Obsessive Behavior

I admit it. I’m obsessed with sex. I’m 62. My shoulders slump, my belly protrudes, my hair is gray and thinning, and my joints ache so badly that for me climbing a set of stairs is like climbing Mt. Kilimonjero. Yet, I remain obsessed with sex.

Most men my age spend Saturdays with their wives at the mall. They take them to church on Sunday. They rock grandbabies on their knee. But I don’t. Instead I avoid children like their diseased, and I send my wife off alone to any damn place she wants to go. Moreover, while she’s gone, I look at pictures of naked women, and while I ponder their splendid nakedness, I masturbate. I told you, I am obsessed with sex.

It has always been this way. When I was a child, probably no more than six, I saw my sister’s girlfriend getting undressed. She was eighteen. The room was dark and I was supposedly asleep, but as I lay there in the darkness, I could see her silhouette in the moonlight as each layer of clothing fell to the floor, a tiny sliver of light outlining her bountiful curves. I’m sure it was only seconds that she stood there naked, but I, through one astonished eye, soaked in every blessed detail for what seemed like an eternity. She was gorgeous, the moment enthralling, and it is as vivid to me today as it was that night so long ago.

I can still remember all those sensations that gripped my body as I watched … tingling sensations the likes of which I had never felt before. I was all at once afraid and excited, and at that moment … a spiritual event that lasted but a few seconds … my life was forever affected.

I doubt that there has been a day since that I haven’t wanted to recapture those feelings, and as time has past, I’ve done everything I could to recapture them. In my early teens it was masturbation. Later on it was copping a feel at the movies. Later still it was outright sex. And in all the days since, no day has past when I wasn’t ready, willing and able to find the time and the place to act upon my desires.

Like most others, much of that action has been between my hand and I. Nevertheless, I’ve acted. Others take up hobbies. Some invest their time in sports. Still others become workaholics. While all of those things have had application in my life, only one thing has ever rivaled my obsession with sex … my obsession with writing … and sex still ranks number one.

My wife doesn’t know about my obsession with sex. Or if she does, she’s never alluded to it. Our sex life ended after our third year of marriage, after her sense of passion and mine took separate turns. Yes, I said I was obsessed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need some stimulation. She on the other hand seemed to be more content with a quick and sudden ride. Truth is, I lost interest … not in sex. Just her. I suppose … if I were to be totally honest … she probably lost interest in me, too, thus explaining her satisfaction with the quick and sudden rides. After all, slumping shoulders, protruding belly, thinning hair; clearly, I don’t garner up images of the perfect man.

There was a time when I would have found my gratification in someone other than her. It had been that way with my first wife. My eyes often wandered in those days, and not far behind, so did I. I’ve long since lost count of the extra-marital dalliances I engaged in during that time. But in those days I also had an erect back, a flat tummy, and an abundance of hair. I had character lines, not wrinkles. Eyes looked at me, too, and I took advantage of every glance.

Not any more. Today, the only real looks I ever get are those of pity. Any fool can see that I’m old.

That’s why my obsession bothers me so much. That’s why this dilemma I’m now in is so utterly absurd.

The problem began last fall. I had accepted a job as an adjunct professor at a small upstate college in New York teaching a class in creative writing. That was the initial absurdity; that I’d be teaching anything, let alone teaching writing. My only claim to fame was one successful book, and though it had been extremely successful, it hardly qualified me to teach creative writing. In fact, if anything, I was better qualified to teach what not to do. That book had taken me seven years. It was the tenth that I had written, the others of which still sit on my shelf unpublished right along side all of the rejection slips each collected along the way. Then came the “big one,” my one taste of success. It was a novel about dealing with failure titled “Wolves On The Doorstep,” and it was far more biographical then I care to remember. I wrote it between wives, at a time when I was always broke, more stoned than sober, and I barely remember even writing it. But somehow I found an agent who found a Publisher, who spent the money to get it distributed, and the next thing I knew, I was an overnight success. I even got nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.

Overnight! Twenty-two years after I had penned my first work, I was now in the big time. That’s a long time for instant success, but once it came, man did I enjoy it. I migrated from North Carolina to New York, from a trailer to a Penthouse, from grass to coke, and from hometown honeys to Big Apple Debs, all within a span of months. I attended signings, did talk shows, gave interviews, got laid by rich women, ate at the best restaurants, and wore the term “celebrity” like it was a custom fitted suit.

Then it faded. Like a foggy day, it disappeared, one mist at a time, until one day I realized it was over. It was almost like it had never existed, like a dream that seems real until you awaken, then within minutes you can hardly remember the dream.

Funny thing about fame: Sometimes it’s over and you don’t even know it. I sure as hell didn’t … not at first. Oh, people still seemed to remember my name, and occasionally I’d still get invited to a social event. I’d even do a book reading once in awhile. But the name recognition grew less and less, the parties fewer and fewer, and the readings more obscure until one day I realized, I was a has-been … good old “what’s-his-name, you know, the guy who wrote that book.” Before I knew it, my obsession for writing had turned into a nightmare.

I stayed in New York, got a flat in SoHo that looked like a writer’s, and started hanging out where other writers do, places where I still held on to some celebrity. I learned how to act the part, too … a little aloof, condescending; self important, just like most of the other “successes” I’d met while riding my star. And I played the part well, easily garnering the ire of those who had at one time admired me. But I didn’t care. I was the guy who wrote that book, “Wolves On The Doorstep.” I had ridden a star, and I wasn’t ready to get off. Obsession.

My agent said that I needed to get to work on my next success. He even got me a $50,000 advance as an incentive. So I pretended to write. That’s all I could do, pretend, because no real words flowed. I vividly remembered all the anguish of my earlier efforts, and no words worth printing would come forward. Plus, even with the advance, I was quickly going broke.

Ultimately, I married again. Abigail.

Abigail came from money, and she had a history of hanging around the artsy types. I guess at that time I fit that picture, because in short order she was hanging around me like a bill collector. She was tall and attractive, even for a woman her age, and she seemed to love what I loved … booze, coke, sex, even writing. In my own way, I loved her, too. She was the meal ticket that would keep me writing.

In the beginning it was like we were kindred souls, two playmates who loved to play. Then as things continued to sour for me as a writer, things also soured for us as a couple. She blamed it on the coke. I blamed it on her ambivalence. We both blamed it on New York. So we moved to her place in the Hamptons where we could avoid all the pitfalls of big city life, I could write, and the two of us could rekindle the romance of our past.

But the past never returned. We both simply proceeded to get old.

That was about sixteen years ago. After that, as we kept waiting for the sparks to re-ignite, I kept on writing. Both my publisher and my agent insisted, either that or refund the advance. And I tried. Oh how I tried. I wrote every day, six hours a day. I wrote anything and everything, knowing, no hoping, no praying, that somehow words would appear that flowed with the elegance of my past. I sent them stuff. They returned it. I sent them more stuff, but it was returned. Initially their comments were encouraging. “You’re getting close,” they would say. “Keep at it,” the agent would write. But then their words grew harsher and more impatient, until finally one day my agent wrote, “You’re on your own, big boy. I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

It was shortly after that when I got the invitation to teach, and I took it. I took it to appease them, my agent and my publisher. I took it seeking inspiration. I took it to escape the doldrum that was Abigail. But most of all I took it because somewhere deep inside me I believed that some unsuspecting student, some fresh and unencumbered mind, might share with me, his mentor, those magical words that would give me my next big hit. In short, I accepted because I had larceny on my mind.
___________

My apartment was above a hardware store that overlooked the campus. It wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be. I was there alone, I rarely cooked, and I only needed enough space to write, store my research, and to sleep and bathe. This it gave me. There was a small living room that included a kitchenette, a bathroom, and an area that opened to the living area in which I kept my bed. There was a bay window to the front where I placed my desk and computer, giving me an unobstructed view of the campus.

I consciously convinced myself that this view would give me the inspiration I needed to once more write, but my real motive was spying, though spying for what I didn’t know. I only knew that spying is what I did, hour after hour, day after day, using all my moments of free time to watch the campus population stroll by. I never wrote. I only watched … day in day out … watching the students, particularly the females, strolling, talking, playing, and occasionally I would masturbate to the rhythm of it all.
__________

To paraphrase Will Rodgers, I never met a woman I didn’t like … or for that matter didn’t want to fuck. Though that’s not totally true … there‘ve been a few I wouldn’t have wrestled … I can almost always find something in a woman that lights my fire. Big ones, short ones, thin ones, fat ones. Large breasts, small breasts, thick thighs and thin. I’ve loved them all, that is, as long as they possessed sensuality.

That has always been the key for me. Sensuality. Some women have it, others don’t, and you can usually tell which is which within minutes. It’s the way they carry themselves, or the way they look at you. It’s as though there is an erotic gleam in their eye, a come-fuck-me smile that exposes their desires. It’s not that they want you. It’s more like a beacon of light that says for the right guy, they could give him the ride of his life. These were the women that caught my eye, and once it was caught, I was on the hunt … that is back in the old days when my hair and shoulders and belly weren’t an issue.

But as age has taken it’s toll and as I’ve come to realize that my hunting skills rarely matched the talent of the hunted, I’ve been forced more to admiration and gawking, rather than hunting. I’ve grown into the passive observer who wants to play but can’t. That is what I’ve become. That is why I spy from my window.

Her name was Leesa. I first saw her from my apartment window in early September, right before the fall semester was to begin. We were experiencing a few days of Indian summer, and though the leaves were starting to turn, the weather was exceptionally warm. Students covered the Commons like ants, playing touch football, throwing Frisbees, sitting under the majestic Oaks that guarded the perimeter. They were everywhere, all seeking that one last fling with the sun. In a mass like that, you would expect that no one individual would stand out. But Leesa did. All the way across the Commons, Leesa did.

I first noticed her hair, massive waves of it flowing down across her bosoms as she sat below a distant Oak. It was the color of honey with sharp streaks of gold flowing through it that glistened with each ray of sun. Then she stood, and I could see that she was wearing a pair of faded jeans, jeans that could have easily been painted to her long willowy legs. Her hips were lean, her buttocks firm, and her body seemed to sway in rhythm with the breeze just as the limbs of the oaks seemed to do. She was wearing a tight blouse that exposed the flatness of her midriff. Large breasts protruded just above. At this distance I couldn’t clearly make out her features, but I instinctively knew that no person with a body this superb could be anything but gorgeous. I watch her from the moment I noticed her to the moment she left, mesmerized by her movements, and once more the sensations of my youth filled my loins.

The next time I saw her was in class. Though only 27 students had signed up for my lectures, the college provided me with a lecture hall that would have easily seated 100. When I entered it that first day, my mouth dry with anticipation, I felt as though I’d entered the darkness of a damp dreary cave. Students were scattered everywhere, no more than two or three clustered in any location. Standing near the podium I instructed all of them to come forward. It was then that I saw her again, her long flowing body majestically floating down the steps to a seat near the front. On that day she was wearing a red plaid skirt and high black boots and a cream colored sweater that demanded that your eyes focus on its contents. As I absorbed every detail, she smiled.

I have no idea what I said that day. Call it first-day nerves, classroomitis, anything you want. All I know is I could not look up from my notes for fear of seeing her location. Because every time my eyes did see her, I went dumbfounded. Even as I spoke, internally I was praying for that day to end, that my eyes not meet hers again.

Ironically, my thoughts the next day were just the opposite. I thought of nothing but seeing her again. Like an angel looking in, I could see myself at the podium or moving about the stage, waxing eloquent wisdom about my craft. I could see her too, watching my every move, fascinated by my knowledge, mesmerized by my persona, as I shared my wealth of talent.

Unfortunately, the figure I saw that was “me” was a “me” from a far distant past. In truth the “me” that took the stage that second day was the “me” whose shoulders sagged, whose belly protruded and whose hair continued to gray. I realized that all too well when one student asked, “Wasn’t writing a lot more structured back in your day?”

But the classes continued, and with time I settled in, finding my rhythm if you will, as I learned how to interface my past with their present. I even felt effective as more and more of the students sought me out for individual advice, and work assignments moved to a more personal side.

I grew used to Leesa, too, though my lust never subsided. I guess that in reality I somehow put it under control, because in time, I could actually look her in the eye and not have my eyes magnetize to her breasts. That alone was a major accomplishment. But that all changed the day she asked to see me after class.
___________

It was a poem she told me. Would I be so kind as to critique it? I took it from her nonchalantly, almost absent mindedly as my mind had wandered to other things. I opened the folded piece as though it were a simple note from home, a flippant message to bring home eggs or something like that. But then I read it:

The leaves of spring arise anew,
Arrogant in their beauty.
But if beauty is reserved only for the young,
Then why are the leaves their most beautiful
In the fall of their time?

I read it again, trying to absorb its meaning. Somehow, I felt I had found it, but I was afraid to believe it. “It’s pretty,” I observed. “But, Leesa, honestly, I’m no critic of poetry. I’m barely qualified to speak to you of prose.”

“Do you understand it?” She asked.

“I’m not sure,” I responded. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you are saying.”

“It’s about time,” she smiled, “about age. We always think of beauty as the possession of the young, don’t you think? But look at the leaves. Clearly they are at their most lovely in the fall … when they are their oldest … right before they die. Don’t you agree?”

Blushing, I answered that I’d never really thought about it. But the truth is, I had thought about it. I had looked in my mirror, even as recently as that morning, and knew that the person staring back at me was nowhere close to being as “beautiful” as he had once been. Nonetheless, I liked the thought. More important, I liked the idea that it was hers.

“Will you help me with it?” I heard her say.

“What?” I asked, not even realizing she meant the poem. My mind had suddenly drifted off on some far out excursion of its own. I recovered and replied, “Leesa, I told you, I have no working knowledge of poetry.”

“But you have the passion of a poet,” she retorted. “I read your novel. I know what’s in you. I need to have what you have. I need to feel your passion.”

At that point, my passion was growing right before her very eyes. Fortunately, my legs were crossed in a fashion that hid that truth.

“I’ll consider it,” I told her. “But not now. I have papers to grade, and a full afternoon of other things planned.”

“No, not now,” she agreed. “I was hoping you might be willing to let me come by your place to work on it when your schedule is less full. Can we say tomorrow night?”

“Leesa, I don’t know. I …”

She had retreated by that time, and she was moving toward the classroom door, climbing those stairs as though she were floating. “Let’s say tomorrow,” she hollered. “I’ll come by around seven.” Before I could respond, she had disappeared.

That night, I conjured up a thousand reasons to tell her not to come. I planned every one as though I would be giving a poignant lesson to an innocent child. But the next day after class, when she was standing there before me and asking, “Is seven still OK?” I found myself saying, “Yes.”
________

I have no idea what I was thinking. When I went home that afternoon, I found myself straightening the apartment. I showered, and even though I had shaved that morning, I shaved again. I put on cologne. I had only brought a limited amount of music with me, mostly old rhythm and blues from the sixties, but I found a tape I had made of early Dave Brubeck and I listened to it to see if it would set the mood. It would. I played with the lights, looking for just that right degree of atmosphere, and I made sure the curtains on the bay windows, the ones overlooking the commons, were drawn to enhance the privacy. I broke out a bottle of wine, poured a glass, then sipped it, implying that it really wasn’t for her, that it was something I did all the time. “Oh, you’d like some?” I imagined myself saying matter of factly. “Let me get you a glass.” Then I’d get her drunk. I planned it all.

Despite my shortcomings, and my awareness of them, I was in the hunt, and my weapons were at the ready.

She didn’t show up until 7:15, and by then, I was pacing the floor. “Oh, hi,” I offered cheerfully, trying not to show the impatience that had overcome me. “It was tonight, wasn’t it?” I garbled.

“Of course, silly. Sorry I’m late.”

I watched her enter, watched her nonchalantly toss her coat across a chair, watched as she turned toward me with those deep almond eyes, her hair cascading across her chest like a frame, and for an instant I felt like Jell-O. She was wearing a frilly white blouse with an open collar and it was sufficiently unbuttoned to reveal the top of her push-up bra. Her skirt barely reached from her waist to the middle of her thigh. She was wearing four-inch heels, and she had the audacity to say, “Do you like it?”

I wanted to ask, “What?” But I knew what she meant, and cracked lips and all, I answered, “It’s very nice. Have you been out somewhere?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. I wore it for you.” My heart was pounding like a drum. “I just bought it, and I wanted your opinion.”

Ouch! My opinion? What was I, her mother? “It’s very lovely, Leesa, an excellent choice for a girl of your beauty.”

“Thank you,” she giggled. “I was hoping you’d approve.”

“Well, it’s very nice,” I said, moving toward my desk. “Are you ready to work?”

“Ready, willing and able, professor. I’ve been waiting all day to see what you have to offer.”

I took a seat in front of my computer, and I prepared to begin. I had already typed onto the screen the initial words of her poem, and I had the task light on, lighting the desk just enough to cast a soft glow. Turning to her, I called her over, offered her another chair, then sipped my wine as I asked her, “Where is it you think you want to take this?”

It was an innocent question, a simple one, and truly, I meant no innuendo. But as the words spilled from my mouth, even as the taste of wine was still caressing my palate, her lips smashed into mine with such force, I nearly choked, and she replied, “Wherever you think it should go.”

Within a matter of seconds, I was groping at her like a starved animal, grabbing for her thighs, her breasts, her ass, as if I had twenty hands, not two. I wanted twenty. Two could never be enough. I was mad with passion, alive with longing, and intent on massaging every square inch of this vixen that now had straddled my waist. I was insane with my desires, and she was a match for my every craving. In all of my years, dating back to that moment when my sister’s friend had first awakened my obsession, I had never experienced anything like this, and it remained that way throughout that night.
__________

That one semester was far more than I had ever bargained for, thanks to Leesa. We called our sessions tutoring, and without any remorse, I attempted to tutor her every night. And God was she a willing student.

Mostly our sessions were at my apartment, usually beginning around eight and going for as long as I could endure. However, a few sessions were held at my office, a quick review if you will of the previous night’s lessons.

And man was I exhausted. I had never suspected that teaching could be so demanding. As time past, my body grew weaker, my brain depleted, my endurance less and less. In short, I was a wreck. But I persisted, knowing all to well that another encounter like this would never come my way, not in this lifetime. I looked upon it as my last hurrah, my final engagement, one last stand. Simultaneously I felt both fear and exhilaration. I imagined that this had to be how Custer felt at Big Horn.

And through it all, one question cluttered my brain. Why me? One day I asked her.

“You read my poem,” she responded. “I just don’t relate to younger men.”

I countered, “Yes, but Leesa, certainly there are men older than you, but much younger than me who could fit your needs. Someone in their thirties or even forties.”

“I need more than that,” she answered, even sounding a little defensive. “I need the wisdom of a man like you, someone with your knowledge. Your knowledge is so vast, your experiences so full. I can’t find that in younger men, not even those in their forties. I need you,” she offered, thrusting herself upon me as I sat awkwardly on the couch.

The discussion was over. Her explanation was more than satisfactory. Within seconds I was acknowledging her needs right there on the couch, and neither of us ever got fully unclothed.
____________

I know what you’re thinking. How in the world could a grown man like me get involved with a young thing like Leesa? I wanted to wonder the same thing myself, but I was afraid of hearing the answer. I knew it could never be good. I was sixty-two. She was barely twenty-three …young enough to be my granddaughter. I was slump- shouldered with a protruding belly, a man who could never be mistaken for being sexy. She was the definition of sex, long willowy legs, hips that melted into her waist, well shaped breasts, and a sensual face that demanded lust. And we were having sex! Nightly! It was lecherous and I knew it. But I didn’t care. Still….

Each day when I’d shave, I’d probe the mirror, searching for the attraction she seemed to easily find in me. There was none that I could see. And all of that diatribe about knowledge and wisdom and experience, I knew that was nonsense. She could find all of that in books.

But in the final analysis, I didn’t care. For reasons I could never fathom, she wanted me, and for reasons I totally understood, I wanted her. Nothing else mattered. There was no way I would let my sense of reason interfere with that.
_____________

The semester was scheduled to end just before Christmas break, and as the final day approached, I began to wonder about my future and Leesa’s, too. Within days I’d be returning to Long Island, and Leesa would be heading to her own home, somewhere in northern Michigan. Within weeks she would have returned to the life of a normal coed, and I to the mundane life of a has-been author. For me that also meant Abigail. From the beginning I had anticipated this event, knowing that this magnificent autumn of pleasure would one-day end, but now that it approached, I found myself in enormous pain, and my mind desperately searching for ways that I could extend the fantasy.

But I could conjure no solutions. Staying on was impossible. The collage had no room for me. Taking her with me was … well … insane. I lacked the needed money, not to mention the fortitude. There was no way I could live this lie in the presence of my enemies, most particularly Abigail. And I had to admit it. Abigail was my lifeline, my only means of financial support.

It was over. I had to accept that fact. Somehow I hoped that Leesa could assist me with coping.

But that night when we met, assistance was the last thing Leesa had on her mind. Destruction was far more in her game plan. It began this way. I had just gotten out of the shower when she arrived. When I opened the door, she charged by me like a whirlwind and tossed a large document on my coffee table. Then she stared at me beaming.

“What’s that?” I asked, continuing to dry my limited hair.

“It’s my manuscript,” she giggled.

“Of what?”

“My novel, silly,” she giggled some more.

“What novel?” I asked, not even realizing that the towel around my waist had fallen. “When have you had time to write a novel?”

“I didn’t write it here,” she gleamed. “I wrote it when I was in high school. I want you to read it.”

“Leesa, the semester is about to end. I’ve got papers to grade, packing to do. I’ll have no time to read it before I leave.” I was in shock that she had waited until now to reveal this document to me, perplexed that she would bring it up now. But seeing the disappointment on her face, I pondered her request a few seconds more. “I suppose I could take it with me,” I said, half to myself.

“No!” she insisted. “I want you to read it now. Then I want you to take me to New York and help me get it published.” She began to pout.

“Leesa, I …”

“No!” She hollered, obviously anticipating my response. “You have to help me!”

There was no mistaking that she was upset, no mistaking that she intended to be persistent, no mistaking that she was about to cry. I condescended.

“All right, listen. I’ll take a look at it and see. But, Leesa, I don’t know if I have the connections to help. My own publisher barely gives me the time of day anymore.”

“You have to read it,” she pleaded. “You have to help!”

As the evening progressed, and I began to read, I learned that Leesa had written her “novel” over a year ago, between her sophomore and junior years. She told me that she had sent it to every major publishing house in New York and to a few on the west coast, too. They had all rejected it. She had no idea why. “It’s like anything,” she told me. “If your not connected, you can’t even get through the door.”

I tried to explain to her that even though that was sometimes true, good work gets read. Maybe she just wasn’t ready. As I flipped through the pages, I realized how right I was.

The novel was atrocious. Leesa’s writing skills were all but non-existent. Her words didn’t flow. They slobbered. I had seen work by ninth graders that read better. I knew all of this by the end of the first chapter, but I lacked the heart to tell her. Or maybe it was the balls. I tried tact.

“Leesa, obviously I’ve only read a little, but I can see it has potential. But it needs a lot of work, hon.”

“Yes, I know, but you can help me,” she sparkled. “I could move to Long Island, get a place near you, and we could work on it just like we worked here.”

I grunted an involuntary laugh. “Leesa, there’d be no writing if we worked like we did here.”

She giggled, too. Then the magnitude of her proposal hit me. Nervously, I tried to mollify her plan. “Leesa, you know I’m married, and the town where I live is very small. You couldn’t possibly stay there. The whole town would know.”

“But it doesn’t have to be there,” she argued. “Just someplace nearby. No one would know.” Her voice was pleading. “Or, I could stay in New York … SoHo … just like you did. You could come in to see me on weekends and such.”

I wanted to yell, “No”, to shout at my highest resonance, “You must be insane!” I was in a near state of panic. But I knew that any rejection on my part would spark resentment in her, and I could not afford that outcome. Yet I didn’t know what else to say. In all of my fantasies involving her, none had contemplated the reality that lay before me. Outwardly I tried to remain calm. I begged my emotions to react with dignity. Finally I spoke.

“You’re right,” I began. “We need to find a way. Look, you go home to Michigan, and I’ll go to the Hamptons. While I’m there, I’ll finish your book, make a few notes, and then we’ll be ready to go to work. When the holiday is over, I’ll have a plan on how … one that won’t create a lot of needless problems. Is that fair?”

“Why don’t we do it now?” she asked, clearly anxious for an answer.

“We need time, my little protégé; time to make sure we do this right. Then when we’re done, you’ll have a product that we can both proudly take to New York. Trust me,” I softly demanded.

“Protégé,” she echoed, smiling a smile that melted my horrified heart. I finally took my first deep breath of the evening.
__________

Over the break, I reluctantly read Leesa’s manuscript. What had been my initial instinct proved horribly true. She sucked. First page to last, she was horrible. Every new page was as tortuous as the one before. Her thoughts rambled, her prose dribbled, and her sentences lacked structure. Even her grammar sucked. Any one of my nine novels that failed stood eons above her best. The more I read, the more I wanted to burn it.

But fears were stampeding through me like a herd of spooked cattle, because right before we had parted company, Leesa had slapped me with her true manifesto. “You are coming back, aren’t you? Because if you don’t, you will regret it. I’ll inform the school, your wife and your publisher of our little tryst. I’ll make sure the whole world knows what you are and what you do to unsuspecting young girls.”

Her words had shocked me like a prod, but before I could counter, she continued. “You don’t think I gave you all those nights for the fun of it, do you? Look at you. You’re fat, your bald, and your old. All those words about wisdom; who in their right mind would think that a woman like me would want a man like you? Oh, you’re wise all right. Except like most men, you think with your dick. You got what you wanted. Now you give me mine. If you don’t, I’ll ruin you.”

I was stunned by her venomous clarity. I had just listened to the truth, the very truth that had been buried in me all these weeks, the truth I had so judiciously avoided telling myself. Now I was hearing it from her. It was a speech that had been well written and clearly well rehearsed, but her eyes told me she meant every single word. Ironically, I was less moved by her revelation about me than I was her threats. What is it the bible says? Know the truth and the truth will set you free? The venom she had just spilled into my veins did not poison me. To the contrary, it freed me. But I was still upset by her threats. I had no idea what to do.

Over the holidays, as I read her pathetic prose, my mind ran rampant with concern. I couldn’t bring her to Long Island. Clearly that was a dead-end street. I couldn’t take her to New York, either. If I showed her to anyone, let alone her work, they’d laugh me out of the city. And I couldn’t ignore her. There was no doubt in my mind that I was in danger. But there was one glimmer of hope.
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It was cold and drizzly that Sunday in January when I picked her up, a lousy day to be driving, but a good day for hiding out. When I had called, I had told her that I had finished her novel and I had been right. It did have potential.

“Your story line is great,” I had said, and I hadn’t been lying. It actually was good. It was her writing that had sucked. But I mellowed my words. “It’s your technique that needs work, and I’ve written pages of notes on how to fix it. Leesa, if we work real hard, I think we can make it a success. I need to see you soon.”

She had been ecstatic, but I cautioned her, “You need to keep this to yourself. No one can know that you’re with me, because my wife thinks I’ll be on a trip to Canada to do research. No one can know we’re together. Now, I’ve rented a place near Ottawa where my wife thinks I’ll be. She expects me to be gone a month. I want you to rent a place in Thunder Bay on Lake Superior.” I gave Leesa the e-mail address of the landlord. “It’s a secluded cabin that overlooks the lake. It’s a place where we’ll have all the privacy we’ll need to finish your book, and no one will ever suspect that we’re there.”

I told her that she was to take a bus to Ottawa and that I’d meet her at the station, Sunday, January 20th. Then we’d drive together to Thunder Bay. “It will be fun,” I finished, “even if you are with an old man.”

Even over the phone I could feel her excitement. Her voice echoed with ecstasy. Then nearly cooing, she offered, “All those things I said. I didn’t really mean them. You know that don’t you?”

“Sure,” I answered. “We all say things from time to time that we don’t really mean.” Even me, I thought to myself.
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The drive to Thunder Bay took two days, but not solely due to distance. Driving Canadian Route 17, we stopped near Wawa in the province of Ontario after Leesa had exuberantly attacked me as we drove. Despite my trepidation, not to mention the anger I still carried over her previous expressions toward me, the lust of my obsession required that I accept her overtures. After all, I was still a man and I was still obsessed. Leesa had been right. I did think with my dick. I listen to it, too.

But by noon the second day, we arrived and after Leesa met with the landlord, we settled into our little retreat overlooking Lake Superior.

It was cold near Thunder Bay, as cold as I can remember ever being, and it snowed almost all the time. This was harsh country, this land along the lake, and in January, it was at its harshest. Drifts piled high along the roadway. Passage was at times nearly impossible. I knew that we would be at constant risk of being snowed in.

Our cabin was nearly ten miles out of town, a little structure that hunters used in the fall. There was only one room, but it was large and it had electricity, a kitchen, a bath and a huge fireplace that heated the entire space. There was ample firewood, too, so I quickly built a fire. There was a couch and a dining table with four wooden chairs. Two sets of bunk beds were pushed against one wall, thus completing the furniture ensemble. Leesa bemoaned them, asking, “How can I ever use you to keep me warm at night?” But I assured her we’d find a way, and we did … that afternoon. From that point on, the bunks were fine.
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Harsh, cold and isolated; these were the necessary ingredients if my plan was to work.

For the first week, we wrote each day. I showed Leesa how her storyline worked and explained to her why. As delicately as I could, I also showed her why her prose was failing the storyline, and I gave her detailed instructions on how to correct it. Much of the time, it was me who actually did the writing.

None of this was easy for me. The resentment that I harbored over why I was even here permeated my pores. But I kept focused on my goal, and accepted that, even within my hatred for this bitch, being here was not without its rewards. At night we’d lay by the fire, snuggled under a huge fur blanket, and we’d drink wine, we’d talk, and we’d fondle. Usually this led to a wild session of sex on one of the bunks. That alone kept my focus strong. Finally the second week arrived, the week I’d planned from the beginning. It was Monday morning right before breakfast. I awoke Leesa whose habit it was to remain in bed, and I told her I had a surprise.

First, I told her to get dressed. Then I said, “Stand over here,” and I pointed to a spot by the kitchen table. “Wrap this blanket around you, and close your eyes.” As soon as she had complied, I walked up behind her, said, “Now don’t peek,” then I hit her over the head with a cast iron skillet with as much force as my body could muster.

She groaned and her knees buckled. As her body began to melt toward the floor, I hit her again. Lying there like a crumpled mass, I quickly checked her pulse. Good! She still had one. But she was definitely out cold. I rapidly tied her hands and feet. Then wrapping the blanket around her tightly, I tied huge rings of rope around that, ultimately creating a package with rope handle. Then half carrying, half dragging, I maneuvered her limp torso out into the snow.

Outside, I dragged her toward the woods, tugging against her weight and the depth of the snow. It was blowing fiercely. The freezing wind pierced the skin of my face like a thousand tiny needles. My feet and hands grew numb within minutes, but somehow I fought through it all, pulling her silent body like an overweight sled. Twenty feet, fifty, finally one hundred, until I felt I was sufficiently into the woods that her blanketed torso could no longer be seen. Then I tied her to a tree where I left her to freeze to death in the isolated woods of Ontario.

The next day, I went back to check on my handiwork. She was dead, just as I had planned. Blue and dead. I removed the ropes, removed the blanket, and returned to the cabin, leaving the once lovely Leesa lifeless and frozen in the snowdrifts of Canada.
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The drive back to Ottawa certainly lacked the pleasures of the drive up, but it was not without its moments. To begin with, I enjoyed the idea that I had rid myself of a dangerous problem. Leesa would threaten me no more. I relished too in the thought that I had concocted the perfect plan. The cabin had been paid for by Leesa so there was no record of my being there. Moreover, she had rented it for a month, meaning that she’d likely go undiscovered at least until then, but in fact she would probably not be found until spring. Even then, it would appear that she had gotten lost on a walk. Perfect! And I was ecstatic about my new book, the one whose storyline had been so generously provided by my former student, a secret only I would know. All I had to do now was return to Ottawa, write for a few weeks, then return to New York with my masterpiece. Life as I had once known it would soon return.
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Funny thing about fame: Sometimes when it’s over, you don’t even know it. Apparently that’s what happened with me. I spent more than six months “perfecting” Leesa’s story, six months of arduous but dedicated work. It had been as though I was obsessed, knowing without a doubt that my labor of love would be greeted with jubilant fanfare. But it wasn’t. It took me over a week to get my agent to even read it, and when he did, he tossed it to me like scrap paper. His words? “You’ve got to be kidding.” I attempted to bypass him and go directly to my publisher, but his reaction was nearly the same. Screw them, I figured. They’re just bitter because of my previously weak attempts. I’d show them, I thought. I’d go elsewhere.

But “elsewhere” proved to be nowhere. Not one agent, not one publisher would even give me the time of day. It was as though “Wolves On The Doorstep” had never been written, or if it had, certainly not by me. Finally, I gave up.

Which brings me to my present dilemma. Abigail has announced that she’s divorcing me, and I need to move out. It seems that for some time now she’s been seeing an artist who lives nearby, and they’re in love. She said he gives her what I can’t … passion. She says she’s obsessed with him. How ironic, Abigail obsessed. So my meal ticket is about to disappear.

On the other hand, the college has asked me if I would return fulltime. They want me to teach a few courses in Literature as well as another course in creative writing. The dean says I can even get my old apartment back.

I’m not sure it’s what I want to do, but considering my circumstance, it might be necessary. The trouble is, I’m worried about meeting another Leesa. Considering my obsession with sex, I know I’d be vulnerable, and God knows I can only handle one of those in a lifetime. Maybe I need to go off somewhere alone and just write, somewhere cheap and obscure where I might be able to live off the settlement I’m sure I’ll get from Abigail. Or if I do teach, maybe this time I’ll just keep the blinds closed.
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