Wednesday, Nov. 10, 2004 - 12:43 a.m.

11:16 a.m. I�m one hour and sixteen minutes into my Quantitative Methods study group. I really hate Quantitative Methods. Really. Quantitative Methods has been the bane that has made me question my decision to pursue a master�s degree.

11:17 a.m. Having finished my problem set I look up from my stats book, scan the members of the study group then narrow my scope to Wolf. Wolf is six feet and three inches of twenty-three-year-old prime heterosexual Nebraskan corn-fed twisted steel and sex appeal.

11:18 a.m. Wolf says, �Garloo, you can�t tell me you�ve never seen a crotch before.� Knowing that I�ve been totally busted staring wide-eyed with open admiration at Wolf�s bulge I am only able to reply, �Huh?� �Where were you?� Wolf asks. Recovering I tell him, �Oh, uh I was just thinking about the mid-term.�

11:19 a.m. Reeling from the strong sense of embarrassment I lean back in my chair resting my head on intertwined fingers, eyes closed, I now somewhere else. I�m in a five-star hotel room where even the views from the bathroom overlook Central Park. I�m in the oversized Travertine marble Jacuzzi tub immersed in a hot and steamy bubble bath. Completely relaxed. Completely rested. My eyes suddenly push open. Did I just hear the front door open and then close? I persuade myself that it can�t be the door. I�m almost certain I told the hotel staff that I was not to be disturbed. Another noise. A thud. Moments later another thud followed by the sound of a piece of hollow metal clinking softly as it comes to rest on the parkay flooring. Sitting naked and vulnerable in the bathtub, soapy bubbles my only shield from harm, I call out, �Is there someone there? Hello?� Finally the bathroom door, slightly ajar, is trust open exposing Wolf. My mind races along with my eyes as I try to take in the vision of Wolf consuming the doorframe with his nakedness. All I can do is gulp down the saliva about to drool from my mouth. While rubbing his six-pack with his left hand and brushing his shaggy light-brown hair up and away from his eyes with his right, he slowly makes his way towards the tub intentionally teasing me with each and every step. I can�t take my eyes off him, off of any of him. Stepping into the tub Wolf mightily exhales as his body surrenders to the heat of the bath. Lowering himself further, deeper, into the water he wades towards me with more than his hand extended. Reaching me he leans in close to whisper in my ear, �I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.� Wait, that�s not Wolf�s voice, this isn�t how it goes, that�s Dizzy�s voice yelling at me and in my fantasy.

11:22 a.m. Jolted back to the here and now by the weeping and shrill voice of a 5� 1� female grad student from some mountain region in the southern part of the country. Adding to her cries and screams she begins bringing her fists down upon me like tiny hatchets attempting to cleave away at a tree trunk. Amidst the commotion I stoically say to Dizzy, �Calm yourself woman!�

11:23 a.m. She halts the boohooing long enough to say, �My Sissy is dead because of you!� Having had just about enough I tell her, �Woman, get a hold of your self.�

11:23:30 a.m. I freely admit I kept calling her �woman� because I found great humor in it. Okay, that and it made me feel a bit like Rhett Butler. Well, maybe not so much Rhett Butler as Brett Butler. Anyway�

11:24 a.m. �I continued, �What are you talking about woman? And why are you blaming me for your Sissy cat?� When her clenched fists ceased beating upon my sturdy chest my memory is jogged to a conversation I had had with Dizzy days earlier. She was having problem with her cat mewing loudly all through the night. �What could I possibly have to do with your pussy?� Realizing I�ve now sunk from Brett Butler to Brett Somers I tack on, although not quickly enough, �cat!� Somewhat more controlled she says, �You told me that when Sissy starts crying in the middle of the night I should stand firm and scald her. Well, last night I did as you told me and this morning I woke up to find her dead.

11:26 a.m. Mustering sympathy Houdini-style I reply, �Oh sweetie, I didn�t say to scald her I said to scold her.� Then the sympathy left as quickly as it came and was replaced by the tiniest little chortle. The others looking on in horror while Dizzy, mouth agape, gawked in disbelief. In defending my laughing I tell them, �You�d have to be blind not to see the humor here.� Then add, �Well, that�s another one you can chalk up to the gay lisp.�

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