cup, but stopped. I still had some water left. “May I pour it in like that?”
Honestly, I was wowed. The fact that he not only noticed I still had water left, but that he also asked if I’d be okay with it if he mixed the juice in, impressed me to this day. No one had ever treated me with such detailed consideration before.
I drank the remaining water because no, I didn’t want to dilute the juice. But if he hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have realised until it was too late.
Throughout the entire time, I’d also been experimenting with my body language while observing his. At the beginning, I sat close to the table and more hunched over. In response, he hadn’t been sitting relaxed either, arms crossed tight.
So as a test, I leaned back, softly held my hands on my belly, and focused on breathing deeply and steadily. Immediately, he also relaxed, arms opening.
When I crossed my legs, so did he.
When I uncrossed them, so did he.
When I scratched my neck, he scratched his.
When I ran my fingers through my hair, he copied the movement.
Of course I waited for a while in between each move.
Here, I learned another lesson: I actually have influence on the world. My energy impacts other people. When I’m relaxed and calm, others can feel it. When I’m tense and closed, others can feel it. And I could choose what I wanted to transmit, to some extent.
I had neither knowledge nor training in energy work yet. But that was the first time I had the embodied realisation that I had power over my inner state, and that I could change the external by changing the internal.
At some point, his son emerged from the living room. He cut off his father’s greeting by slamming the sliding doors shut. Even He looked taken aback, smiling uncomfortably.
Obviously, something was very wrong in this family.
Eventually, the doors slid back open and He called his son in to greet us, pretending nothing off had happened. Both were visibly strained and his son quickly left without really saying anything.
We talked a bit about his family. They often visited his wife's parents, but he told little about his own. As for his wife, he looked at me with intensity when he said, “There’s been times where I was glad the next day was a Monday.”
The implication was clear. He’d rather go to work than be at home. He regularly stayed in his office until 7pm and used a bike for his 40 minute commute for a reason.
I reigned in my curiosity. I didn’t want to be his unpaid couples therapist. But hell if I wasn’t burning with interest about his marriage. I’d learnt enough about men’s marriage problems to deduce that this was partly about sex—specifically a lack thereof—and about him not being nourished by his wife’s depleted feminine energy.
Now I know that average, non-psychopathic men really are simple to understand. And that women have more influence over how their man shows up than they’d like to admit. I’ve met many women who prefer to view themselves as victims because, “He doesn’t do X and Y, and he doesn’t see me, and why do I have to tell him when he should just know what I want!”
Women set their men up to fail. And it doesn’t need to be this way.
Another huge factor is how many people’s relationships lack biological chemistry. Most couples choose each other for trauma reasons rather than physical compatibility.
Back to the story.
By now, it was midnight.
I was getting cold and sleepy. Being in his presence for six hours took its toll. All the high intensity sensation my body had been enduring left me on the verge of numbness.
It was time to go home.
The other Guy who was still there asked if I could drive him home, but he’d come by bike. I had no idea if we could transport a bike in my small car.
Of course, He offered assistance. He gave the Guy some tool in case we needed to detach the bike’s wheels.
“If you need help, don’t hesitate to ring the door bell. No one’s asleep yet in this house anyways,” he said.
‘It’s midnight. Why aren’t the others asleep yet? And why is that normal to him?’
While Guy was going out to get his bike, He and I remained in the entry hall.
“Well, then.” I stuck my hand out for a goodbye shake.
He immediately shook it and pleasure zapped up my arm. The warmth of his hand was more than welcome. I hadn’t realised how cold I’d become.
“Have a safe drive home!” he said, still holding my hand.
And holding it.
And holding it. . .
I reluctantly pulled my hand from his grip and left to join Guy at my car.
Luckily, Guy didn’t need to dismantle his bike at all. It was a tight fit, but it worked.
Guy brought the tool back into the house, ringing the door bell as instructed, while I waited by my car. Before He closed the door for good this time, I waved at him and He waved back.
30 minutes later, I arrived home.
I felt. . . calm. And a bit numb. This confused me. I’d expected to feel hyper and high as a kite after spending so much time with him, but no. I felt grounded, and the next morning was no different. I went to class with no desire to see Him. I’d reached maximum capacity and needed time to digest without further stimulation.
But by chance, I cycled past him on my way to the cafeteria. He was returning from lunch, alone, but despite holding his head high and smiling, he avoided eye-contact.
‘That’s probably for the best.’
I suspected the visit to his home had marked the peak of this pseudo-flirting situation. I mean, I’d seen his wife and she’d seen me! The whole thing had become way too real. Every interaction with Him had been bound to the constraints of the uni building.
'He probably realised how inappropriate this is and decided to stop.’
Well, I was wrong.
That night, I had the most accurate prophetic dream of him. I was in a room full of white light and he was in front of me, talking, before suddenly leaning against my left arm.
I woke up and shrugged the strange dream off.
For now.
That evening, we held the inauguration party for the first semester students. The event was open to any Chemistry-related student, professor, lecturer, you name it, and quite popular. The venue was nearby—basically a pub with a dance floor and a stage.
The program was as follows: we’d sing our carols, then there’d be some games for students and profs on stage, and afterwards everyone was free to do what they wanted. For most people this meant arriving half-drunk and adding the finishing touches by the end of the night.
Soon enough, the place was crowded. The lights were low, as you’d expect. I made my way to the right to stand at the bottom of the stage with the other (mostly female) singers. Our performance would start soon and we chatted a bit before the conversation died down among all the noise.
I hadn’t seen Him yet.
I scanned the crowd, slowly turning my head to the left. . .
And having the crap scared right out of me when I realised he’d been standing basically in front of me the whole time.
I hadn’t even seen him enter the club!
I was too stunned to speak. He just kept smiling at me, the way he must’ve been doing even before I noticed him because his expression hadn’t changed despite having been ‘caught’ by me.
I smiled back.
“Not on stage today?” He asked.
There were students on stage, yes, and they’d be forming some alphabetical letters during one of the songs.
‘Why would he expect me to want to be on stage?’
Maybe he was teasing. Maybe he genuinely saw me as someone who enjoyed being the centre of attention.
At that moment, I wasn’t interested in either explanation. My body felt closed off. I hadn’t expected him to talk to me after he’d acted cold yesterday. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. And I still hadn’t digested those 6 hours of spending time with him either.
I looked down at the lyric sheet in my hands. “Ah, no. Not today, I’m not.”
What else was I supposed to say? The blunt answer left no wiggle room for more conversation, so I expected him to back off.
He didn’t.
I never saw him move before I felt a warm, heavy weight collide into my left side. “Hey, like this, I could sing, too!”
He’d literally crashed his body into mine.
The impact put me into freeze.
‘That was just like in my dream.’
He stayed there for only a moment before returning to his original spot, but I remember saying, “Sure!”
There’s photographs of this moment. A friend took photos throughout the evening and shared them in a private dropbox with the rest of us.
Several students on stage have their heads turned towards us. One of them has his hand over his mouth, grinning.
This was one of the worst moments of my life.
Not because he’d escalated without calibrating to my signals, overstepping several boundaries just to level-up his physical contact with me.
But because he’d done it in public.
Remember my original intention of, “Just basking in his light from afar, just for a little while, no one has to know”?
Well, now many people knew.
What prof cuddles up to a female student? Of course people exchanged looks and stared at me. They just didn’t dare say anything.
I didn’t make eye-contact with anyone.
My body was still numb. I hadn’t fully processed what had just happened.
Thank God the show began and I could sing myself to stability.
15 minutes later, the choir’s job was done. Some students I hadn’t seen in a while came up to me and I felt grateful for their distraction. One of them had found my Student ID Card on the floor where I’d apparently lost it earlier. Yet another shock! Without that card, I’d be fucked!
By this point, my attention was fully consumed by them and I wasn’t thinking about Him (probably still standing behind me since I’d moved some meters forwards) anymore while I slid my ID Card into my back pocket.
‘But wait, that’s where I originally had it and I lost it. So maybe the front pocket of my jeans is better? No, too tight. Ugh, let me just stuff it into my sock.’
I’ve no idea if he saw me sliding my hands all over myself before bending over to secure the card in my sock. If he did, I want him to know I wasn’t doing that to be a tease.
What I do know is he emerged into my field of vision, walking past the stage (to my right) and crossing my sights with his head turned towards me. I smiled and flashed my brows, habit overriding whatever embarrassment I’d felt. He returned both gestures and then grinned at the floor, as always.
The on-stage games would be starting soon. I had no intention of joining, so I stood in the crowd, watching.
He joined them, of course. He made a whole spectacle of himself even, all expansive gestures and pulling laughs from the crowd, including me.
I have to give it to him even now—he’s easy to like.
45 minutes had passed. I’d calmed down enough to ponder my next steps.
He’d escalated quite severely. Going from two handshakes to crashing his body against mine in public felt intense to me.
The question was how would I respond?
The obvious answer is, “You don’t respond at all because he’s married.”
I bought some water at the bar as I pondered.
I didn’t want to be an affair or a rebound. I frankly refused to lose my virginity to a married man. I wanted an exclusive relationship like everyone else. Besides, I’d heard bad things about him by now. He had problems with alcoholism, an addiction I refused to deal with. My mom had had a phase of getting drunk when I was small, and I was self-aware enough to know he reflected that pattern to me. I didn’t want a man who drank. I’d also heard some female students say he was a “sexist asshole” to them by giving them worse grades than the guys, but I also heard that some of them just hadn’t studied. Apparently, he’d also insulted one of the women in his group for her legs once.
That info, combined with his fake-outrage during his belly dancer story and the comments about his wife, painted a clearer picture. Women and sexuality frustrated him. I didn’t feel actual malice and misogyny. No, he was just starving for affection and sex.
I watched a group of half-drunk female students (who I knew) corner him into a conversation. He scratched the back of his neck a lot, looking embarrassed but not displeased.
‘Good job, ladies. He needs some positive attention,’ I smiled. I was happy to feel no jealousy come up anymore. I hadn’t felt jealous of his wife either. Nothing about my situation made any sense anymore. I knew by now he wasn’t the man for me. I just wasn’t ready to fully accept reality yet.
He’d extricated himself from the women and stood in a circle with his colleagues. I needed to pee. To go to the bathroom, I’d have to walk past him and around the right corner, which I did.
In the ensuing corridor, I met a guy I’d only seen once, but he hugged me like he knew me.
‘Oh well. People are drunk and happy. Whatever.’
I went into the bathroom. When I came back out and walked back up the corridor, He was talking to the guy who’d hugged me.
‘Funny coincidence, that. . .’
Had he followed and seen me hug the guy? Wouldn’t be the first time he’d followed me. And I knew the guy was neither in His department nor part of His usual group. Was I fooling myself? Maybe it really was just a coincidence. . .
I went to the dance floor. I wanted to actually enjoy this evening instead of clinging to the heels of a married man.
When my group and I got too hot, we went outside.
Of course, He was also there, talking with His usual group. We flashed our brows at each other again and he seemed surprised to see me.
I stood a few meters away with a female friend and another guy I’d met before. The adrenaline, confusion and frustration made me bold and flirty with that guy. I wasn’t attracted to him at all. I just didn’t know what to do with all this energy.
I’ve no doubt He noticed because I caught him looking over, eventually lighting a cigarette.
‘Great. He drinks and smokes. It’s really not meant to be.’
In hindsight, he was probably just as frustrated as me. And maybe jealous. I didn’t want to ignore him. But I felt like I had to since this whole situation was completely impossible. There was no satisfying solution. We were attracted to each other, but incompatible in too many ways.
My insides started to hurt. This pain had become familiar over the last months.
It was the truth settling in:
There wouldn’t be a happy ending to this story. It’d be a slow, painful death. No grand finale. No final resolution. Just the long wasting away and composting of what was once hot and electric.
An hour passed.
He’d gone back into the club without me noticing. Immediately, I followed and saw him by the cloakroom.
I went into the bathroom and stood in line. ’So, that’s it? He’s going home. In two days, the Christmas holidays start and I won’t see him for two weeks.’
Something in me popped.
‘No. You know what? Fuck that!’
It wasn’t true to let him leave thinking I wasn’t attracted to him. I wanted him to see me. I wanted to reciprocate his earlier escalation. ‘I wasn’t playing with you. I do like you. Even if I shouldn’t.’
I left the line to the bathroom and rushed out into the corridor.
He stood by the club entrance, jacket in hand, looking down at it and not moving.
I came up behind him and put my hand on his back. “I had no idea you smoked,” I said.
Now it was his turn to be shocked.
I slowly slid my hand down his back.
He gaped at my smiling face. He needed a moment to process. “No, I don’t.”
I said nothing. After all, I’d seen him smoke. I tilted my head back, raising my brows and keeping my lids down on purpose for a, ‘Oh, come on,’ look.
“W-Well, sometimes the body needs to destress,” he stuttered.
We kept smiling and staring at each other, for good five seconds, with no intention of looking away.
A male voice spoke up. “Mr. [His name], you’re not getting drunk this year!?”
The spell was broken. We both looked at the guy.
Immediately, He turned away from me, saying something to the stranger I couldn’t hear.
I know a signal from the universe when I see it.
I’d fulfilled what I’d been pulled to do. The evening was done and I was content. I turned back around and actually went to the bathroom.
When I came back, He was gone.
It was 10pm. I chose to leave as well, but on the way out one of my friends (the woman who’d taken pictures throughout the evening) approached me, asking if I’d walk her home because she was tipsy.
She lived close to me, so it wasn’t a problem.
Midway home, I lost my hold on myself and said, “Too bad everyone left so early. I heard last year’s party was wild. What a shame the professors left first.”
She replied, “You mean Prof. [His name].”
‘Fuck. Shit. She knows.’ How much had she seen? Did she think I was having an affair with him? Would she spread rumours? Who else had seen us?
I said nothing at first. Then a lame, “Well, not only him.”
She just made a noise, not buying that excuse.
I wasn’t buying it either.
She dropped the topic and we walked home in silence.
That night, I went to bed with a knot in my stomach.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t want this to be me. I didn’t want to look like a “slut”. I didn’t want to look cheap or like a gold digger. I didn’t want this to become my reputation. “Oh, she slept her way up, she’s a fraud and a whore!”
Safe to say, I avoided the cafeteria the next day. I avoided the office building. I avoided any place he might be.
This situation had created waves that were bigger than what I could handle. And my conditioned response to social trouble was to avoid it, ignore it, let it die, please, everyone just forget what you saw!
Unsurprisingly, there were no rumours.
There were no external consequences to an affair that didn’t tangibly exist.
(Continuation in part 3)
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