Essay "My Pedagogical Credo"

"Love exists, I've engaged in it" — it would seem there's no point in heeding such ambiguously vulgar pronouncements, even if they are broadcast nationwide by the once very serious radio station "Mayak." Although, if you think about it, there is a grain of truth, and a substantial one at that, in this phrase.

But let's take things in order.

Love is a complex and multifaceted thing, like a four-dimensional cube whose internal volume is significantly larger than its external one. I, for example, love my job.

"Why?" you might ask.

And indeed, why?

I'll try to explain. I have a good job. A "university lecturer," as I

say and think about myself (more often think). The work is, of course, necessary and not particularly dusty, though not one of those jobs about which they say "even if you wanted to, you couldn't overexert yourself."

You'll ask: "What does love have to do with it?" and you'll be absolutely right. I engage in "love" (in a somewhat, even more than figurative, sense) when the decisive stage arrives for the female students, commonly known as the SESSION. This is the very moment of truth when reward for merit or punishment for transgressions is meted out.

Administering an exam largely resembles customs control, where the formal inspection procedure, given sufficient grounds, can turn into a search smoothly transitioning into an interrogation with prejudice.

During the "preliminary inspection," one must, with a few confident yet delicate movements, ascertain whether the student is hiding anything under her clothes, meaning whether anything from the classes remains in her head at all. For me, as an experienced customs officer familiar with the tricks of smugglers, it's usually enough to lightly embrace her waist with my palms, move up to the armpits. Then slide the palms forward to feel the stomach, return to the waist again, and lower the palms down along the outer surface of the thighs.

However, if her behavior leads me to suspect that she is hiding something and has something to lose, a more thorough "inspection" will be conducted, up to the revelation of the truth. One can thus continue the movement from the thighs downward, gently feel the knees, calves, shins. Run the palms up again along the back surface of the thighs. Slowly caress the buttocks, then the thighs, first along the front surface to the knees, and then, slightly inserting fingers between the thighs, move upward, upward, upward... But here I usually stop half an inch from the upper edge of the lace stockings without ever touching the skin.

In most cases, suspicions dissipate, and no doubts remain. Even if something went unnoticed, it's such an insignificant trifle that it doesn't deserve excessive attention. I simply write "good" in the grade book.

Some by this point are so inflamed that they are perplexed as to why I stopped; in their thoughts, they have already completely surrendered to my power and are anticipating, as if I would lay them stomach-down on the table and... They are ready to scream, moan, and writhe all the way until...

But it's all already over; at such moments, I am especially unyielding. Because of this, some leave somewhat unsatisfied. I can only sympathetically feel sorry for them; they truly aren't capable of more right now. "Maybe another time?" I think, although I know for sure there won't be another time.

And only in those rare, unforgettably vivid moments, when during a thorough "inspection" I am not dissuaded but, on the contrary, become more convinced in my suspicions, does true love begin, namely, an inquiry with full severity.

The student understands she's been caught and can no longer do anything. In this instant, our desires coincide; I catch her timid hope for continuation and, at the same time, her fear that it's all already over, having barely begun. But I don't stop and again stroke her buttocks, caress her waist, shoulders, arms. I gradually draw closer to her, enfold her in an embrace. My hands wander over her stomach, though not venturing far up or down, passing just under her breasts, barely touching them. I begin to speak softly about something. This continues until I understand that she is ready for anything, right now.

She lacks the strength to moan, to scream, and even the trembling disappears; she falls powerless into the tender abyss of frenzied ecstasy and barely comprehends what is happening to her. At the moment I hand her the grade book with the deserved recognition of her merits, her eyes glisten with tears of sincere gratitude.

"Thank you," she says.

In response, I make a meaningful gesture like "It was my pleasure too" or "Always happy to help."

Hesitantly, she leaves me, but near the door, she turns and says: "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," I say, trying to maintain an intonation implying that nothing has ended forever, while at the same time already assessing the chances of the next candidate for an inspection with varying degrees of thoroughness.