When I was a graduate student at Long Island University, New York, I wanted a sausage sighting of Dr. Chester, a former professional wrestler who taught the history and sociology of sports.
He was in his 50s, massive, with a huge barrel chest, a bull neck, gigantic wrists and hands. Unfortunately, he wore a business suite, uncharacteristic for college professors, with slacks that hung straight down and didn't offer a bulge.
He had a wife and kids, so he probably wouldn't be asking me for a date, or showing up at Ravi's Bear Parties on Long Island.
He didn't use the campus gym.
He never taught classes at any time convenient for "accidentally" using the fourth floor restroom.
Then, one day in April 2000, late in the afternoon, I was on my way out of the Social Science Building to meet Yuri for dinner. I didn't really have to go, but I decided to do a pre-emptive, just in case.
I unlocked the outside door walked through the swinging security door into the faculty men's room. It was very small, really only big enough for one person, with a toilet stall and a single urinal right next to the sink. And there, at the urinal, was Dr. Chester.
The rest of the post is on Tales of West Hollywood