Hard Evidence- The Collected Bawdy Writings

by Kevin Keck

  After she had exited my course for the semester, Belinda relentlessly pursued me. I shrugged her off. It wasn't out of arrogance that I kept this beauty at bay—had she possessed a greater sense of self-esteem Belinda could have easily made a living on the fashion runway—but rather the fact that I genuinely love—loved—my job, and at the time it seemed foolish to squander all of that over the temptation of forbidden fruit.

  But it was becoming too much. Each day at school Belinda wore an outfit more revealing than the day before, and it was not long before I found myself jerking off as silently as possible in the bathroom stall next to the one where the Dean was taking a crap. It is a sad thing to have to ejaculate beside your boss as he lets loose a long, slow, staccato fart.

  I was unwilling to yield to Belinda’s seduction because I felt like a fuck-up due to my prior indiscretions, and now that I was making a full-time salary and had health insurance I wasn’t about to break any rules. So I checked the rules to find a way around them, and there, on page thirty-four of the faculty handbook was the loophole I longed for: “... sexual relationships between faculty and students whom they teach or supervise are prohibited.” I needed no clarification of that policy: whom they teach or supervise—Belinda was not in my class, never would be again, and I was never in a position to supervise her. Certainly I wouldn’t be fucking her on my desk for all to see, but I surmised that, operating under the cloak of discretion, the policy gave me a green light to satiate my desires.

  It was only a scant few hours after educating myself on the school’s policy that I invited Belinda over and found myself tangled up, for what I hoped would be the last time, with one of my (former) students. I had never had a beautiful woman so willing to succumb to every whim that was born of my loins, and when she magically produced a vibrator and began rubbing it around my balls and ass as I fucked her over a mirror I thought I had found the woman of my dreams.

  I am a finicky individual, however, and there is one quality a woman must possess in order to date me: the same unceasing desire to smoke pot and dance while listening to The Grateful Dead. (The utter absurdity of this characteristic is not lost on me.) Belinda possessed neither of these characteristics, and when I took her to a bluegrass festival where she elegantly and coolly smoked cigarettes and looked completely unamused the entire time, I knew it was time to call it quits.

  Besides, as hot as the sex with Belinda was (and it truly was the stuff that dreams are made of), something just wasn’t clicking with her. I began to notice that her sole desire was to fulfill every one of my desires, and that was an attitude that I didn’t warm up to all that well. For starters, it reminded me of my mother. Also, my parents doted on me so much in my formative years that I have developed a rather unpleasant sense of entitlement—I try in my heart of hearts to be selfless and loving to all creatures, but if someone gives me the impression that they will wait on me hand and foot, well, by golly, who am I to turn down such an act of submission?

  It makes me queasy to think that the ways in which we relate to one another as human beings are simply behaviors programmed into us when we all lacked the ability to reason whether what we were learning was right or not. In considering every relationship I have pursued with a student, what I see is people (including me) fumbling for some semblance of familiarity with their romantic quests. (Also, it helps to recall that every single student I've slept with at some point has unnervingly referred to me as “daddy,” and usually while my cock was inside them or dangling above their heads.) I made an attempt to not exercise the programming I had received as a child: my parents are still locked in a relationship that is unequal; my father is still the Professor, my mother is still his willing student. It is this imbalance of power that occasionally erodes the structure of happiness they have erected. My father wants to be in charge, my mother still longs for the independence from her mentor that each student should always seek, and I have been a casual observer of this all my life. Fortunately, one doesn’t need to see every option to know the one they’ve been witnessing isn’t the best.

  It was at that same bluegrass festival that I ran into Jenny, a girl who was in the same class as Belinda the previous semester. When Jenny offered me a joint as she began to kick up a little hoe-down action of her own, I felt myself swoon. That loophole in the policy applied to her as well. The following day was Belinda’s birthday, and I knew I could never break up with her then. So I ended things the day after her birthday, which may have been a terrible thing to do, but I figured it was better to break up with her than cheat on her.

  That same logic, however, did not apply to Jenny. Jenny was nothing less than wonderful, but Belinda wouldn’t let me go that easily, and being the miserable weak-willed sap that I am I allowed her to hang-on. And so I kept going back, back to her breasts, which were as magnificent and well-proportioned as any breasts I have ever glimpsed. (For a time I considered photographing them and sending the photos to the National Association of Plastic Surgeons with a note indicating that any breast augmentation that yielded results different from the enclosed photo was a failure.) I kept going back because Belinda would call me on the phone, beg to be fucked like a little whore, would beg for my come on her face, would delight me with tales of her day-long masturbation sessions during which she thought only of my cock in her mouth. And despite the fact that I knew I was just some surrogate for that figure of power that she longed to have dominate her, I couldn’t say no. I do not have the inner resources to deny such supplication. On the other hand, Jenny never said those kinds of things, but it didn’t matter: I fell so completely in love with Jenny, because something in her stirred my soul. Also, that girl can take a bong hit.

  Naturally, she found out. I do not make claims of being very smart or clever, let alone the master of discretion. Also, Belinda finally got pissed that I would only meet her in the afternoons; she felt she was entitled to a night on the town. But Jenny stayed with me, not that I deserved her. She told me that she could forgive me, but that meant never lying to her again. She said she wanted a relationship built on trust, and that meant treating her as an equal, and with respect. It would seem like the obvious course to take in any relationship; I’m surprised how difficult it is for everyone (especially me) to get that.

  But I lied to her again anyway, and this is why I’m sitting at the kitchen table now at this unholy hour with an erection that is becoming increasingly painful. I lied about a phone call. Belinda called, I spoke with her briefly, and when Jenny asked me who it was I lied. I lied because I didn’t want to argue about why Belinda had called, which was simply to say hello. (Also, Buffy the Vampire Slayer was about to come on television, and I can’t have a serious discussion when that show is on.) So by some fluke they met at a party, which I failed to attend, having been slain earlier by a bong I refer to affectionately as “The Kevorkian.” One thing lead to another, my lie about the phone call came out, and now all I can think about is how fucking hot my ex looks in that Catholic school girl outfit, and how just touching her would send a rocket of jism from my dick straight to the moon. But she is not the woman I love, and this presents a dilemma.

  Jenny has packed her things and gone, leaving Belinda here. When Belinda has gone to the bathroom, I call Jenny’s cell phone and leave a message telling her that I understand why she has packed her things, but that I love her. I tell her that I do not care about anything but her, that even though the faculty handbook leaves room for assuming this relationship is okay, I’m going to the Dean first thing the next day and telling him about the two of us because I want everyone to know how much I love her.

  When Belinda returns from the bathroom she is completely naked. My cock pops through the flap in my boxers, and she says:

  “Well, someone is certainly glad to see me.”

  Like so many other occasions, I am without an intelligible response.

  “Look,” she says, “I know we never had that much in common, but no one makes me come like you. So you can have w
hat you want with her, do whatever, but don’t stop fucking me. This can be just about sex, if that’s what you want.” She places her hands on my thighs, leans to my ear and says, “Isn’t that what you want, daddy?”

  Before I can answer, the phone rings out like an alarm.

  * * *

  I write these words sitting in my car in front of The Art School, which I was forced to resign from last week. Apparently there was another policy, in another handbook, which I was never given. There were no loopholes in that one. I was actually given notice in the middle of my last class on Monday that I should collect my personal belongings before I left. It was a good day to be lecturing on A Tale of Two Cities.

  I am here now because Jenny totaled her car, and so I must drive her everyday to the place where I no longer work, and then drive there again to pick her up. I park at the edge of campus, where the girls pass by my car and do not take a second look at me. I do not look at them for very long either, but instead return my gaze quickly to the classified section of the paper, hoping there has been an opening for an instructor of English Literature at the all-male parochial school.

  Acknowledgments

  I try my level best to avoid pandering when it comes to thanking people where a book is concerned. After all, in most instances a book is a private matter—if other people have any worthwhile involvement during the writing process, it is probably because they gave the author refuge and comfort when he cracked up during the middle of the book, or when he fell to pieces thinking about starting the book, or when he finally finished the goddamned book and then went all to shit. While assembling this collection I was kept on the straight and narrow by Chad Snyder: It was rough weather for a while, but we do not speak of such brushes with peril, do we, old friend?

  About the Author

  Kevin Keck is the author of the books Oedipus Wrecked and Are You There God? It's Me. Kevin. His work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Details, Maxim, and other fine literary magazines. You can find him on the internet at www.thekeck.com.