Wednesday, April 8, 2009


He had online dating skills. He was a physics professor, and possessed great physical prowess, he assured me. I was skeptical of his deft persuasion at first. There was not a not-to-meet excuse I could throw at him that he didn’t have a cunning, yet logical retort to. I agreed to meet him that afternoon.

He was perfect. Sun bleached hair, jock handsome, strong, lean, muscled body. The starch of his shirt cologne: Calvin Klien “Academia”.

I brought him to a cool crowded bar that he promptly rejected. Apparently physics professors dealt in absolutes. My bar theory had been proven wrong, he thumbs up-ed on the low-key sports bar with an isolated back room.

He was a spew of brilliance. Ordering one round after the next, his rolled up sleeves revealed tanned forearms that clutched at my neglected southern regions. His mind and mouth working at furious tempo, his hands working independently on a slow strong crawl, across the table, dislodging my arms from their locked state, pulling them across the table, our hands locking onto each other’s forearms.

Suddenly, we are in the street, I am thrown up against a tree and he is on me. Pectorals and thrust and mouth, I am being ravished by Matt Deamon on his best day.

It had been 9 months since I’d been naked with a man, and I had known why I had waited. He was perfect, and he was in my bedroom. Underwear advertising ready, hairless, tan, thick and stiff. His lower abdomen: defined muscles in V formation to his full on c*ck.

In the morning, he was up at 5. Off to his five mile run, bench press, 100 lap breakfast before classes. I could tell he wasn’t lying. With a Hurcules hug, smack on the lips, “later, Babe”, he flew out the door. The affirmations came in a phone call that afternoon. We had found each other. He: all perfect. Me: a girl who could maintain an intelligent conversation between f*cking. I hung up and thanked God.

We immediately started seeing each other 3 times a week. He was brilliantly funny, boyishly affectionate – his body was never far away from mine. He mentioned something about having some mental problems, I happily dismissed, “who doesn’t?”

Sound asleep that night, nestled in the chest of my perfect boyfriend’s arms, I am thrust suddenly with unfathomable force across the bed. Blinded by shock, I can barely make him out as he panics around my bedroom. “What are you DOING,” he snapped at the air. “What did you do with my clothes, TELL ME!” I had heard about people who sleepwalk, how you shouldn’t wake them, or they will explode or something. His eyes were open, and he continued to rant, finally coming to, climbing back into bed, pulling me back in close as though nothing had happened. I felt his sleeping breath on my neck until morning. I told him the abridged version of what had happened. He said, “oh, yeah, sometimes I have dreams.” No embarrassment, no surprise. With a “later Babe, see ya Wednesday,” he was out the door.

His name was David Peters. Dr. David Peters. He claimed to do have been part of an award winning findings in physics, earned parchment at top schools, done some work with the CIA. My friend Sam was suspicious, he did some sniffing around online, Dr. David Peters checked out. Aside from the occasionally violent sleep induced outbursts, he was perfect, and he was saying “I love you” 2 months in.

But there was one lingering question besides the annoying sleep violence, what was up with the weekends? He was never around, yet he always had the perfect excuse. Lecturing at another school far, far away on a Saturday, emergency babysitting his brother’s kids, reunion with fellow scholars in Boston. After the 10th weekend, I became suspicious. I had to ask, and for the first time, David became annoyed. “Listen, Babe, I’ve got a life, I suggest you do the same, see ya Monday night.”

It was red flags as far as the eye could see, but it was Monday night, so I stocked the fridge with a six of Harp Lager and Cool Ranch Doritos and put on his favorite panties. He came over, and gave me his usual shower show. That was always how our dates began. He would come in, take off all his clothes, hop in the shower without asking, and yell, “come in here and watch me, Babe”. Before he had come into my life I had filled that time slot with Law And Order re-runs, it was a definite upgrade. But something changed after he toweled off his hard chest/legs/ass. “Want a beer,” I asked. “Stop trying to make me fat,” he came back. Any attempt at conversation was met with an opposing response. We had been seeing each other for 3 months, and the only anger towards me had come from his unconscious sleep state, but it was surfacing into a very bad night. He finally architected the evening into a one way full on fight, he grabbed his gym bag, pulled on his pants, grabbed his keys and he was gone. I didn’t hear from this the next day, or the next, or the next week. My phone calls and emails went unanswered. I was a swarm of anguish that had crept into my job, my life, my psyche. I couldn’t let it go, so I called in sick that Wednesday, and drove out to the college where he taught.

I found the physics department, and went to the front office. I asked for Dr. David Peters. There were a couple of admins there, and the head of the department shaking their heads, no such man. Were they sure? Yes, they looked at me strangely, me ¬– this hip, expensively dressed late 30’s looking sleep-deprived woman, no student, for sure. I walked out and on down the hall. But I had been calling him here, at school? I reentered the main office, and tried to offhandedly ask for a phone directory. The admin reluctantly handed me the paper bound list. The first three numbers matched the one that he had given me. So I combed down the right hand side of each page, until I located the number I had been using for 3 months, and scanned left. It said Dr. Peter Adjukavitch. Trying to reclaim my normal heart rate, I went back to the main office for the third time to see the same crew. “Y’know, I meant Dr. Adjudavitch, I was, confused.” Yeah, I was indeed confused. After an uncomfortable pause filled with the buzz of overhead lighting, one of the admins cautiously gave me what I wanted. “He’s lecturing, 3rd floor, Lecture Room B.”

The door was open, I stood to the side where he couldn’t see me. It was Dr. David Peters Dr. Peter Adjukavitch. All stocato chalking the blackboard, white dust shrapnel flying, 90 MPH mouth, seeming eye contact with all 60 students. I stepped into his line of site, I saw his eye scan me, with no sense of threat or interruption. He did not miss a breath, a word, a strike of chalk. 5 minutes later, he excused himself from the class, walked towards me and grabbed my arm and pulled me over by the stairwell where no one could see. “How dare you come to my place of employment and fuck with my career,” he said in a low spit. “David, or Peter, I just wanted to talk to you. I mean, you just walk out, and well,” I trail off, the absurd abusive nature all too clear when I uttered it out loud. “OK,” he says as a command. “Meet me right here in 40 minutes. We’ll go get lunch and talk.” In a rare hybrid of relief and horror, I go bide my time in the school cafeteria, and milk a Diet Coke.

He is right on time. “C’mon, we’ll take my car, “ all man on a mission. We get in his Turbo black convertible, after opening my car door. Top down, we cruise along the water, seafood restaurants lining the street. “Those look nice,” I try to sound like we’re on a nice Sunday afternoon date. “Yeah, we’re not going there,” he flat lines. “Where are we off, too,” I sing-song in response to his tenor. “It’s a surprise.” He takes the first exit off the highway, and goes over a bridge. I’m still hopeful for clams on the half shell and a lot of explaining, but we turn into a deserted airfield and drive well into it, and park alongside a marsh. He gets out of the car, opens the trunk, pulls something out and says, “get out.” I shake my head, with a “no way.” “Get. Out. Of. The. Fucking. Car.,” again.
I don’t budge. I mean, there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run, surely I can turn this thing around, this car around, and get back to familiar ground. He returns whatever he got out of the trunk back into the trunk, gets back into the car, and spins the car out of there, full rage bench press on the pedal, all the way ‘home’. He is in his insane sleepwalk anger spew, cold wind and spit on my face. I couldn’t make out the words, they were now irrelevant, message loud and clear. We finally come into close proximity of the college, he sweetly asks where I am parked, pulls up alongside my car, I get out and cross behind his death ride and unlock my escape. “Later, Babe! Don’t want to be late for my 2:30,” and he was off and gone. I drove home way below the speed limit, trying to formulate what I would tell my friends. The truth, proof of my own insanity.


  1. You certainly have come across your share of colorful characters. Go see "Sleepwalk With Me", a very funny off-Bway play about, among other things, the author-star's battle with sleep walking.

  2. I don't think you come across colorful characters, you subconsciously seek and collect them. This story was from a loooong time ago. Still, I'm a work in progress... Thanks for the reco... and your comment.

  3. Ohh, yea. Long ago, when I didn't believe the occult was anything more than that,just the dictionary definition of the word, ya know? I was with a lady...we had great times for a year, more...then she got into my head, literally. It was scary, wonder if she is still there? It was more than scary, told me there were things out there I knew nothing about. Wake up, Jeff, wake up!!