Op-Ed: My Tutorial Partner is Clearly Trying to Instigate a Threesome With Me and Our Professor

It was our second class together when I first realized it. Maybe it was the way her auburn locks flowed down her back, almost like a river rushing forth from a dam as the dam supervisor screams, “Somebody help! Somebody help! The dam, the dam it’s burst! The dam has burst,” or maybe it was the turgid glances she would sneak towards me during each and every class. Regardless, my tutorial partner was undoubtedly, madly, vociferously in love with me. Her every word seemed to quake with longing as she would say things like, “Frankly your entire thesis is poorly conceived and I have no clue where you’re going with this,” or “Your response paper can’t just be one line that says, ‘Maybe you should have a big strong man look this one over next time, sweetheart.’” There was a wild look in her eyes that roared out, “Fear me! Fear me! Fear your king, the king of the jungle!” I knew better, however. I always had. It only took one look, one stare, one peer behind those round enigmas, and I found it all, a different tune, a different mindset, a wholly different puzzle behind the first puzzle. Masked behind that loud, raging, thunderous aggression was a girl crying out just to say, “Hold me.” Her every word beckoned for my response. She would frantically email me asking for my tutorial paper, claiming, “I can’t do my response paper if you haven’t given me anything to respond to!” Of course, I’d played this little game before, I knew what she was after. Behind a facade of academia, and “trying to do well in this class” her attempts to woo me were as obvious as the warm breaths that flee forth from our mouths on cold wintry days, filling the air with a cloud of smoke as they go, heating, breathing, being. Naturally, our tutorial sessions were charged with an electricity one might feel on a picturesque, beautiful, unkempt, green pasture before an oncoming storm, irrefutable, insurmountable. Dr. Linden, our tutorial professor, was the same. His every word seemed soaked in an immeasurable sense of wonder, and he longed for my warmth, just how a badger cub is drawn ever closer to the cave it will inevitably hibernate in. With each passing comment of “Your writing is honestly unreadable,” and “Are you fucking brain dead? No, like seriously, are you fucking brain dead,” the temperature rose like a sauna in the Alaskan tundra, a final refuge of life amongst a cold, desolate, barren wasteland. I can hardly bear the raw sexual tension as we discuss the harsh realities of a post-Soviet Uzbekistan. The three of us locked in singing, scalding, burning debate, intellectual giants yelling, stomping, fighting, but we all yearn for more. Soon, the iron curtain will fall, my democracy will be unleashed upon the free world, and all will rejoice shouting out like a crowd of angry hornets, but like in a good way, buzzing and stinging and living free at last, free finally, free of the constant worries of tyranny!