The Masturbator

When I was in college here in Kentucky, I became Known on campus, or at least in the English Department. I wasn't the most punctual or active student, so I was not infamous for that. No, I was Known for a piece I wrote. I have ever been an opportunist. I wrote this piece about a negative experience I had with another student in the class: The Masturbator. I remember printing and stapling the piece- a 12 page masterpiece of vitriol and punishment- before handing it out that fateful Friday. He took one and I smiled at him. I wonder if he remembers that, as well. Here is, largely, the piece that slayed a man. Anytime I stroll into a classroom and it's outfitted with actual tables and chairs I unabashedly revel in the opportunity to have a place to comfortably put my belongings. I hate the cramped, little wrap-around desks that NKU seems to think are “efficient.” A tall, tanned fellow approached the chair beside me and paused. I flicked my blue eyes up to his dark ones and was rewarded with a smile from him. Not a bad smile, I guess, but boys' smiles don't affect me like they used to. It could have been an award-winning eligible bachelor smile for all I know. He asked tentatively, “Can I sit here?” His question struck me as odd—it's not like we were at a wedding or a school dance or something. I don't care where you sit in class. Honestly, I'm not the best conversationalist. I'm a passing fair smiler-and-giggler, but the truth of my social success, such as it is, is my arrogant meanness. My most recent nickname is “The Eviscerator,” for I often disembowel my male friends in semi-playful banter. I'm extremely awkward if I'm not being a heinous bitch. Class began and I remained basking in the glory of a separate chair from desk situation—arm hooked over the back, right leg crossed over my left, shoulders back. I spared my neighbor a glance and realized he was “arranging himself,” which I contend as the most distracting thing a guy can do, for all parties involved. Quickly, I realized he was arranging a boner. Fuck. I moved to shift in my seat, but hesitated. I decided to be cool, like I hadn't noticed. I figured it was embarrassing for most boys and it wasn't like he could help it. I decided to take it as a compliment and hoped it went away. Soon. A few minutes later, I'll admit, I peeked. I wanted to know if we were in the clear and nothing weird was going on, but there he was, long olive fingers wrapped around his dick, squeezing it rhythmically. He stroked it, moved it and squeezed it again. I don't own a penis, but I'm pretty sure this is not the recommended method for getting rid of an inappropriate woody. Upon this discovery, there were many words to describe my reaction, including, but not limited to: abhorred, disgusted, enraged, betrayed and revolted. We were thirty minutes into class when I noticed he had started pinching the head of his cock, still habitually looking at me. I was hoping to get out of class as fast as possible, but before I could skedaddle he asked about my tattoos. “Yeah, sure,” I said, which was not an answer. My eyes narrowed and all I saw was the door. I was angry. I had done nothing, which was the worst thing I could have done. He was momentarily rebuffed but smiled and purred, “I really like that dress.” I hope my eyes flashed as venomously as I think they did. An Evisceration was on my lips as I hefted my purse to my shoulder, but all I said was, “Yeah. I bet you do.” I saw the opportunity to tell him what I thought of his actions that day. I couldn't let him get away with it, and live his life without knowing. Dear Reader, I gave The Masturbator his own story. The day of my workshop I could not shake my nerves, I jittered and skittered through the entire day. I saw my friend, C, hanging in the hall, a text perched on her knees. “He's pretty mad, huh?” She asked. “Who?” I wanted to know. I was scared the teacher would consider my story highly inappropriate, or worse, side with the Masturbator. “You ought to check the blackboard,” she said, eyes wide behind her metal framed glasses. It was gold. A treasure trove of insults and accusations and acknowledgement. He admitted it happened. I did not name him, but he outed himself. I was elated. I floated to class that day. He didn't come to my critique. During my workshop, my professor asked me why I was the Wimp, not the Eviscerator. It was a shame, to listen to the professor tell on himself, as well. It was clear that he did not look at the Blackboard, that he did not click the little hypertext links to peruse his students' reviews. When I turned in my final draft I explained myself. The professor read my portfolio, complete with the ending of the Masturbator's tale, and emailed me. He said he would take it up with the Dean. I shrugged it off. The next semester, C, who worked in the Office, let me know she'd looked at the student files. They expelled the Masturbator. Eviscerated.

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