What have I ever done to him to deserve this?
Was being told continually to practice playing the piano such a bad thing that it warranted all this mess?
He’s ruining my fucking life!
The letter from HR had laid everything out: evidence gathering, interviews, reviews, investigation report…The whole process could last anywhere from two months to maybe four. They’d started looking for evidence two weeks after the initial meeting, and so far they’d spent almost seven weeks going through my emails, messages, grading records… I’d been interviewed—twice—and then they moved onto my colleagues, not that anyone of them could tell me that themselves. They’d also been interviewing potential witnesses.
Presumably they’d interviewed Ollie too, the lying little fuck.
What sent ice through my veins was the idea that the college could also inform the police of their investigations. And even if they did that, they’d still continue in parallel: colleges could decide on code of conduct breaches even without criminal outcome.
The wall calendar in my small kitchen had various dates circled in red, and scribbles accompanying each one.
Evidence gathering ends August 23.
Investigation report deadline September 12.
Disciplinary hearing ? September 20.
Outcome deadline September 30.
Appeals deadline October 31.
The hearing wasn’t a given, hence the big question mark next to it. That would only take place if they decided there was a case to answer.
There was nothing I could do, and I’d never felt so helpless.
The other part of my life was leading me nowhere.
Except that wasn’t quite true. Ithadled me to make a few discoveries, and while I wasn’t sure what I wanted, the bits I didn’t want were much clearer.
There was no way I was about to walk into my local newsagents—oranynewsagents, if it came to that—and buy a gay magazine.For God’s sake, someone might see me do it.I’d resorted to buying them online instead. But once I started reading them, I realized one thing pretty quickly.
They were filled with a lot of younger men, and I knew that wasn’t what I was into.
I finally got up enough nerve to visit Canal Street, and a couple of trips there were enough to clue me in on a few things. It was loud, there was a constant buzz to the place—and it wasn’t me. I didn’t feel as if I fitted in.
My second visit to Canal Street, I saw an ex-student. That was it, I was done.
And then there was gay porn. I watched alotof that.
At the beginning it was mostly a fact-finding mission. I was mentally writing a list of all the things I wanted to try, if—God willing—I found someone willing to do them with me.
It was a very long list.
And once again, I quickly learned the sites that did nothing for me. There was one particular studio that was mostly older men with younger guys, and thank God, all of the latter were legal. But that wasn’t me either. One channel in particular did catch my eye, however. The arc running through it was young men being auctioned off to the highest bidder, who they’d then service. All the guys doing the buying were older. I had to admit, the sex was fucking hot, but it made me realize two vitally important things.
I wasn’t into young guys.
I was, however, into the guys fucking them.
Diana, bless her, was amazing.
I didn’t discuss what I’d been looking at, but she was supportive. She seemed more relaxed, and it crossed my mindmore than once that if I was looking at my life differently, then she was probably doing the same.
Has she found someone else?
That thought didn’t pain me as much as I’d anticipated it might. In fact, I hoped that was the case.She deserves some happiness.