“The student bookstore isn't sold out,” I say.
The girl shoots me a look of pure hatred.
“I see.” Professor Delacroix studies me for a moment, then smiles at the girl, who isn't quite able to banish the ugly expression from her face in time. “Then I see no problem. How convenient for you.”
I still want him. Badly. Even more so after seeing him treat that other girl so cruelly, and letting me in on it, too, like a co-conspirator. That was amazing. I've never seen a man so composed that he can lash out with such careful control. It's kind of a turn-on.
I can't help thinking this is one of those situations where having a girlfriend would be handy. You know, a female friend who keeps you from doing reckless things like propositioning your college professors or mixing uppers and downers. The two of us would dish about our problems over a carton of frozen yogurt or something while making witty remarks and observations befitting a syndicated sitcom as she slowly but effectively talks me out of making a stupid, life-changing mistake. Cue end credits.
But I have no female friends, because I've long since driven them all away by my flaky behavior or by sleeping around with their boyfriends just to see if I could, or because their parents outright forbade them to be around me while I was on one of my downward spirals. And unfortunately, stupid, life-changing mistakes are kind of my specialty.
Nope, it looks like I'm going to be fucked.
Hopefully, I think, in more ways than one.
We follow Professor Delacroix inside the room.
I can't help but think most girls in my position would have fled from the building by now, or dropped the class out of pure embarrassment. Maybe that says something about me that I don't, but I take a ringside seat up front determined to suss him out.
The front row is pretty packed. I notice a lot of my seatmates are female, and they are all staring up at Professor Delacroix with such expressions of rapt devotion that it makes me feel a little sick.
There's a decent number of men in the class too, and while I'm sure at least some percentage of them are gay, I suspect the male turnout is due more to the lecture material than the actual lecturer himself, now clearing his throat and signaling that class is about to begin.
I stop craning my neck around and pay attention.
“Welcome to Comparative Literature Six,” he says, once it's quiet. “Or as it's also called, Sexual Deviancy and Fetishism in Literature. If this is not the class you signed up for, I suggest you leave. Now. Things are about to get”—he smiles—“rather nasty.”
Appreciative giggles from the peanut gallery.
I fight not to roll my eyes. So not funny.
Since nobody gets up and leaves, Delacroix continues. “Some of you undoubtedly signed up for this class thinking it was going to be fun. I'm sorry to have misled you. While I would be loathe to discourage one from the perusal and enjoyment of classic literature, I do emphasize that this is not an easy course, and mere enjoyment will not be sufficient for a passing grade. There will be a great amount of reading crammed into a relatively short amount of time, and I will keep you very, very busy.”
I bet you will.
“I expect you to do all the work I assign you, whether or not it will be graded. In addition to daily readings there will be a short paper assigned at the end of each week to judge your grasp of the material. To do these assignments is to your benefit, as your two midterms and final—ten and twenty page essays, respectively—will be based on material comprised from your weekly essays. Unlike the smaller essays, all major paper assignments will be graded by me, and I suggest you don't waste my time. Or yours.”
He steps down from the podium, and I notice that he really is a very tall man, easily topping six feet. I feel a shiver coming on as he walks right by, close enough that I can feel the displaced air being stirred up in his wake. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. I don't, though. Not yet.
“I don't take roll, but attendance is mandatory. But how will I know, you ask. Simple. By your grades. My lectures contain copyrighted ideas and materials so you will not be able to find Powerpoint editions of my lessons online. And since the topics we will be discussing in class will be focal to your weekly essays it will become readily apparent to me who is a regular attendee of my lectures and who is not by the quality and sophistry of your work.”
Now people are starting to look uneasy. A few people around me are even groaning and nudging each other with rebellious expressions that say, quite clearly, I'm out of here. Never mind that the professor is right there and can obviously see them.
A few raise their hands, though whether out of protest or the desire for elaboration we don't get to find out, because Delacroix starts the next portion of his speech with a curious little half-smile.
“I don't take questions. Not now, and not for the rest of the quarter. My lectures are meticulously planned down to the minute, and you will not impress me with superficial insights or by parroting my own words back at me. If you have an observation or comment you are absolutely dying to share with me, do it by email or at my office hours. That is what they are for. The same is true of questions, though I suggest making damn sure it isn't answered in the text or in my lecture first.”
Those who raised their hands lower them looking shamefaced. He smiles and once again, the effect is such that it becomes almost painful to look at.
“You are perhaps thinking I am an ogre. You would be correct. But there is no one better than I in this particular area of study, so I can get away with it. Follow my rules, numerous though they are, and we will get along quite nicely. I do my best to put on a good show. Have I succeeding in scaring any of you away yet?” His eyes scan the lecture hall and for a moment I swear, they linger on me.
Not a chance, Professor.
Delacroix walks back to the podium. “Now that we've laid down some of the ground rules, let's get back to brass tacks. Erotic literature. Erotic literature is a relatively recent phenomenon—at least, it is in the mass-produced sense. Such materials were not widely distributed until the invention of the printing press. Prior to that, creating such works was time-consuming and costly. Examples are rare and highly prized, because of their limited availability.
“Books of this type tended to be read by small circles of wealthy, intellectual libertines. When you keep in mind the fact that they needed to be literate, as well, in an era where most of those who were literate were members of the church, I'm sure you can imagine just how small the circles in which these books were read were.”
He picks up a piece of chalk.
“For your edification, the invention of the printing press in Europe is accredited to Johannes Gutenberg during the mid-fifteenth century. You don't need to write this down”—this is directed to the suck-ups who are falling over themselves looking in their backpacks for pencils—“I merely want you to appreciate just how modern literature as we know it really is. In more ways than one.”
He writes PRINTING PRESS—1450—JOHANNES GUTENBERG on the chalkboard. Then he sets down the chalk and wipes his fingers off on his jeans.
“The printing press made books more affordable and, as a direct result, easier to circulate. Erotic literature, which had previously been enjoyed by a relatively small and select target-specific audience, could suddenly be accessed by a great many people. It went, as you might say”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“mainstream.
“As it became easier for these books to wind up in the hands of everyday folk, religious and political organizations became concerned about some of the more unsavory aspects of these works. This led to censorship and the creation of obscenity laws in both legal and moral constructs. As a result, many of their authors chose to publish under a pseudonym or even anonymously to avoid prosecution.
“Like other works of literature, erotic literature was sometimes written to explore the revolutionary, the taboo, or the socially relevant. Many works of literature reflect the intensely personal fantasies of the author—perhap
s most notably, the Marquis de Sade and Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. They are the individuals responsible for their eponymous namesakes, sadism and masochism.
“Other works were meant as social commentary. For example, works written about prostitution and sex work served the dual purpose of bringing attention to the circumstances of individuals involved in those dubious professions. I suspect that still others were written for the sole purpose of being incendiary.”
He pauses to draw breath, and half the class seems to inhale with him, myself included.
“There are only so many books that I am physically able to teach given the amount of time allotted to us by the quarter system. I can think of ten, maybe twenty, books offhand I would love to add to my curriculum if only I had the time. That said, I do have a list of further reading I provide to students upon request, so if you are interested, please, don't hesitate to ask—by email or at my office hours.”
It's really too bad I hate reading so much. This is just the opportunity I need to approach him.
With any other professor I might pretend, but I have the feeling that Delacroix would see through my act as clearly as if I were a window.
“The eight books I have chosen for this class are personal favorites of mine, and I find that they work well together for this course. While you may not consider Wuthering Heights or Lolita works of erotica, or indeed, even romance, they do contain elements of fetishism and sexual deviancy that are still pertinent to this class, in spite of their lack of romantic sexual content.”
It must be close to the time to leave because people are starting to zip up their backpacks. I see that look of irritation arc through his potent eyes just before he slams his hands down on the podium with a bang loud enough to make several people jump.
I lean back in my seat again.
Now this is more like it.
“You may have heard some of the controversy surrounding my lesson plan. Yes?” He eyes us searchingly but nobody raises their hand, although a few people start to. “Even my teaching my methods. Considering the nature of the topics we cover in class, I expect that half of you will become offended by at least one topic of discussion in this class. As I said, I expect that; it doesn't bother me.
“And so long as you are able to be offended in a quiet, respectful manner, this shouldn't even be an issue. The trouble is, most people cannot remain offended in silence. They must share it with others. If you think you will be unable to keep your viewpoints to yourself, I strongly recommend that you drop the course now. Because, and again, this is the only warning you will get from me on this topic, I will not go head to head with you, or be drawn into a debate. No. I will simply give you an F.
“And let me tell you something else. This F won't be discriminatory because it won't be because I don't respect your political or religious views, and the ways that they shape your personal opinions on sexual matters. It will be because you chose not to follow my instructions. Students have tried to fight me on this matter in the past and they have lost. If you want to argue, Fielder offers several debate classes in varying intensity. I suggest you sign up for one of them instead.” He pauses several seconds to let that sink in. “All right, then—class dismissed.”
Wow, I think. That was quite a lecture.
My stomach feels fluttery. It's like I have the flu, but I know it's not because I'm sick. It's because Professor Delacroix has seeped into my blood, sparkling like champagne, stinging like poison.
Oh, God, I haven't felt like this in forever.
Those eyes.
That body.
I slip into the public restroom, shaking a little with the shivery intensity of my emotions. There's one empty stall and I take it, even though it smells like shit. The moment the latch is in place, I slide my hand between my legs and find that little bundle of nerves. I'm already wet and my legs nearly give out as the anticipation of pleasure jolts through me like a shot.
As I stroke, I imagine his commanding baritone urging me on, and that's the straw that breaks this camel's back. I come with a shudder, lurching into the dispenser for used sanitary napkins. Oh, yes.
I flush the toilet and exit the stall, leaving none the wiser. I am a masturbatory ninja.
As I wash my hands, I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in my reflection. Sweaty, messy hair. Worn flannel. Torn-up jeans. I look like a devout follower of Kurt Cobain circa 1991. Not an undeniable sex goddess. Not unless he has a thing for female lumberjacks.
His lecture should have discouraged me, but if anything it only served to strengthen my convictions. A man who thinks about nothing but sex all day is surely drawn to it like a moth to a flame. It's only a matter of finding a fire that burns at his frequency.
I decide to skip Philosophy of Biology. Delacroix will be a tough act to follow, in more ways than one. Javier Rojas, Enrique doppelganger or no, just won't cut it. I peeked through all my textbooks and I'm just not interested in hearing about evolution versus creationism and the wonders of epigenetics.
I'm far more interested in getting to Delacroix.
Cutting Philosophy of Biology leaves me an entire afternoon free to do what I want. On the pretense of getting food that will sit well with my finicky stomach I decide to go shopping. I often feel nauseous in the mornings so I like to keep a ready supply of ginger ale and saltines around. When I'm stressed, I munch saltines like they're popcorn.
I should also get a new bottle of shampoo. I think my neighbors are starting to notice that the soap in the dispenser is disappearing at an alarming rate. I heard one of them in there this morning pumping the machine hard and saying, “How the hell is this disappearing so fast? Is someone drinking this shit?”
That's ridiculous. It's not like it's mouthwash.
If I were on talking terms with my neighboring dorm mates, I might tell them that there's a special breed of urban rat whose digestive systems have adapted specifically to eating soap, but I doubt they'd be amused. Worse still; they might take me seriously and then I would be forced to make fun of them.
Since I'm not acquainted with any of my neighbors, however, this doesn't really bear thinking about. I am, however, continually amazed by the number of stupid people in this college. Are they just handing out those athletic scholarships these days, or does Fielder have particularly low standards?
It must be the latter—they let me in, after all.
The automatic doors part for me with a beep. Focus. Remember what you're here for.
I grab a plastic basket, knowing that if I get a cart I'll only end up with far more than I need because the compulsion I get is to fill it. There are so many racks I find myself looking at everything. Key rings with dangling mini-Rubik's cubes. Lip balm scented like popular soft drinks. I get the lip balm because they have my favorite childhood soda as one of the flavors. My lips are pretty chapped, anyway. I always lick them when I'm thinking, so they're always cracked.
It begins, I think ominously. I come to the store for one thing and end up with fifty more, while simultaneously forgetting to buy the thing I originally went to the store for in the first place. This is another complaint of my parents about me: they think I'm far too reckless with money and that I have no concept of value. I think that's a laugh, considering how expensive those textbooks were, and they made me buy those. Even I could see that was a total rip.
Okay. Shampoo.
I look around for beauty care, but the registers are on one side of me, and clothes are on the other, and I see that the rack nearest to me has the most amazing top on display. Sheer black lace with appliqued black flowers. Nearby is a short polyester skirt with strips of leather running up both sides to make it sportier.
I have the perfect shoes to go with it. Strappy black heels that make my calves look far less flabby than they actually are. They'll go with pretty much anything, though in this moment I'm sure that they were made specifically for this skirt and blouse.
Fine, you can try them on. But they won't fit.
I take t
hem to the dressing room. The fitting room attendant hands me a placard with a painted on “2.” Part of the fun of trying on clothes is a morbid sort of fun house mirror form of entertainment. You can try on things you wouldn't be caught dead wearing in public, laughing at how horrible they make you look. (“Look how fat/sallow/butch I am! Ha ha ha!”) It's like magic, in a way, because the moment you take off the clothes, you immediately look ten times better.
But these clothes—the blouse and the skirt—do fit me, and in a flattering way, no less. Of course, they're a little on the snug side because the largest size left is a medium and I'm really more of a large. I have to take my bra off to get the shirt over my chest, which gives the outfit an entirely new, scandalous context because if you look closely enough you can kind of see my aureolas, though the nipples themselves are hidden behind that nest of sewn-on flowers.
The price tag is dangling under my armpit. I examine it, reluctantly tearing my eyes away from my reflection. Ouch. The clothes cost way more than I should be spending. My budget is for school supplies and food—saltines and ginger ale, that's what I came here for—but I have an image of myself wearing this outfit to Comparative Literature and in that image I am completely irresistible.
You don't find the concept of illicit love at all engaging?
Are student-teacher relationships illicit enough for you, Professor Delacroix?
I wonder what he'll do if he sees me in this getup. I picture him with an erection squashed up against the fly of those snug faded jeans as he sees me sitting in the front row in my short skirt and see-through top. He won't be able to get me out of his head, I bet. Even better, he won't be able to do a thing about it.
Have any of his students ever tried something like this on him before? I hope not; I want to be the first. I change back into my denim and flannel, tossing the skirt and blouse into my shopping basket, which the attendant made me leave outside.
Before I leave, I swing by the food department and grab two six-packs of ginger ales and an entire carton of saltines. My total comes out to seventy-five dollars, which is no sum to sneeze at. There's other, hidden costs as well. The blouse and skirt are both dry-clean only, because the leather trim on the skirt turns out to be real leather. I don't mind, though. Seventy-five dollars is a small price to pay to look like a million bucks. I snap open one of my ginger ales and toast myself as I ride the bus back to the dorms. It isn't until we're about a block away from my stop that I realize I forgot to buy shampoo.
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