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Thursday, May 26, 2005

Intelligent Men 

I have in this blog talked about how much I like funny men. I have also mentioned my attraction to musical men. But I haven’t yet delved into what really turns me on about a man: his mind.

For me, the biggest aphrodisiac of all is intelligence. Being in the company of a man whom I find intellectually challenging is simultaneously attractive and intimidating: I love that a man can stimulate my mind and fire up my neurons; I also feel nervous faced with his ability to highlight my own intellectual weaknesses. The result of this paradox is that it excites me. Ergo, I feel horny.

I remember one of my tutors. A few years older than me, he was not a particularly attractive man. He drank and smoked far too much and obviously indulged in unhealthy eating given his large size. And aside from having no sense of fashion, it was clear that he was quite a geek and somewhat of a nerd too – not really your typical testosterone-fuelled Alpha Male type that is supposed to be what women fancy.

Yet I am sure he had pussy falling out of his pockets.

Or at least he would have had my pussy falling out of his pocket had I decided to cross the line between tutor and student.

You see, regardless of how he looked or carried himself, the man had a brain on him, which was just intolerably sexy to me. My mind would go to mush every time he would talk about Postmodernism. One mention of Derrida, and I was captivated. A brief exploration of Lyotard and I was hooked. A quick attack on McLuhan and my heart started beating. And when he began to talk about how pornography was a transgressive movement against conservatism, my pants would get soaked.

It is fair to say that I had a massive crush on his mind.

During his lectures, I would sit there, transfixed on his arguments; his every word making my breath race and my pussy get wet. On more than one occasion, I would have to leave the lecture hall to go to the toilet to relieve myself from the throbbing between my legs. I even sat at the back of the room, so that I could make a quick exit to enable myself to frig. For three years.

And after the lectures, we would have seminars. Otherwise known as getting drunk with the tutors in the cheap student bar. We both got on very well of course, and would spend hours in debate, discussion, or in blazing arguments, whilst seeing who could down the most beers at the same time. Other students would join us, but the connection between us two was on another level. And that level was sex.

He knew about me. That is to say, he read me very well. Not only because I regularly wrote theses about feminism, pornography and sexuality, but through our discussions about sex, and our ability to be very frank with each other, I know that he was as open-minded as me, if not more so: not many students would know that their tutor liked to tie his partners up, and whip, spank and tease them, before fucking them hard. But I knew this - and more - about him. And he knew about me too.

There was some sexual tension between us to say the least. But neither of us explored it. Apart from the issues surrounding tutor/student relationships (ie, not allowed), I didn’t want anything to jeopardise my studies.

Being a fiend for knowledge and a proud student, I absorbed every piece of information I could and always strived to be the best. I would get disappointed if I got less than an A minus in any subject, and would work even harder to ensure that my grades kept up to the A plusses I expected of myself. If I had fucked my tutor it would have meant that I couldn’t trust his grading of my work afterwards: something I couldn’t bear to happen. I wanted to know that I had earned and deserved every mark I got and not worry that he was being biased based on the abilities of my pussy.

So we didn’t shag and I’m thankful, because it meant I knew my final mark was based on my knowledge, hard work, and ability to construct an argument - skills I have tried to maintain in my everyday adult life.

Plus of course, not fucking him left me wanting more: there is nothing nicer than being on the edge of your chair with excitement due to debating with someone whom you find intellectually stimulating.

Even if your pants are soaked.

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