I’d like to try something with you, dear readers. It’s an exercise in guided imagery. I know, that sounds stupid, or silly, or crazy, but bear with me for just a few sentences. It’s the only way I know how to accurately describe to you the agonizing disappointment I experienced after going to office hours only to discover there was not one singular iota of sexual tension between me and my GSI:
It’s raining. It’s dead week. You’ve got that essay. You know, the big one? The hard one? I mean, you’ve got a pretty good handle on it (save one minor question about what your GSI would prefer). You could ask your question over email, but it’s not the same. Email is a place devoid of sexual tension. And sexual tension is all you desire with your GSI.
All semester, you’ve gone to section, but not to take notes. Nay, you’ve gone to watch your GSI’s sweet, sweet lips move and write GSI erotica in the margins of your notebook. You already understand the course material; you want to understand your GSI’s coarse material.
So you go to office hours. You go, ready to see four months of buildup come to fruition.
But you get there and walk in on your GSI and their spouse fucking in Barrows, because you’ve neglected to notice that your GSI had a wedding ring on all semester and had ignored their explicit email telling everyone not to go to office hours on Monday at noon. And to make matters worse, you aren’t even invited to join. You open the door to witness two flailing, semi-nude bodies struggling to disentangle and two angry voices yelling at you to,“Get the fuck out.”
Drats! You’ve been cucked. However, you’re not one to give up that easily. You wait outside the door until your GSI’s spouse sheepishly leaves, averting your gaze, and then enter, ready to swoop in when your GSI is most vulnerable. You pretend to have seen nothing and ask your question with a coy tone. Nobody can resist your charm offense. This is it. This is the moment. You’ve got this, hook, line, and sinker.
Or so you thought. Oh, how wrong you were. How very wrong. Your GSI takes a moment and answers: “No, I don’t think so.”
You fool. You imbecile! Why would you ask a yes or no question?
And so, despondent and horny, you pick up your backpack and leave, thwarted once again by the institution of academia.