Off comes the parka,

Flopped abruptly on the bed,

Representing idle warmth,

Conversation, passing glances.

Then you roll off both your socks,

A little damp with dread,

That pair of terrifying thoughts;

Loathing, Obsession,

Sticky with the demise of innocence.

Then off with your t-shirt,

Darkened exertion

Still lingering at the neck and pits.

Next you unzip your bottoms,

which drop embarrassingly to the philosophical tiles.

Finally you slip off your undergarments;

(The pain,

The love.)

And as you relax,

In the tea-tree mint suds of soliloquy,

You’re left only with the vital question:

To be,

Or not to be?

Before I knew what sex was all about, it was learning and proof I’d learned which ruled my life. I fell in love with academics and being taught. At the end of each year those marks and the pass to the next were a high like no other. I realize now, academics was my aphrodisiac, tailor made to turn my brain into a frantically begging organ over the course of a summer of novels and television. The discipline of structured learning brought me back on an even keel, and now, as an adult, educational television feeds my love.

Accessive strength lifts her to the bed.

Clammy hands rub her face and head.

Academics in sheets is what will take place.

Dominating lust and affection they chase.

Everlasting peace and relaxation in demand.

Mimicks and whispers from the middle of her hand.

Inside a place where no one will come.

Caressing and promising that she is the only one.

Settling down is right to end a peaceful night.

It's not the revealing glasses-wearing illusion in pornos. The magic of words. The magic of the scintillating swirl of words forming a new picture. A Monet of ugly thoughts. Negativity, doubt, denial, and insecurity in the world creating a palette that can depict the world. You don't learn that in school. You practice the formulaic marching and chanting and regurgitating the words spat at you. That's a societal dogma drilled into us. Academia is Athena springing forth from the crack you got in your head from walking into a brick wall. Otherworldly and blinding, ready to disrupt everything in sight.

Arithmetic is like no other Academic I dated.

Sure, “Aritha” Academic shares her sisters’ dark hair, cuteness, and legs that do not end. But she has a delightful wit and a je ne sais quoi quality that adds up to something that Philosophia and PollySci could not hope to have.

I know. I took Philo to dinner, and she was self-absorbed. I tried dinner with Polly, but she lectured me.

Aritha’s mother, English, and her dad, Art, reminded Aritha that her sisters had a terrible time with me. But Aritha told them, “Third time’s a charm.”

And it is.