I thought your story was marvolous. I’ve had a simular idea rolling around in my head that I hadn’t yet put the time into clearly iterating yet. Guess you beat me to it. And quite well. I was about to write it myself, really. I won’t submit this anywhere or take credit for the story format, but I just thought you might be interested in my near-pladgerization. What can I say? I was inspired. My appologies 
He is quite charming, isn’t he? Sitting there so oblivious with his glasses slipping down his nose. His open book about to fall off of the small table he sits at. His inattentive beautiful face is bewitching. What can he possibly be doing on that laptop that would warrant such singular attention? Something to do with the precariously balanced book? Great German Short Stories. He occasionally looks down to make references to it in a patiently studious manner.
Then I know why he’s here. He doesn’t want to deal with the thick silence of his dorm room any longer. He was driven out of his sleeping quarters by the oppressive quality stillness can take after it goes on for an extended period. Obviously he made sure to be very careful to cultivate the appearance that he doesn’t give a damn what other people see in him before setting up camp in this coffeehouse.
His hair is ruffled in a deliciously careless manner. His ‘rich-boy trying to be casual’ clothes are in a state of disarray. A trait he probably takes with him throughout every facet of his life. He’s one of those Ph.D. bound intellectuals forever disenchanted with an unfortunate lack of Sexual Currency as an adolescent. He thinks that if he makes it obvious that he doesn’t care about Sexual Currency the rules can’t possibly apply to him. And he’ll thereby never have to undergo that exposing scrutiny again. I can see him sitting back with a couple of friends after a sociology class, making snide little witticisms on the meaningless stupidity that those giggling couples walking past are bound to, as he gazes upon them wistfully.
He clings to his intellectual aloofness.
He’s very careful to not reveal that he is just another man enslaved by his passions.
Because I can see it clearly as he sits there and types with such concentration: he is an excruciating passionate man. His quips and sarcasm convince those closest to him of his dispassioned logic. But they wouldn’t fool me. I can read his eyes like he reads the words of the Stoics. His eyes are hungry. Hungry and insatiable in his need to indulge in the intangible. His chestnut brown eyes glow with his repressed passions as he assures his father and older brother that he has no use for women when trying to achieve scholastic accomplishments. All the while he can’t stop himself from picturing that pretty brunette kitty-corner to him in the restaurant warring the red dress. He sees her decadently tracing her tongue up his naked thigh, lavishing his nude form with her lusty loving attentions. Then he is brought back to reality by replying to his older brothers question – “No, what I need is capital. All good things follow the gaining of capital. You worry about territory scenting, and I’ll worry about my grades.â€
He doesn’t fool me.
I know he indulges himself in privacy. Reading Ovid, studying the Epicureans, and painting the succulent flushed bodies of young lovers. Or maybe sculpting them. He fervently throws himself into the rich madness of his passionate nature, hoping maybe this time he’ll find the answer he’s been searching for, logically knowing the question will only return the following morning. He pours himself into those sculptures, only to closet them away as soon as they’re fired and stained. They would ruin his image. Compromise his status as impervious to the idealistic pettiness of rage and rapture. He would then be held accountable to participate in the torrents of stormy infatuation. He would be put back on the grid of hierarchical organization of who does and does not have that bespoke of Sexual Currency. And he remembers the meat markets of his youth. He remembers how humbling they were for a high-browed Jewish boy that was slow to learn the rules. His imperviousness must not be compromised. Outside the shelter of his capacity he trusts that bloodthirsty demons still lay in wait.
But I can see the hunger still steadfastly rebutting all attempts at repression.
Visions of heated twining bodies dizzy with climax, visions of the kind of love that can permanently forge souls together in its blaze, will not simply dissipate under logic. And so he sits there typing away with his ruffled hair and disheveled clothes, pretending not to yearn for someone to free him from his self-imposed restraint… his alluring unavailability of self-imposed restraint. Yes. He is indeed beautiful in his obliviousness as he sips from his coffee. It’s undoubtedly some chic bohemian-bourgeois mix of syrups and flavoring with very little actual coffee. I laugh at him affectionately. Such an adorable boy.
God, I’d love to corrupt his restraint.
Hand feed him the ripe fruit of fleshly sins.
Awaken his passion to the point of self-destruction.
His dark brows furrow attractively as he ponders the last paragraph he wrote. He unconsciously runs his tongue across his lips as he thinks. The force with which his face and chastely covered body compel me is astounding. Like a robust young priest, he is depressing in his unjust vow of celibacy.
Oh, but to ignite those ruthlessly suppressed flames.
I know he would stick with his casual remoteness were he invited into my library. Perhaps displaying a detached curiosity that someone else in the god forsaken town would have a statue of the Darwin Monkey pondering a human skull sitting on their bookshelf. He would perhaps try to deflect the unmistakably impure thoughts in my eyes by trying to start a conversation. The respectability of Christian existentialism? Plato being an early Marxist inspiration? Anything to postpone the pivotal moment he fears and craves.
I would brush off his feeble attempts, casually removing the glass of red wine from his hand and setting it beside me on the desk. A shiver of heady apprehension would pass through him. He would realize his whole act was about to come crashing down on him and he would be trapped. And he would be ever so grateful for the lack of choice, this being the only situation in which he won’t be imprisoned by his logic and fear. With a smile I would pull his face down to mine, softly pressing my lips against his. I would quiet his last unwanted protests, tracing my finger down his ear and neck, imploring him with my kisses to be still and receptive. And he would be. He would close his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing as his mind finally lost control to his body.
Then we would make love.
The passionate, intoxicating, carnal sexual indulgence that would leave him moaning and shivering in it’s wake. We would lay entwined like his art, letting our bodies slowly cool in each others embrace. No one would notice the wineglass had fallen and broke, spilling its stain across the floor. Later he would brush his lips against my ear as he whispered his request to stay the night. He doesn’t want to return to the world out there just yet. And I would whisper back that he could. I would whisper back that his passion captivates and seduces me. He need never face the world out there again. I would tell him he doesn’t need to hide his sculptures any more.
He closes his laptop and carefully stores it and his book in his leather bag, taking one last sip from his cup before tossing it away. The air outside looks chilly contrasted against his warm breath that lingers in it the second before he crosses the street. I take another sip of my scorchingly black coffee and look at the clock. Fifteen minutes before I have to start my lecture on Nietzsche and WW2. And I forgot to grade the essays again, damn it. I’m sure the class won’t mind.