Nobody is Safe

It isn't that I'm not interested in what's being said in class. It's just that I'm more interested in the 2-inch-wide, black, leather band clasped noticeably too tightly around my instructor's right wrist. While he's talking about a famous criticism of Proust, I'm imagining the cool damp moistness that's undoubtedly collecting beneath the band. I rub my thumb over my wrist and feel sorry for how red and irritated my professors must be by this point in the afternoon, and I start asking myself why he would put himself through that. This line of questioning can't end well, and in fact, it doesn't. To be more specific, it ends with the assumption that my professor is some sort of bondage/s&m fetishist who is almost certainly wearing his wife's underwear beneath his loose-fitting cotton pants. As he turns around to write, "epistemology," on the board, I can't help but notice the not-so-subtle indication of a wedgie, and my suspicions are confirmed.

I took my friend to a psychic once. The psychic took a moment away from my friend's reading to tell me that I'm, "the kind of person who can size people up instantly, and [I'm] not often wrong." While I take the assessment as a compliment, and as a way to boost my already out of control ego, I hope, in the instance of this professor, that the psychic is wrong.