Taking Classes

Well...you did grant permission to write you, and I just couldn't resist. I've been reading-and rereading-your writing for several years now, and it rarely ever disappoints.
There's a maturity and a finished quality that's very refreshing. I think there is a lot of good writing on ***. But not always good writers. It's always disappointing to read an amazing story concept that's written by someone who can't quite pull it together. And I should know; sadly, I'm one of those writers-hadn't written in years when a male friend got angry when I dismissed the erotic Brat Fantasies I had been emailing him as marshmallow fluff. Then he got REALLY angry when I basically told him he was nuts when he said they showed promise for someone who hadn't written much for so many years. He made me post several of them-which was almost worth getting in all that trouble because here I am, still trying to write.
I had just finished reading * * *, for the first time, and it made me remember my first Tri at the University of Minnesota, and a poetry writing course I took.
I was extremely shy at that age, with a sense of self esteem that seriously scraped the bottom of the barrel. Not because of bad parents or a world filled with people telling my I was worthless. My parents were decent, I had a few good friends, and teachers loved me because I was intelligent, respectful-and half of them had been my coaches for one Varsity sport or another.
It was just that typical ugly duckling malady. Until the summer before my Senior year in high school I'd sported braces, glasses, bad skin and about twenty extra pounds.
And then I "flowered" as they like to say, and came back from my summer spent with relatives in Cali, looking like a Cali girl.
But it took me literally years to start believing the mirror and not those inner voices.
Add to that the fact that I was basically totally lacking in sexual experience; almost 18 before my first date, and still a virgin until that summer before the start of college, there was NO WAY I'd ever have believed a college professor; a handsome, older man who was an honest to goodness REAL PUBLISHED WRITER would even notice me amongst all the sexy, beautiful, experienced college girls.
I'd have never had the courage to try anything, but I'd have loved to have read your essay on how to seduce a professor back then.
All the times he told me to drop in during his office hours to talk about something I had written, the way he rode me over every simple, what I thought silly, little exercises that I didn't turn in (wow, startles me now to think back to what a passive aggressive brat I was back then!) I thought was just proof that he disliked me and thought me a waste of his teaching time.
And it drove me nuts. I was used to people almost always liking me. I had tested out of all the basic English courses that were mandatory for freshman, as well as a few for sophomores Half the students in the class were sophomores or better, taking the course because they figured it was easier then a lot of the other English courses, and he didn't seem to care all that much when they blew assignments off.
So by the last few weeks of the class, I'd basically grown to hate the man. I wasn't willing to accept any criticism from him, and, pretty much closed myself off from learning anything from someone who really was a very fine writer.
I was ranting about something he'd written to a girl I'd met in the class who'd become one of my best new friends, and probably not making much sense, when she nicely told me to shut the hell up and just let her read the damn thing.
She read the feed back he'd written about the poem I was frothing over, then started flipping through the whole dozen or so in the packet, then looked up at me goggle eyed and blurted "Oh my God! I think he's got the hots for you!" (We were 18, not exactly sophisticated yet.)
Now it was my turn to goggle? Huh what? She showed me her packet, told me she'd looked at 4-5 other classmates (I hadn't.) and most of theirs were the same.
This professor would write maybe eight to ten lines of good, succinct hints and criticisms, straight and to the point. But on my poetry, he had never written less then a page, and on the lone two that were faintly erotic, he'd written almost two pages.
Of course I instantly yeah right, your crazy he hates me shot back at her. "Of course he has to write more. I'm a horrible writer and I bet he just loves pointing that out!"
It's bitter sweet sad. Even if I'd believed her, nothing would have come of it. I'd never have done anything, and by that point I think it was obvious to him-and every one else in the class-that I pretty much hated him, my early crush long since burnt down.
So, I didn't really "lose" anything by not believing her. But I still have those packets of poems-somewhere-and once in a while when I'm cleaning, or reorganizing; have to throw out those treasures that once were but ain't any more, eventually, I'll come across them.
I always hope it happens when I'm having a good day. If it doesn't, I know I'll be shedding a few tears. Because the woman I am today, can see what he was trying to tell an angry 18 year old who got it all wrong. Who didn't have the maturity to read between the lines. Who saw a desire to nurture and teach, to hold accountable, someone this man, this teacher, thought was worthy of that time and attention, and interpreted it as being told that her writing, something that meant more then anyone or any thing, was totally lacking.
He never wrote anything suspect or inappropriate, but to get to know all those poems, inside and out, and to write so much about them. I can't even imagine how many hours that had to have consumed. I'm still not, but at 18 I sure as hell wasn't a talented enough writer for the man to be trying to inspire me for all of mankind's sake!
So it makes me a little sad, when I think back. And I have to admit I kind of hope that he just wanted to fuck a hot bodied green eyed blond.
Because I've never been a mean person. And I know how it feels to want someone you know you'll never have. And it hurts a lot more when that person isn't just apathetic, but actively hates you.
So I don't like thinking, about how much or if I hurt him. I just didn't understand.
I think that might be one reason affairs between college students and Professors are frowned upon. Granted, today, there are 12 years olds who are more "mature" then I am at my age. And when I was 18, I'd been very sheltered and protected and controlled. But I'm still not sure how many 18 year olds are mature enough to deal with a sexual relationship with someone older and that much more experienced.
I guess that's why I liked * * * as much as I did. As a graduate student, I assumed she was at least 22, obviously very smart and aware of the risks and repercussions and potential for fallout. She was a woman, not a young woman, barely out of girlhood.
Of course don't get me wrong, I love the kinky stuff. It's just extra nice when you don't have those twinges of guilt for getting turned on.
I'm sure this was much longer then anything you expected or wanted to have to read. But you really made me think, and I just kept going with it. You made me think back to those days and I learned at least three things about that young woman I was. I'm not sure I liked what I learned, but as they say...know thine own self. And I think I wish that insecure 18 year old girl had known what the woman of today learned about herself tonight.
A writer is supposed to make their readers think; to push their boundaries, to extend their thoughts and belief and encourage some sort of learning and growth. Marshmallow fluff writing is fine sometimes. Sometimes we just want a laying out on the beach pure fun read. But a good writer grabs us by the scruff of the neck and yells “Hey dumb ass, listen up and learn something here!”
You did that for me tonight. So I have to thank you times two. Not just for the pure pleasure I get from reading your well written stories, but for what I learned. I'm not sure what I can do with them today. I don't know how or if they will help me or make me a better person. But insight is a powerful thing, so I'm pretty positive I didn't get anything bad from learning what I did tonight.

Author's note
I read on sites all over the inter net-got a lot of different passions, lol. There's a writer on one site, who at least claims, that he's a college Professor in the real world. I think it's prolly true; he sure seems to know his subject. Tonight I read a new story of his about a Professor starting up an affair with one of his graduate students. And then right after, an essay by the same author on how to seduce your college professor. He invited feedback about real life stories about college Professors. So I accepted the invitation, and towards the end thought, this is maybe kind of good writing. And I thought, it would be interesting to post this-and then add on, the reworking of the original, what really happened story. I figure, if I make my girl go the Irish that those of you who read me know, anything could happen.