THE PROFESSOR
They say all nerds suck in bed. I am proof that this is not true. I'm a senior professor of mathematics, and I still have a libido that doesn't shame a young guy. In fact, it might even make some young guys ashamed of themselves. My favorite thing is math and probabilistic processes, and the second thing is sex. Strange as it may sound, it was my sexual need, and not that I'm a nerd, that caused my wife to leave me about ten years ago. When we were younger, we would intercourse at every opportunity, but by the time she turned 40, she couldn't handle the load anymore. "It's too much for me," she said. "Control yourself!"
Imagine what those around me thought of me -- a man whose wife was leaving him from one day to the next? Come on. And so I found myself at the age of 53, with a constant erection as hard as a stone, the ability to have sex twice a day, the stamina to hold myself for almost an hour before I cum; And without a wife.
A female colleague of mine once told me that even when I speak math, I convey sexual promise. Maybe that's why female students always try to flirt with me, only the strict laws in place today in the United States prevent me from implementing this sexual promise with female students. That's why I limit myself to colleagues, neighbors, and women I meet at the mall, and unfortunately, it's really not enough for me.
I live in a pretty big house in Livingstone, with a nice front yard and a not very big backyard. The house in my back belongs to a colleague of mine, Professor Vincent Miller, an associate professor of mathematics at the same university as me, a close friend and avid admirer. He was my son's supervisor in a dissertation he wrote in operations research, and once told him I was the greatest mathematician he knows. Between the two houses there is a fence, which is more a wooden railing with no difficulty to move over. About 15 years ago, the carpenter who built our fence convinced us to build a wooden Gazebo in our backyard. Ours was in one corner of the fence/railing and the Millers' at the other. In retrospect, it turned out to be a great decision. I love the Gazebo and prefer to work in it rather than in my study, so I put a small, simple wooden table, with Formica coating, in it, which serves me to write. The Millers rarely use their Gazebo.
By the way, my name is Prof. Willie Wyatt. I have three kids: the eldest, Bill (27), is a lawyer and lives in Washington, DC; a daughter named Becky (25) who is a CPA and lives in New York; and the youngest son, Ben (23), a genius mathematician who is doing a postdoc at North-Western University in Chicago. Years after Wendy left me, she told the children the reason, which caused serious disagreement between the children. Bill, who was already a lawyer, thought she had breached her duty as a wife, and if she thought life with me wasn't right for her, she should have filed for divorce and not just leave. On the other hand, Ben thought I was a pervert. "Every day? At that age? Does he have anything else in his head besides sex?" he claimed. "Math?" replied Becky sarcastically. "And I heard he is very good at it." In short, she thought that if their mother couldn't handle the load, she should have allowed me to lay down with other women...
Despite my close relationship with Vincent, there is not much connection between the families. The reason for this is Vincent's wife, Carla, who for some reason was hostile to me. The Millers always seemed to be a happy family, until one day, Vincent committed suicide. No one understood why. Some assumed it was something to do with family, others claimed he had a malignant disease, possibly cancer, some thought he might have gotten into trouble with questionable loans, and some thought something had exploded in his brain. I didn't know what to think. I knew he wasn't sick and hadn't taken any loans on the grey market. On the other hand, I knew that in recent weeks he had been working on a very complex probabilistic process and I saw him go crazy before my eyes. But do people really commit suicide because of it?
*****
People tend to look for the guilty in any unpleasant situation, especially in a tragic story like suicide. You probably know this, "If you knew, why didn't you tell?" So, I decided not to say a word about the mathematical problem Vincent was dealing with before his death. At the same time, I decided to finish what he started and dedicate the article to his memory.
I put on my black suit, grabbed a tray of pastries I'd bought at a deli in Newark, and walked to Vincent's house to offer my condolences. I could, of course, have jumped over the back fence, but imagine someone sees me, the rumors that would spread would place all the blame for his suicide on me and his wife... So, I did the whole round on foot.
Vincent's front was crowded with cars, parking on every possible spot, and even in the front yards of the nearby houses. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by his eldest daughter, Nellie, who took the tray of pastries from me and marked her mother's general location. The house was packed, and by the time I managed to reach Carla, I had rubbed against no less than four women's asses, and my erection was already visible. I found Carla talking to a neighbor across the street. She greeted me with a serious face, and her eyes immediately wandered toward the bulge on the front of my pants. An expression of displeasure and disgust appeared on her face.
To my best knowledge, Carla was born in Guatemala. She had skin in a shade between caramel and so-called 'dark vanilla', though when it comes to shades, you can't trust me. She had the look of a 'soft woman' and, as is often the case with overweight women, a face that looked much younger than her age. I tried to control my erection, but Carla was very delicately made up and looked so soft and young, that I didn't quite succeed in. I pecked on her cheek, said some nice things about Vincent, and escaped towards one of the tables around the walls.
"She's a very pretty woman," I heard a voice beside me. I turned around and saw Dr. Sarah Burke, a young researcher in our department who had done her dissertation under my guidance and loved to talk about math problems during intercourse.
"Who? Carla?" I made a stupid play. "Yes, she looks very young."
"Stop making plays," she whispered, "your pants give you away."
"It's not because of her," I said, "it's because of the crowdedness here. Someone should have told all these women that this is a mourning, not a wedding."
Unlike "all these women," and as usual it should be said, Sarah was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt. She rubbed her breasts against my arm and said, "It is really very dense here. I don't think anyone will notice if we'll gone for half an hour."
Sarah was married. Her husband was some high-tech geek, whom she met when they were students. I've only met him once, at their wedding, and that's a good thing, because Sarah and I have a long sexual history that started right back when she returned to university after finishing her postdoc at Coronel. Back then, she just walked into my office and announced that she is no longer my student, and I no longer have a wife, so there's no reason why we shouldn't move our math discussions to bed. I didn't see any reason not to do so either.
At that moment, Vincent's youngest daughter, Nicole, came up to us, smiled and said, "Thank you for coming. Dad really appreciated you."
Unlike her sisters who took on Carla's Latino look, Nicole had white skin, so smooth and perfect that it looked like the surface of a bowl of milk. Also, unlike her sisters, whom I barely saw, Nicole spent a lot of time in the backyard, playing with their amazing Siberian Husky dog.
"I really appreciated your father too," I said. "In fact, just a few weeks ago, at a meeting of the department's senior faculty, I recommended making him a senior professor."
"I know. He talked a lot about you being his best friend at university."
I introduced her to Sarah, and we continued talking for a few more minutes, until Wendy, my wife, accompanied by Becky, our daughter, joined us. As always, before she even looked into my eyes, Wendy glanced at my pants. Luckily, I no longer had an erection.
"Hey, Daddy," Becky said, kissing me on the cheek.
