Mr. Robinson, Part II

We left the restaurant and I was struggling to think of a bar we could go to. On a Saturday night most of the bars between the restaurant and my apartment became pretty fratty. These weren't the kinds of places I wanted to go with my 41-year-old former professor in tow. I also didn't want to go anywhere too far away. The closer we were to my building, I reasoned, the easier it would be for me to end the night.

We ended up at a bar/restaurant very close to where I live. It's usually pretty tame, at least on the restaurant side. As we walked in, I fished my wallet out of my purse as he strode right in and up to the bar. He must have forgotten that at my age, I still get carded. It was loud and I was noticeably uncomfortable even though it was him that looked out of place. I scanned the room for familiar faces and, fortunately, didn't see anyone I knew. Tequila for him, Miller Lite for me. We took a seat at the restaurant, at a small two-person table.

The lighting was much brighter here than at the previous place, and we were also sitting much closer together. I found myself regularly glancing at his wedding ring, not because I needed to be reminded, but because he did. He asked me to tell him the story of a romantic relationship I had in (and out) of college. It was something I had briefly touched on in one of my stories and he was curious to know what had happened since I had graduated.

But I was sick of talking. I caught myself trailing off at the end of sentences, feeling awkward. Staring at the table, my hands, or my beer bottle. Like before, I drank slowly, and when he asked if I needed another I quickly told him no. There was music on and he sang out loud once in awhile. I was slightly embarrassed. He asked me if I liked to dance (was this a proposition?), and he was sure that I was a very good dancer. Somewhere in the middle of all this, he asked me if I wanted to get stoned because he had some pot in his car. I declined. Every time I looked up at him, I saw this goofy look on his face. There was something in his eyes that seemed an inappropriate stare for anyone but his wife. It was as if every word that I said was amazing. Since I felt strange talking and simultaneously avoiding his face, I asked him to tell me a story.

"Did I ever tell you my Mrs. Robinson story?"

"Uhh...no, I don't think so."

"Well, I was a freshman in college and it was my first time back home. I was at a party in the neighborhood, lots of family friends, and there was this woman who took a liking to me. Her name was Celia. She was stunning, absolutely beautiful woman. We talked at the party and she asked if she could call me sometime. A few days later, the phone rang and my younger sister answered, telling me a girl was on the phone asking for me. Quietly, I took the phone around and around until I was alone. Celia asked if we could go out sometime. I suggested that we do so alone. I would feel uncomfortable going with any of her friends (who were, coincidentally, my friends' parents)."

It was at this point in the story, that I sensed something change. Telling me I was beautiful or that my former lover was an idiot were nothing compared to this. Here he was, eighteen years older than me, telling me his own story about being seduced by a woman fifteen years older than he had been.

He continued his story, describing his date with Celia and how he couldn't believe someone like her would be interested in a young man like him. He laughed and his left hand stopped briefly on my right knee. There was some talk of romance on the beach, but I had already started tuning him out until...

"Have you ever had an affair with an older man?"

Affair. That was the exact word he used. Had I? No.

I laughed nervously. "No, uh, I've always stayed within a year older or a year younger." As I said this, I made a chopping motion with my hands to indicate the age boundaries of my lovers. I don't think he got it.

After refusing his offer for another drink (and noticing that they were chasing us out of the restaurant), he asked "Shall we go?" Sure, I said. But we weren't going anywhere. I was going home and he could walk me there if he liked. This was the end.

When we walked into the lobby, I expected some sort of awkward embrace and goodbye, thanks for dinner, etc. Instead, he asked if he could use my bathroom.

"I guess so", I replied. What else could I say? There was no restroom in our lobby and he had a long drive ahead of him. And how could I say no without being rude?

The elevator ride was silent all the way to the fifteenth floor. My apartment was locked, meaning both of my roommates were gone. Damn. If I had wanted this to be as undatelike as possible, I wasn't doing too well. In fact, everything was going perfectly for a date. But why did it have to be my married, former professor?

A light was on in the living room and I didn't bother to turn on any others. I pointed to the bathroom at the back of the apartment and sort of shooed him in there. I didn't take my coat or scarf off, and I listened to my voicemail messages to distract myself. As I waited for him to walk back out, I mentally prepared my goodbye. I would give him a hug, thank him for dinner, and shuffle him towards the door. Maybe even throw in a fake yawn or two.

But when I hugged him and received my usual kiss on the cheek, he asked me something else.

"Can I kiss you on the lips?"

His face was close to mine and I turned my head so that I was staring at the wall behind our couch. What??? Had he really just asked me that? I was totally unprepared for something like this.

"I don't think that's a good idea." I kept my face turned away until I felt his retreat. Slowly, I looked at him.

"You know that I'm very attracted to you."

Uncomfortable pause.

"I'm sorry, Erin. I shouldn't have done that."

Now he felt bad. Now I felt bad. But I needed to get him out of my living room. "It's fine, really. Don't worry about it", I said as I started pushing him towards the door. As soon as I pushed the door closed behind him, I quietly locked it and started pacing around the entryway. I couldn't make any noise until the elevator came and I knew he was gone.

A million thoughts were racing through my head. A married man had just made a pass at me (these were the words I used to describe it on the phone that night. It sounded old-fashioned, but he was old so it fit). A married man with children. I knew his wife and daughter. I had been in his house before. Was this his intention all along when he asked me to dinner? Or was this something that sprang up out of our conversation and tequila? What if I had said yes and gone along with the kiss? Would that have been the only request? Had he done this before with former students? Has he cheated on his wife before?

I retold the story to a few of my close friends, not as juicy gossip but out of a need for advice and consolation. I needed to be reminded that I had done nothing to provoke this. That I had acted appropriately and that it was he who had crossed the line. How should I react? What was my next step? I realized that some balance between the two of us had shifted. I lost some of my respect for him that night. How was I ever expected to return to our relationship without thinking about the night he tried to kiss me? The one good thing to come out of all this was that he provided me with some fantastic material.

I told my friends that I expected some sort of apologetic email on Monday. When I got into work, sure enough - he had already written me. But I was nervous and still unsure of how I felt about the situation, and I waited to open the email for awhile. And when I did, there was no mention of what had happened. Only a thank you for a lovely evening and a reprise of how beautiful I had looked Saturday evening.

Now, as my friend said, the ball is in my court. How do I respond? I have to let him know that what he did was inappropriate without jeopardizing the relationship even more. He needs to know how I feel, even if it was just a kiss.

Mr. Robinson, Part I

I've mentioned before that I went to a small college. It was a liberal arts school with red brick buildings and Greek houses lining the small-town streets. A campus made beautiful by fall, lonely in winter, and hedonistic come spring. It was also the kind of school where collegiate cliches came alive. The Greek system was a large part of social life, and students wore their fraternity or sorority letters proudly. Classes were small, thus creating intimate relationships between students and professors. Everyone knew everyone. On unexpectedly warm days, students met outside rather than in the confines of an academic building. Other times, professors would hold class in an off-campus locale like a bar, restaurant, or their own home. These were the reasons I chose the school, and these are the reasons I loved every minute of it.

When I left school, I still maintained relationships with some of my professors whether it was for networking purposes or just keeping in touch. But now, a year and a half after graduating, there is only one with whom I correspond. When I was on campus for a career fair this past fall, I saw him for a few minutes and renewed our email relationship. He was one of English professors, and I did not take a class with him until my final semester at school. The course was Memoir Writing and because we shared such personal details with one another, the class became very close. There was an element of trust among each of the students and our professor, and I never feared sharing anything about myself with them. I exposed myself more to this group than to anyone else in my life; my family, my sex life, and my self-esteem were spun into words and open to criticism. Out of all the writing workshops I had in college (five total - I was a Writing major), Memoir was my favorite. I learned so much from others' stories, as well as my own. And I appreciated having a professor who told us his own stories, even those about the first time he tried heroin or his parents' divorce. I will also admit that I had a schoolgirl crush on him, this slightly awkward and goofy writer who, incidentally, was married to my advisor.

Most recently, he has been sending me pieces he's written for his book, asking for my input or general critique. We also write about general life stuff: work, family, etc. When he mentioned he might come to Chicago, I told him to let me know. It would be great to catch up in person, rather than via email once every few weeks. Just a few weeks before Christmas he emailed me to tell me he'd be in town at the beginning of January. Would I be available for dinner? Sure.

We set a date for dinner and he called at the beginning of last week to solidify our plans. He'd asked for Mexican food, so I chose a place just down the street from my apartment. This way, I thought, I could easily meet him there. But when we spoke on the phone, he insisted that he would pick me up at my building.

"No, really, it's close. I can just walk."

"Right. So I'll just pick you up. 7:45ish? I'll be in your area visiting some aunts of mine."

Shit. This was becoming more datelike and less just dinnerish than I had planned. But I wasn't jumping to conclusions; it was my friends who thought this was odd.

"He's picking you up? Sounds like a date. Isn't he married?"

Yes, I told them. Married, with two children. His wife was my advisor. It wasn't going to be weird. True, he had sent me an email shortly following the aforementioned career fair telling me that "he couldn't help but stare because I looked so beautiful and sophisticated". At the time, I thought it was a little strange. One of my friends, who also knows this professor well, told me I was taking it too far. That I was beautiful and sophisticated, and that I should appreciate such a compliment.

The evening of our dinner, still thinking about what my friends had said, I put on one of the less sexy outfits in my closet. Chocolate brown oxford, jeans, and brown kitten heel pumps. This was something I would wear to work, and I was determined to make this evening seem as undatelike as possible. The phone rang around 7:40; it was the front desk letting me know that he was downstairs.

"I'll be right down," I said as I grabbed my coat and scarf. I did not want him coming upstairs.

When I saw him in the lobby, he greeted me as he has in the past: clasping my right hand and kissing me on the cheek. (For a brief moment, I wondered what the front desk attendant was thinking of my much older visitor - he's 18 years my senior.) We exchanged hellos and how are yous and started walking to the restaurant. We talked about our families and about the gay men in the building across from mine who I saw having sex once (they don't own any draperies and the building is pure windows). During dinner, we talked about writing and my job and his classes. Why I should move to New York. Books we've read, films we've seen, and music we're listening to. It was exactly the kind of conversation I expected to have with him.

(In retelling this story, my friend commented that this scene was so Woody Allen. I smiled because I have always wanted moments in my life to resemble Woody Allen films.)

The conversation shifted at times to sex and drugs, topics that had been widely discussed in my writing classes. Because of some of the stories I'd written, he knew about me giving my first blow job and when I lost my virginity. I knew how old he had been when he lost his. We talked about the drugs we'd done (I was the novice here) and about relationships. I asked about his kids, one of whom was born just after I graduated. I asked about his wife. He did not linger on these topics for very long.

Dinner was winding down. Our plates were cleared and the pitcher of margaritas was starting to look empty. I had been sipping my drink slowly all night, not wanting to let myself get drunk for fear of saying (or even doing) something stupid. I checked my watch. 9:20. I could still make it to my friend's birthday party downtown. But then he returned to the table and asked if he could buy me a drink someplace else nearby.

And this is when things got strange.

On Writing

I started this blog as a way to force myself back into writing. After graduating as an English Writing major and devoting much of my time in college to expressing creativity through words and stories, I stopped doing it altogether. It makes me sad that I don't write with the same frequency that I did in school, but I'm also not in an environment which encourages me to write. I did my best writing when given assignments and deadlines (I do most things best under such circumstances). I don't have the discipline to make myself write like that outside of college. So blogging has been the best way to structure my writing and encourage this good habit that's been hiding.

A few weeks ago one of my former writing professors (the one who got the best stuff out of me) asked me to read something he had written. It was a 26 page memoir piece and I dove right into reading and critiquing it for him. The comments I wrote in response were lengthy and detailed. I apologized for the volume of criticism in my email, but I noted that I had not been asked to critique writing in so long that I went slightly overboard. It was a feeling I had missed and one that I want back. Not only do I want the opportunity to read and respond to others, but I also want to write and get feedback. And not just in this forum, but elsewhere (not sure where at this point).

Reading my professor's work reminded me of the best day I ever had as a writer. It was a Nonfiction/Memoir course taught by the aforementioned instructor. It was my final semester in college and my final writing class. And this was our final writing assignment. Earlier in the semester we had been given specific topics to write on, but for our last piece we could choose to write about any experience. I'd had my idea for the piece since the semester began in February. It would be about sex, love, and my inability to navigate between the two. The highlight of my piece was a section about my first real boyfriend, an overly experienced 16 year old with whom I first had oral sex. And the description of performing my first blow job was where I had really let myself be honest and open with my readers. I had never written so openly before (and with such precise detail). The day our class workshopped my piece, I was the last person to be critiqued. And the comments were amazing. I had put so much effort into getting the story exactly how I wanted it, really crafting each sentence and section of the piece. But more importantly, I was totally honest about myself and didn't hold back. For some reason, I could remember minute details of that first blow job: the lighting in the room, the color of the sheets, the initial discomfort that never really disappeared.

The sexual experience I'd rather forget, but I will always remember the way it felt when my classmates and professor praised my work that day.

So you should be seeing more of me soon....I've got some ideas up my sleeve that I just need to get out. If only I could tear myself away from Grey's Anatomy, Nip/Tuck, and the World Series.

Question: Do you have specific stimulants that you need around while writing? Music? TV Shows? Food or beverage? Atmosphere? Is there a certain environment that gets you writing more?