I Matched With My Professor On Tinder But I Couldn't Be His Bratty Sub

The year is 2018. It’s Halloween evening. I am a Junior in college and I find myself having too much of a good time at a small party of friends. There is, of course, someone at the party who has piqued my interest. I’ve never found it difficult to develop crushes, particularly on strangers. I arrive at the party, beer in hand, with a hopeful and flirty attitude. I’m wearing a wrap shirt and bell-bottoms with platform shoes. My skin is shit but I’ve done a bang up job on my makeup and I’m feeling cute and confident.

An hour or so into the party, two, maybe three drinks deep, I find myself not connecting with my crush quite as much as I’d hoped. It’s fine, I’m in the corner with some friends laughing about our Tinder dating foibles.

I’m swiping through tinder as I often do during an alcohol-fueled evening, and I’m empowered by my casual left swipes, rejecting almost every potential suitor. My tinder deck includes both men and women, ages 19-38. I’m choosy but I like a wide breadth of options.

Suddenly— I’ve just swiped left on a man who was most definitely my young, very crushable professor from Freshman year. I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. Lusting after authority figures isn’t exactly rare in my social circle. Imagine the hilarity, the jealousy of my friends if I were to bed this professor! So --I pay actual American dollars to retract my accidental rejection and swipe right on this man.

I am instantly nauseated by this decision but I play it cool and unembarrassed. We don’t match.

I wake up the next morning and promptly cancel my Tinder Gold subscription and basically forget the whole thing.

I rarely Tinder sober, and hardly ever open the app during the day. I’m busy with my vibrant IRL social life and, hitting on people on Instagram. My tinder notifications are off. And anyway, I’ve never been that into older guys. I’m pretty unenthusiastic about men, to begin with, particularly any man with something over on me like age or authority. I’ve been known to lust after greasy-haired man-children with asymmetrical earrings and dirty vans (thoughts and prayers please). Employable adults who wear v-neck t-shirts and slacks would be new territory. I recall that The Professor used to wear ridiculous little scarves to class. They were long and thin, draped around his neck, offering no warmth despite it being the dead of winter.

You can Imagine my surprise when I casually tap on the dreaded flame logo that afternoon to find that I have, after a formal waiting period, matched with The Professor. I remark to a friend over a convenience store tuna wrap that he probably doesn’t get many matches -- but I’m promptly corrected. College girls love older men, she tells me. I admit that in the fourth grade, while my classmates were preoccupied with High School Musical heartthrob Zac Efron, my childhood longing was directed at my very first crush, Hugh Jackman.

I start to wonder: Does this man even recognize me? I will admit, I’ve had several hair transformations since taking his class two years ago --, from jet black to snot green to peroxide-disaster-orange before arriving at my final destination as a bleach blonde. He doesn’t teach at the school anymore, as far as I know. My chances of running into him on the train are greater than my risk of running into him in the hall

In my naïveté, I decide to lead with a joke.

Me: Hey, teach, what are your office hours?

Of course, this reads like an invitation for sexy professor role play, a fetish I simply don’t have, or at least don’t have time to uncover.

The Professor: My office hours are Thursday from 9 pm to 2 am. Do you have questions on your paper?

I recall that sophomore year I conducted a phone interview with The Professor. He did give me some fairly helpful career advice about finding a mentor. He did not understand that I was trying to make him my mentor. Although I had wanted his professional guidance, the idea of him teaching me a thing or two in the bedroom doesn’t exactly turn on the waterworks.

Me: Only if you have answers.

Is this a smooth response? Should I have gone straight for “what are you wearing”?

I imagine him writing back, I’m wearing a pathetic little scarf and nothing else. Alright, this is getting amusing again.

The Professor: I think I can offer some guidance, yes.

Me: What kind of guidance?

I know I’m bating him but it’s just too easy.

The Professor: Firm but sensitive. Inspiring of creative abandon. Guidance to see you embrace your truest self and unafraid to give a spanking if need be.

I register that this may be sexy to some. And yes, I’ve played along and encouraged this. But the thought behind his words, the almost calculated flirtation and far-too-artfully placed offer to slap my ass have me practically jumping out of my skin.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a little ass slapping, but I think I’ve led this man into thinking I’m about to be his bratty sub. He might have held my interest longer if he had asked me to spank him. But honestly, I think my revulsion at the spanking comment goes beyond mere sexual preference.

I have a visceral, almost instinctual reaction to this kind of expression of male dominance. The only thing I can really compare it to is a fight or flight response. How very dare this man assume that because I am a younger woman (and you know because I actively played along with his professor role play) I am interested in being his sub, ready to take instruction, bend over and be spanked by this nearly 40-year-old man. As-fucking-if. And so, I get mean. I address him by name. Let’s call him Jack.

Me: Do you have any idea that I was one of your students?

The Professor: Hmm...yikes. Abigale Baldwin?

First of all, I become disturbed at how quickly he conjures my full name. Perhaps he did know the whole time? I recall he was always nice about my work, although he never graded a single assignment after the midway point in the semester. I think I left him a pretty complimentary course evaluation.

Secondly, I notice he can’t spell “Abigail” despite it being my display name on Tinder.

He continues to call me “Abigale” for the remainder of the conversation. Unfortunately for him, I only bend over for men who know how to correctly spell my extremely common, historical and biblical name. But I admit, I’ve probably just caught him off guard by revealing I was his student and he’s rattled. I look back at our emails from 2016 and see he spelled my name correctly back then.

He asks me why I swiped right. I consider admitting that I’m basically just gay for women and androgynous men with nose rings. I do not, however, consider sharing the truth of my drunken excitement on Halloween. Nor do I consider telling him that, yes, at one point I did entertain the idea of meeting him for drinks and fairly vanilla sex.

Instead, I tell him I swiped right for the laugh. It’s not a lie, but it’s certainly not the kindest version of the truth.

But I don’t leave it there. I drive the knife deeper.

Me: Truth is, I’m not really into the professor thing [true]. And tbh, you escalated way too quickly. You’ve got to leave ladies guessing especially if you want to get with 21-year-olds [not true].

Look, centuries of female oppression and degradation have reserved me the right to reject men in a less-than-sensitive manor. Still, I get the sense pretty quickly that I have embarrassed this man for no good reason at all. The truth is, I’m not freeing any oppressed women with my words. No, it’s more personal than that. I’ve always felt the need to prove myself to adult men, even as a child. I wanted to be seen as an equal but knew it was an impossible task. It hasn’t felt any more possible as an adult woman, and I’m jaded.

The Professor: Well Abigale, I hope you’re doing well.

...but I can’t be stopped.

Me: Trying to come back from the spanking comment?

Him: Well, obviously. But I really do hope you’re doing well.

He promptly unmatches. I can’t exactly blame him. I snapped at him fast, as if to say, Fuck you for using tinder to try and get laid (you know...what tinder was made for). And also aren’t you SO EMBARRASSED for being attracted to me, someone with no interest in fucking you! Perhaps I don’t take as much joy in humiliating adult men as I thought. Damnit! My conscience really does ruin all my fun.

Now I’m left with the memories and the funny story, but I’m decidedly uncomfortable with my instinct to punish men for being sexual beings. As if, with my attitude alone, I can reclaim the space that has so often been taken from me. I’m haunted by the times in which I have been made to feel small, an object to be used for the pleasure of men. I will hear no more about what they want to do to me. I want them to be afraid to say it-- to know that at any point I may enact my power to bruise their fragile male egos. But I’ve only managed to give myself whiplash with my sudden revulsion, my own inability to be delicate and patient. I feel remorse, but I go back to swiping anyway.