Lars the sicko

Kant, Nietzsche, Marx, and Freud. All names going in one ear and out the other as I sit in my weekly German philosophy lecture. The class is taught by Lars, a podgy man in his 50s. His cheeks were always swollen with small capillaries bursting on the surface, creating a map of fine red and purple squiggles. Sometimes he rested his hand on his protruding belly like a pregnant woman as he spouted anecdotes about his life in the eighties and how it somehow related to Freud’s theories on sexuality. He strutted up and down the front of the lecture theatre with such confidence. I always wondered how people did that; I struggle to just walk into that theatre and sit down next to someone I’ve known for two years. I guess when you know what you’re talking about and no one is really listening to you, it’s easy to ramble with ease.

I’m very good at making sure I look like I’m paying attention. I doodle in my notebook but ensure that my hand is making jagged movements, never failing to take my eyes of Lars. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always stood out to him. The other students don’t even try to pretend they’re listening, they just sit there, staring, fixated gormlessly on the blackboard.

Lars and I regularly exchange eye contact and for just a fleeting moment I catch that look that men give you when they desire you. It’s a mixture of lust and impatience. With Lars, it’s also a moment where he loses that sense of self-righteousness and stumbles on his words. Just for a moment, not enough time for anyone other than myself to notice.

Outside of the lecture theatre, we would bump into one another on the street or in the supermarket. His eyes would widen, and a thin-lipped smile would stretch across those bloated cheeks of his. I would nod back. He disgusted me a bit too much for me to start entertaining his little crush.

I did however begin to reap the benefits of being the subject of his infatuation. Whilst essays were handed in anonymously, Lars often stepped in to help the German department with the speaking exams. I’ve wondered if he only did it because he knew that he’d be rewarded with close interaction between us. He would watch my mouth closely, hanging onto every word as an oral fantasy whirred and thrived in his mind. It didn’t matter that I was chatting total shit; mixed up word order, botched pronunciation, and conjugation errors. He got to see my tongue writhe; my lips contort. Letting him look at me in such a way made me feel somewhat nauseous. But it was worth it. I never got lower than first-class grades.