by Hornyyoungin03 July 23, 2019
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by evil pixie December 28, 2005
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I was 20 years-old and didn't know what to do with those looks when they cropped up in unlikely places, from the eyes of men 16 years my senior. Especially from men who had spent a semester working through my first drafts and schooling me on the merits of Borges. I had enjoyed the look just as much as it terrified me.
The first email from him came after our end of the semester fiction reading. It was filled with typical what-are-you-doing-this-summer formalities, only amplified. . Would you mind taking a look at this piece I wrote?" As I read, my eyes had welled up with tears. I was taken aback, and since I'd spent all semester admiring the mind of this odd yet wise writing professor, I was intrigued.
Your hips remind me of my ex-girlfriend's hips.
The next email from him was equally generous, including the promised draft of a story he was hoping to market to literary journals. But then, at the very end, was a faint hint of what I'd always seen after class. "Your hips remind me of my ex-girlfriend's hips." A small thrill went through me. I foolishly typed back about my new salad dressing recipe, what I'd been working on, how Pale Fire was fucking impossible to get through (the irony that I was reading Nabakov that summer isn't lost on me).
I was 20 years-old and didn't know what to do with those looks when they cropped up in unlikely places, from the eyes of men 16 years my senior. Especially from men who had spent a semester working through my first drafts and schooling me on the merits of Borges. I had enjoyed the look just as much as it terrified me.
The first email from him came after our end of the semester fiction reading. It was filled with typical what-are-you-doing-this-summer formalities, only amplified. . Would you mind taking a look at this piece I wrote?" As I read, my eyes had welled up with tears. I was taken aback, and since I'd spent all semester admiring the mind of this odd yet wise writing professor, I was intrigued.
Your hips remind me of my ex-girlfriend's hips.
The next email from him was equally generous, including the promised draft of a story he was hoping to market to literary journals. But then, at the very end, was a faint hint of what I'd always seen after class. "Your hips remind me of my ex-girlfriend's hips." A small thrill went through me. I foolishly typed back about my new salad dressing recipe, what I'd been working on, how Pale Fire was fucking impossible to get through (the irony that I was reading Nabakov that summer isn't lost on me).
by Queen of Bitch fit September 17, 2016
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