The Boner Killer
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote up a list of brief stories that I appreciate because of the ways they twisted and pivoted, reversed and subverted. It shook loose a memory from early in my career as a community college professor. I taught that class that every college freshman has to take but no college freshman wants to take—English Composition.
Most of the job was sales. I had to sell students that what I was teaching was not only necessary but personal and meaningful. They wouldn’t hear it. In a one-on-one conference with a business major, she referred to the required 100-level research paper as “a literal boner killer.” When I politely reminded her that she didn’t have boner capabilities, she said it was a metaphor and I should revisit my own lecture notes.
Touché.
But then I pointed out that she said it was a “literal” boner killer, and that was a misuse of the word.
“Nerd,” she said, rolling her eyes with a mastery that is reserved for 18-year-old girls.
She wasn’t wrong. I am a nerd when it comes to language and writing, but still, I needed to figure out how to get these turds to care about my class. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t so much care about them or their writing or their futures. I cared about myself. I would have to spend hours per week with them in class and many more hours grading their writing outside of class. A man can only read so many regurgitated papers on abortion or the death penalty or immigration before his own boner is in peril.
So I switched up the focus. I made the students the subject of the research paper and required them to write about themselves instead of topics that induced apathy and interfered with their sexual well-being. I started by asking them to describe something they feel strongly about—a belief, a conviction, a passion, a fear— something personal and specific to them. And then I told them to reduce it, to distill it, compress it until they arrived at a topic that excited them—the intellectual and creative equivalent of a little blue pill.
The topics were diverse: beliefs in god, beliefs in no god, fears of death, fears of life, insecurities, shame, eccentricities—vulnerabilities galore. The sweet spot of storytelling. Once we arrived here, I told them that they had to create a narrative experience that would challenge whatever they came up with, something that required active participation on their part. This led to an orgy of interesting narratives.
A young woman who prioritized her Catholicism above all else opted to attend services at a Satanic Temple and engage in religious dialogues with a Satanic priest over coffee. She concluded that she had a lot more in common with Satanists than she thought she would. She didn’t convert or drink blood or sacrifice a goat, but she did concede that the experience left her a little more openminded.
One student was an aspiring pastry chef, and he was straight out of Central Casting as far as pastry chefs go. A big guy, stocky—that’s how I would describe him. A fat fuck—that’s how he described himself. More than that, he said he’d always been fat and would probably stay fat, and he felt nothing but shame about it.
“Why do you want to be a pastry chef?” I asked him.
“Look at me. Wouldn’t you buy pastries from me? I don’t look like I don’t know about cinnamon rolls.”
Couldn’t argue with that. I also couldn’t argue with his heart. Or, rather, his sadomasochism. Weird how those things can be synonymous. To confront the shame he felt for being fat, he spent a weekend at a nudist retreat. Took him a while to work up the nerve, but eventually, he tore off his t-shirt. Next, he stripped down to his boxers. And for his third act, on the last day he was there, he checked into a volleyball game, played in the style of the Garden of Eden.
“After a few points,” he said, “you don’t even really notice all the body parts flapping and flipping. Even mine.” By the end of the semester, he had become a full-fledged member. As it turns out, it’s difficult to feel shame with a steady stream of vitamin D on your bare ass.
Another kid, a math major, was a self-described “loser with the ladies.” He said he couldn’t even bring himself to talk to a girl, and the loneliness took a toll on his confidence. He struggled to come up with a narrative experience, so I suggested that he marry his love for math with a need to connect with—
I didn’t even finish the sentence before he started scribbling ideas down. He ended up challenging himself to ask 100 women for their phone numbers, and he kept demographic details specific to age, ethnicity, appearance, and conversational details. (The weather, the economy—one young woman even wanted to talk about raising guinea pigs.) His goal was to determine not only his type, but the type drawn to him.
Turning a romantic connection into a data-driven experiment made courting a little easier. He ended up asking several hundred women for their numbers when he realized that it was quite literally a numbers game. As he presented his paper to the class, I noticed several of the young woman smiling warmly, seemingly impressed by his willingness to put himself out there. Vulnerability is a hell of an aphrodisiac.
Many other student narratives live in my memory. The grieving student who dug graves after losing both parents in a car accident. The ADHD student who taught herself to juggle as a way to deal with her splintered attention. The self-described flake who abided by a down-to-the-minute schedule for an entire month, which pissed off her boyfriend when he was told he only had so much allotted time for cuddling, making out, arguing, etc.
The most memorable narrative, though, came by way of a 7am section of English Comp. The class was pretty equally divided among men and women, but one of the young women stood out. She showed up to class looking exhausted and dressed like she’d been up all night in pursuit of naughty decisions—smeared makeup, barely-there skirts, disheveled hair, cleavage so aggressive it could be seen in a turtleneck, and the kind of energy that said I’d be delighted to show you how flexible my hamstrings are.
The young men in class were all ears when this young woman contributed anything to the class discussion. They nodded, agreed, and added to whatever commentary she offered. The young women, by comparison, crossed their arms, exhaled audibly, and rolled their eyes—their passive aggression was professional grade.
When I did one-on-one conferences to approve the students’ narratives, this young woman told me that her plan was to be abstinent for a month. Generally, I didn’t like projects in which students avoided something because it’s difficult to write about what you’re not doing. More than that, it’s boring. I told her as much.
“I think I can make this interesting,” she said.
“How so?”
“I work in adult films. I can’t remember a day I’ve gone without sex for a couple years.”
It was both surprising and not surprising. Not surprising because she definitely wore the uniform but also surprising because, what the hell was she doing in a 7am English Composition class?
“Okay,” I said, “two things: first, you have to present this paper to your peers—”
“Yeah, no problem,” she said.
“Second, you have to include research in the narrative.”
“I’ve already started researching abstinence, temperance, promiscuity, and intimacy, specifically, the historical, spiritual, and psychological aspects of these topics.”
“In that case, god bless and happy writing.”
A month or so later, she presented her paper to the class, shared details about her life, her work history, the research she conducted. Academically speaking, she laid it bare for all to see, wrapped up her presentation, and thanked the class.
“All right,” I said, “Q and A.”
And this is where it got interesting. A dozen hands went up to ask questions, all of them young women. They asked her to expand her thoughts on intimacy and wanted to know more about how the abstinence challenge changed the way she viewed her work. She responded professionally and honestly, even conceding that she was left with her own questions about how she’s been using sex to avoid other parts of herself.
The young men, by contrast, squirmed. They crossed their arms and avoided eye contact, as if a glance from this young woman, or any woman, would cause them to spontaneously combust. They shrank into the background as the discussion soldiered on. Clearly, there was a shift in the power dynamic, a third-act twist that lasted for the rest of the semester—an honest-to-god, real-life, literal boner killer.
If you enjoyed this, consider reading some of my other stories:
Or this one about the time I made the horrible decision to run a marathon.
Or this one about the time I maintained restraint in the face of pure, distilled grocery store evil.
This was an intriguing read. I would have enjoyed your class. Assignments that teach those about themselves are so much better than those that check the box. I am guessing you are one of their more memorable professors.
This was as well written as your posts usually are, and I enjoyed that as I usually do. What was different for me was your brilliance in the class assignments that you created. I wish I could be in your class. Just this much is inspiring. Thank you!