I remember that Delacroix was one of the two professors whose pictures I couldn't find online. I try again, opening a new window to Google him. This time, I actually make an effort. But once again, I don't find any pictures. Just excerpts from papers he's published, and they do sound pretty long-winded.
He doesn't seem to have Facebook or LinkedIn. That's pretty unusual. Even I have a Facebook. I'm almost never on it, but at least I have one.
Looks like I need to attend his class to see what he looks like. What a crock. I slide out of the chair to the floor and pull the first book on his syllabus out of the plastic bag. Lolita. It has new book smell, fresh and chemical, and I get as far as “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins” before my brain decides to shut off.
It's not my fault. There's so much text crammed on one page that it looks black. I get a headache just looking at it, let alone trying to make sense of it.
You can read fine when you take your pills.
When I take my pills, I'm a zombie, though.
You feel better.
I don't feel at all. Just…dead.
You're not dead.
I know. That's why I have to stop taking my pills periodically, to ascertain that I can come back. That what they do to me isn't permanent.
You're not dead, you're just a drama queen. The reason you don't take your pills is because you're weak. You're weak, because you keep thinking you can get better on your own, that you're ashamed to take drugs, but then you load up on ones that you get from the street.
You're worse than a coward; you're a hypocrite.
Voices like these are the reason people buy guns and then attempt to blow out their brains, and the brains of others. They're trying to kill that piece of themselves that tells them what they don't want to hear. It's bad if it's not true, but it's even worse if it is. Because when the voices in your head have a point, when they're logical, then you know you're in trouble.
My pills are back with my parents at home, though, so taking them isn't really a viable option.
You can always get an emergency refill filled until you can get your prescription transferred. They usually give you at least enough to last 24 hours.
I don't cut nearly as often when I'm not taking my pills. Not as much as when I do. Even Dr. Fields admitted that she thought I was making headway.
No, she said you seemed to be working on accepting your psychic pain and learning to live around it. You didn't tell her you were doing that by cutting and doing drugs. If you had, you'd still be in Cherry Hill.
Hardly any cutting, and even fewer drugs. Just coffee and alcohol, and I know how much I can handle. Anyway, whose business but mine is it what I do with my body? I wait, but the nagging voice of guilt is silent. Convinced, or maybe just worn out.
Fuck Dr. Fields. It's all her fault I have this voice in my head. If she really cared she would have tried harder to fix me instead of treating me like some sort of fair weather science project, making me fill out questionnaires at the beginning of every session that took for-fucking-ever and served zero purposes. Since when did pyschiatry become on big, fat Myspace survey? That's what I want to know.
Now, I'm like a half-finished sculpture. From one side, I look finished. But then you see the other side, sanded down and grotesque, and you wonder, “What the fuck was the person who created that thinking?”
I'm still waiting on an answer for that one.
PART II
We are supposed to have read half of Lolita by the time of the first lecture but, of course, I haven't done that. Like most ungraded assignments, I take this to be more of a guideline than a concrete rule.
I've been too tired to read, anyway. I lean against the wall with a heavy thud and an even heavier sigh, causing several nearby students to give a start and then fix me with dirty looks that I choose to ignore. I went to another party last night with the intent of hooking up. This wasn't a frat party, but at someone's house. It was still pretty wild, though, and I was kind of hoping I'd be able to replenish my dwindling stash.
This one guy and I had sex, standing against the wall because the floor was kind of filthy and there wasn't enough room to lean or sit. I even got him to do some rough, hard stuff and it did make it better than straight-up vanilla sex would have, I think. I was satisfied, anyway, as satisfied as I am with any fuck that actually results in my coming, but then he ruined it by getting all butt hurt when I told him I wasn't interested in a long term relationship.
“I thought we had something going on,” he whined, making what I had thought a decently attractive face suddenly seem utterly repulsive.
“We did,” I told him. “And now it's over, so don't ruin it by being a little bitch, okay? Man up.”
But he wouldn't man up. He was so fucking annoying, following me around the party, calling me a whore and spewing other abuse, and basically just preventing me from having anything remotely close to a good time. I had to leave the party before I was ready to, and I hate doing that because when you're under twenty-one there are only so many ways to score alcohol, and parties are the best way.
Yeah, I'm pissed. Not the good kind, either, thanks to that dick, but the bad kind. The kind that usually results in me doing something stupid.
One guy standing nearby looks kind of amused by my silent fuming, if the smile on his face is any indication. Obviously, it isn't a nice smile if he's indulging in a bit of schadenfreude, and he looks like he thinks I'm a loser, condemned to a bleak future.
The fact that he's also quite good-looking is just salt in the wound. Lately, I've started noticing that when hot guys deign to look at me at all, it's like they're trying to figure out what brand of pathetic I am. Hitting the genetic lottery shouldn't give you any superiority over anyone else, and in a fair world, it wouldn't. But life isn't fucking fair, so better looking people have an easier time getting dates and job opportunities, and even get higher salaries than those who are just closer to average, regardless of whether they deserve it (they usually don't).
I know this is true because I read it in People magazine and they were quoting a legitimate scientific journal to make their point, so this shit is fact. This guy over here not only looks as if he feels entitled to superior treatment but expects it, as well.
I look him over sourly, searching for flaws. There are none. He's wearing acid-washed jeans that cling to muscular thighs, a polo that is unbuttoned over a finely shaped throat, and over that, an earthy brown sweater that matches his whiskey-colored eyes. They're not warm, though, they're as cold and frosted as a glass served up neat, and dangerous; the kind of eyes you could get lost in, and not in a good way.
His shoes are scuffed but obviously expensive. Real leather usually is, and these look like the kind that almost nobody wears anymore. I bet he got them at an upscale thrift store. He looks metro enough to try and attempt the vintage hipster look. When he rotates his wrist to check the time I notice he's got on a watch that's also quite nice, maybe even real gold.
He's definitely not a freshmen. He's lacking the awkward factor, and most freshmen boys aren't confident enough to pull off leather loafers or trendy man jewelry. For the same reason, I doubt he's a sophomore or junior, either. No, I bet he's a senior with a job offer around the corner, and he's got such financial security that he doesn't even have to worry about taking it, which will only make them want him more. Like I said, totally not fair.
I suppose he looks old enough to be a graduate student but graduate students are supposed to be overworked, underpaid, and exhausted all the time. This guy looks too self-satisfied and prepossessed. I bet he can fuck for hours. He looks like the type to have a mirror on the ceiling, to admire himself from all angles while also looking for flaws to bring up to his partner to help “improve performance.”
I sigh again, angrily, and he says, “Bad day?”
Oh my God, he has this clipped, British accent that's like honey to my ears. It conjures up imagery of smoky London nightclubs and lovers kissing beneath f
lickering streetlamps in the rain. This is the kind of man who can melt panties with a single glance and knows it, and oh, I fucking want him.
I try to think of something to say. Something witty that will impress him. I've never cared much for the BBC, but now I'm starting to wish I'd at least watched a few episodes of something. “Hard to tell,” I drawl, because talking slowly helps me stall for time even if it makes me sound like a total asshole. “It was pretty indistinguishable from the norm.”
“First world problems plague us all.”
He glances down to check his watch again.
Surely he can't be that eager for class to start. What a dick move, dismissing me like that. He can't dismiss me; I'm not finished with him yet.
I find myself studying his hairy wrists, quite a bit darker than the dark chestnut hair on his head. No, his body hair is almost black. When my eyes swing up to his open shirt collar, I see a few equally dark curls poking out through the gaps in the buttons. He's got a bit of 5 o' clock shadow going on, too. I wonder if his chest is as hairy as his wrists, which makes my stomach go all fluttery and my nipples turn hard.
Men in romance novels always have shaved chests and I fucking hate that. There's something bestial about a man with body hair, and the way it chafes and scrapes as you kiss and fuck. It crosses that line between pain and pleasure, and I love that. Yes, I'd fuck this man. I think I might hate him as a person if I knew him, kind of even hate him now, but I'm not really interested in getting to know him in any other sense but the biblical one, if you know what I mean.
Maybe this is why I struck out with that loser I had the one-night stand with last night. Maybe it's kismet. What better place to meet a potential fling than in a class for erotic literature, after all?
He doesn't know it, but in this second he has become mine. I've claimed him. It's just a matter of bringing it carefully to his attention, making it seem as if the idea were all his. But in order to do that, I have to make him look at me and really see me. Not as a person, but as a woman with baser desires in need of being met. I need him to see me as fuckable. It's a shame I didn't wear something more revealing.
“Are you taking this class?” I ask after a pause.
I wish I knew what was so fascinating about that damn watch that he can't bring himself to look away from it. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Are you an English major?”
An amused expression flits across his face, making it twice as attractive. “I was.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not for a while.”
“Well, if you're not majoring in English anymore, do you really think this class is necessary? I mean, you kind of sound like you've been reading too much flowery bullshit, as is—no offense.”
I suspect he'll find this funny. He seems like he's a big enough jerk that his taste will run to personal insults. And even if it doesn't, there's always the off chance that it'll knock him down a few pegs and make him feel a little insecure. Not a whole lot, but maybe enough that he'll be willing to settle for less.
People will fall over themselves to please you if they think you don't like them. It's counter-intuitive, but quite handy. This man doesn't seem to be big on pleasing, though, because I see his eyes flash with what looks like irritation. “Perhaps,” he allows, with an edge in his voice. “Or perhaps you could do with some more.”
Shit. I backtrack rapidly, trying to think of a way to lighten the tension. “If I wanted to sound like a pretentious ass, I'd quote Shakespeare.”
That elicits an unwilling smile. “Shakespeare is overrated,” he admits. “I'm not a fan. But what do you think of the books for this class?”
The amusement is back, though the question seems loaded. Like this is a test of some sort. I'm not big on conversational tests, but I'm pleased that he's actually participating in the conversation. He has also stopped checking his watch, too. For the moment.
I pretend to think. “Well…at least I won't be needing my sleeping pills this quarter,” I hedge.
“You don't like them?” he says. “Any of them?”
I shake my head. “Oh God, no.”
“You don't find the concept of illicit love at all engaging?”
He is so fucking flirting with me. Yes.
“The concept, maybe. But in literature? That's like ordering a glass of tap water at a bar.”
The smile he gives me is cruelly knowing.
“What a crude analogy. And what do you know about bars, if I may ask? You look rather too young to be spending much of your time them.”
Statistics are on his side but I still bristle. Age is a last resort guys bring up when they're trying to think of reasons to extricate themselves from being with you any longer. Experience is another one.
“I've spent more time in bars than you have, I bet,” I say. “Why, you thinking of taking me to one? Because I can look whatever age you need me to be.”
My careful emphasis serves the double purpose of being an accusation, and also tapping into the deep-rooted fantasy men have to be in complete control. Now that I've spoken the words aloud, I realize that I want him to take me to a bar. The idea of alcohol fills me with a hot, burning need. Or maybe that's all him, and his hairy wrists, and his strange turns of phrase that are either British or pretentious I can't tell, his cruel barbs, and his odd but intriguing passion for literature about fucked-up sex.
That's when I realize that I want to find out. I want to know what makes him tick I want to know what my name will sound like whispered in that irresistible accent. I want to tear his clothes off with my teeth, to tease him with my tongue and to carve my name in crimson ribbons right into his heaving chest. Even if it's for one night only and ends up destroying the two of us, I want him.
I am almost certain that he will let me have him, too. He might resist a little, at least at first, but most guys end up coming around in the end when the offer of sex is on the table. It isn't as if I'm ugly, either. I may not be beautiful, but I know how to use what I have to my best advantage. Besides, once men get your clothes off, they aren't too interested in anything beyond your tits, ass, or cunt, so any extra effort on your part is pure window dressing.
I can even be charming for short periods of time if I have to be. I'm trying my damndest to be charming right now. It isn't a completely moot effort, but maybe he thinks differently because his face closes off and it's a little like walking right into a slamming door, it happens so suddenly and unexpectedly.
“I'm sorry,” he says coldly, turning away.
My face flushes with humiliation and confusion and anger. I had him—I had him and then, like water through my fingers, I lost him and he slipped away.
What the hell happened?
Things were going so well.
Reeling, I try to figure out whether damage control is possible. And while I am puzzling, another girl comes running up. Possession is inscribed within each on of her skipping little steps, and that makes me distrust her instantly. Could she be his girlfriend? She looks even younger than I am, but it's possible.
Yes, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. She could be his girlfriend, and maybe he saw her just as the scales started to swing in my direction. Now he's giving me the cold shoulder for her benefit, so she won't suspect anything.
She really isn't pretty enough for him.
I study her face, plain but attractive.
I bet she's a cold fish in the bedroom.
“Professor Delacroix?”
She has a high-pitched voice reminiscent of nails and chalkboards. I look around, eyes wide. Professor? Shit. I hope the professor didn't hear me flirting with this man I want so desperately to fuck. I don't want him to narc me out, though a pervert like him might even try to get in on some menage-a-trois action or something. Though if he's as hot as his rating on Rate My Professor suggests, that might not be such a bad thing—
But her eyes remain fixed on the man I've been talking to this whole time and he tur
ns towards her with an ingratiating smile. “Yes?” he says, in his deep, mellifluous voice, and I think, No, no way.
I remember one of the comments saying that he liked to come to class in jeans and button-downs. I also remember mention of an accent. I figured it would be a French accent because of the last name, but France is right next to England, isn't it? There could be some mixing. Oh fuck, I think. No. Please, no.
“Um, my mom gave me a translation of Les Liaisons that's different from the one on your syllabus? I was just wondering whether that would be an issue when writing the essays. I mean, do I have to use quotes directly from the text or can I just paraphrase because I was thinking if I did it that way there wouldn't be a problem, but I wanted to check with you first, since, you know, foreign translations—”
She babbles on. I barely register the rest of her words. I am full on cursing in my head right because I am now certain that this is, in fact, my professor.
“You need the edition I specified,” he says, with less of the charm and more of the snide intellectual disdain that he used on me. “That's why the translator is mentioned on the syllabus in bold. If that weren't important, I wouldn't have wasted the space or the time. Is that quite clear?”
She flinches, some of the cute little blush draining from her cheeks. “Oh,” she peeps. “Yeah, okay, of course. I didn't think, but that makes total sense. I—”
“Since we won't be reading Les Liaisons for a while yet, I'm sure you'll have ample time to return the copy you have and obtain the correct translation in its stead.”
The girl nods miserably.
He doesn't seem to notice her acquiescence, continuing in the same vein, “If you cannot find a copy to borrow or purchase within two weeks' time, I can suggest some other places you might try—I assume that's the only reason you did not try the bookstore first, that they are sold out—however, unlike with the student store, you will not have the luxury of being able to use your student discount.”
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