BERKELEY, Calif. — I opened Grindr on Tuesday afternoon expecting to see the usual assortment of DL trade within a 500-foot radius: 40-year-old men with wives, Republican assembly members, and at least one pledge in the frat I live next to. What I did not expect to see was my professor: Hung. As. Hell.
What do I do in this situation? God forbid a guy wants to doomscroll on the toilet in Moffit like everyone else does. That’s the moment when I stumbled upon him— I saw his face and immediately forgot everything I knew about my midterm.
Wait, what class does he even teach? Something about anatomy? Haha. Anatomy. Haha. Dih. Fuck, I’m getting distracted again.
I tapped him on Grindr— wouldn’t you? It’s not like he knows it’s me; I’m too chopped to have a face pic on that app. Anyways, I ask if he’s a top or bottom— you know, purely for research purposes— and he replies, “I’m whatever you want me to be, baby ;)”. Like, what? Who texts like that, OTHER than a bottom? He definitely likes playing hide the sausage.
And that’s when he sent it. That God-forsaken snapshot. That picture of his hairy, puckered rose. His brown star of David. And his manhood, god— it must’ve been the length of a medium-sized bluebook and the girth of a Top Dog frankenfurter. Skinny and long, just like the Campanile. It honestly filled me with a little school spirit.
So, he can send me a nude, unprompted, but it takes him 6-7 days to respond to my EdDiscussion question? Right, right. Anyways, I can’t wait to post a screenshot of his profile on my Close Friends story and move on with my life. I feel like I’ve opened Pandora’s box— except instead of a box, it’s a gaping, douched hole.