Sometimes it takes a while to hit you. Week by week you wake up late for the tute, your hair a hungover haze that you don’t even bother to brush. When you listen to your tutor destroy your essay, you’re too busy trying not to puke to even notice your partner. But then one day he wears a tight shirt and suddenly you wish you hadn’t lost your lipstick on the Park End cheese floor the night before… Then sometimes it’s instantaneous. You run into the first tute of term praying that Dr Whatshisface will hate you less than Dr Whatabitch, and you freeze in the doorway, shocked by the definition of sex that stands in front of you and will be your co-sufferer for the next eight weeks. Yeah, it happens to all of us. We fancy the holy Jesus out of our tute partners.
Creaming Spires: 5th week MT
When it happened to me I was not at all prepared. I didn’t much like the person I was taking the paper with, so expectations were not high. The last thing I anticipated was turning up in first week to see a stranger, a god of muscle and tweed leaning against the wall, attentively eyeing me up as I walked up to him. Does he look like that at every woman? Somehow I doubted if the mane on my head was particularly appealing. But before I could introduce myself throatily (thank god I smoked too much last night) and bewitch him, our third, forgotten tute partner stormed in with loud hellos; bye bye moment. From then on life was a sweet kinda hell. All attempts at conversation between us were accompanied by a third wheel. Coffee after the tute? Never alone. I couldn’t give him my number, because the third one would want it too. Worst of all, he would never suggest ditching our unfortunate partner. I thought it meant that he didn’t have the same desires as me, so I lost all sanity. I’ll show him.
I no longer cared if cleavage that deep was appropriate for academic setting. I would have worn nipple tassels if it caught the attention of the deity opposite me. Suddenly I started caring about essays and the reading more than ever before; the bastard will sure as hell realise that I have a sexy, sexy brain. I became deranged and the confused looks our tutor threw at me meant nothing. Sure, the deity was perfectly lovely to me. But not lovely enough to screw me on a library desk as we examined next week’s reading list. I was losing hope. And then a text came: “Swap books? Over a drink?” Somehow he did get my number after all.
