Call Me

by Gillian Jones

  Travelling to Toronto for school had been our dream since Grade 8 when we started to discover movies like The Lost Boys, Star Wars, even a few like Dirty Dancing or anything starring the “Brat Pack”. We knew we needed to be involved in creating amazingness like that, no matter in what capacity. But as we got older, my love of movie genres changed. I became determined with my focus. I became obsessed with movies made from the books I loved, the film adaptions. Some books were adapted better than others, and I wanted to make the good—no, great!—adaptations. I’d discovered my niche and vowed I’d become the best screen adaptation writer, one who takes another’s beautifully written prose and brings it to life, ensuring I gave the books the justice they deserved.

  Have you ever read a book that completely blew your mind? I’m talking totally ruining you, leaving you thinking about it for months after. The book hangover you’ve only felt that every once upon a special time. Everything about it leaving a lasting impression, as if it were imprinting itself in your soul, heart, and memory. The characters. The storyline. The ending. Each piece of its complete package allowing you the perfect type of escapism, an escape you didn’t even know you were craving at that moment in your life.

  Movies give me my biggest hangovers.

  More precisely, film adaptations. I’m obsessed with movies that have come from the world’s greatest literature. How couldn’t you be? It’s seriously the best of both worlds, seeing the characters you’ve imagined in your mind coming to life on the big screen. Nothing can beat the feeling of a truly brilliant film adaptation, like seeing Ewan McGregor, as Mark Renton, experiencing heroin addiction in Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting, seeing how real the struggle is as it plays out in a two-hour film, accompanied by a soundtrack that complements it to perfection. Or better yet, Boris Pasternak’s tale, Doctor Zhivago, one of my all-time favourites; watching a complicated story of love unfold before my eyes, confirming it is indeed as beautiful as I knew it to be in my imagination when I read the book.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, there are bad ones out there, ones that do not do justice to the literary geniuses that penned the tales, but I hope to be one of the greats. I will be one of the greats. One day, I will be a screenwriter like Trainspotting’s John Hodge or Zhivago’s Robert Bolt, bringing these books to life for the masses. I, Ellie Hughes, will be the person writing and creating some of the most amazing film adaptions to grace the silver screen, ones people will fall in love with, not the kind where people say: “It was awful, nothing like the book.”

  “Listen to these questions.” Courtney sits up a bit straighter, drawing me out of my head, her tablet in hand once again. “This course sounds like it may be all right. Is there enough of a difference between erotica and pornography? Should they be considered the same genre? Ohhh, I like the sounds of that. Lots of fodder for rousing debate!” She taps her black-polished nail on the screen, rattling off another question: “How much should we censor erotic films compared to pornography, especially if they are deemed similar? How does artistic freedom and censorship relate to larger issues of oppression, entrepreneurship, and technology? Ah, and this one’s even better: How are sexual desires and identities shaped around appropriate sexual representations? I think I’m going to like this course, Ellie.”

  Chapter 5

  Ellie

  Pulling out my iPad, I open the course syllabus to read along with Court.

  My eyes stall on the professor’s name: Doctor A. Ryan.

  “Oh, man. I hope the ‘A’ in his name doesn’t stand for ‘asshole’. ’Cause that would really blow.” I huff the joke out a little louder than intended, my comment causing a few people around us to snicker. They laugh, and I die a little of embarrassment. “Shit.” I sink down in my seat.

  “Nice one, Els, good for you. Look at you all losing your scholarship and becoming a badass. Class clown on the first day. I’m so proud, sweetie,” Courtney mocks, clearly thinking she’s funny.

  “Hardy har har. Easy on the scholarship jokes, lady. Too soon. But thanks for making the effort, I feel better already…” I shake my head at her and she mouths a “sorry”. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Now back to the issue at hand—this professor, what do we know?”

  “Well, I hear the class itself is good, hence the throngs of people,” she waves her hands gesturing to the packed theatre “Let’s recap, shall we?”

  I nod. “Go for it.” I sit back up.

  “So far, we know: one, there’s a wait list a mile long. Two, the course load seems reasonable,” she waves her tablet in the air, “And, three, the prof is new, which I think is the biggest plus if you ask me. It means we can only go up from here. We all know how Professor Dobbs was the worst. And like I said, I heard this guy is allllllll kinds of yum—”

  “Please hold that last bit, miss. I need to take my place at the front of the room, but I must admit, I’m curious to know what you were going to say about me,” a deep voice booms, directly behind us.

  Suddenly, there is a sinking feeling in my stomach. That pesky one, you know, the one you get whenever you know something isn’t right.

  Please be a joke. Please be a joke, I silently pray, waiting for the stranger to tell us he’s only kidding!

  Much to my dismay, my pleading goes unrewarded. Code red, this is not a drill. Houston, your and Courtney’s big fat motormouths have caused a major problem. My mom’s voice lovingly reminding me that sometimes I really need to “zip my lips” rings in my head as I realize this is my life right now, and not a joke.

  This realization becomes painfully obvious as a large form now standing beside me in the aisle casts a shadow over Courtney and me. How did he move so fast, like Gary Oldman skittering down the castle wall in Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula? Turning my head to the side, I brace myself, averting my eyes away from his face. Instead, I choose to go from the ground up, before I have to meet the eyes of the man who will now likely target Courtney and me over the semester, surely giving us the label of “troublemakers”. A label which will force us to work a lot harder to prove his first impression wrong, to prove that we aren’t the assholes he no doubt thinks we are right now.

  Bracing myself was right…even starting from the bottom. Holy. F-ing. Cow.

  I start to make a mental list as I silently stare, my eyes roaming over this man from bottom to top, unable to stop myself from cataloguing and checking off said list as if I were Kris Kringle himself. As he shifts in the aisle right next to me, my eyes take in his attributes like I’m laser scanning him for 3D printing. Naughty. Nice. Niiiice…

  I make a mental check as my eyes linger on his feet, noting his large black Doc Martens boots. Remember what they say about big feet? He’s tall, and the looming feeling he arouses along with his shoe size makes me wonder.

  His upper body is muscular, and despite being covered with a tan corduroy blazer, I see a tight-fitting T-shirt quoting: “Anybody interested in grabbing a couple of burgers and hittin’ the cemetery?” from one of my favourite movies, Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums. A shirt that fits him perfectly, showcasing that he’s lean and fit. Who knew mere clothing could have the capability to make a girl take notice and drool? And don’t get me started on his ability to make me blush, as I feel my cheeks heating from the mere seconds he’s been standing—no, looming—beside me.

  I tick off the boxes for strong, sturdy-looking arms accessorized by large sexy hands graced with nice long fingers. My mind shifts, wondering what one might do with such stealthy-looking fingers as they hang at his side. God, I’d love to know.

  The room falls silent around me as I continue my assessment…it’s just his body, my list, and me.

  He’s got a broad build, a solid stature. One a person might be inclined to pounce upon if given the chance or invitation. An invitation! Can you imagine?

  Check.

  Check.

  And motherf-ing check.

  If this man’s face is anything like his body then I’d say he needs to unfurl his superhero
cape and let my hero-worshipping begin.

  Finally, my eyes make a last venture up to his face. I hold my breath, waiting for the little bubble of perfection I’ve conjured up to pop.

  I gasp as my eyes rake up, up, and up to Professor Holy. F-ing. My.

  My sudden dirty mind.

  My sandpaper-filled mouth.

  My quivering loins.

  My. Flipping. Goodness.

  The man is absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes upon.

  And, oh jeez, he’s crouching down. Coming closer. My palms begin to sweat, and there’s a feeling surfacing that I’ve not felt in, in…well, ever.

  Slightly curled inky black hair just reaches his collar, and forest green eyes are highlighted by the perfect pair of black Roy Orbison-ish framed glasses, all topped off, of course, by a dangerously sexy dimple! I can’t even…

  Hi, my name is Ellie Hughes and I. Am. Screwed.

  Is he giving me a look which says: “my eyes are up here”, or am I imagining it?

  Before I can start to articulate the apology that my brain has instructed my mouth to deliver, it dies as our eyes crash into each other. Instead, the wanton brain between my legs takes over, interrupting my mouth and its apology, instead forcing me to expel a tiny gasp-like moan in its place, a moan that my actual brain tried in vain to get my mouth to clamp down on, then hoped it went unnoticed.

  Silly brain, don’t you know? Hot man trumps the English language, so moans and groans always win.

  Next thing I know, he’s not only crouching, he’s down low and leaning into my space to better see Courtney and I. He smells frickin’ incredible, too, of sandalwood laced with a subtle hint of earthy vetiver. The combination reaches my nose and I have to resist the impulse to snuffle the air around me like a dog in heat surely would.

  A hoarse clearing of his throat brings me back to my impending doom.

  A deep baritone voice plays out of his mouth. A mouth as sexy as the escaping sounds, ones that drip out of a beautifully elongated throat that I’m currently cataloging as a throat I think I’d like to maybe run my tongue along as if it were a plane on a runway. Definitely maybe.

  “As much as I’ve enjoyed listening to—as well as being a part of—your conversation this morning, I do need to get things started before a riot ensues. But I do wish to hear the last part. I am literally chomping at the proverbial bit. I can’t imagine two smart young women like yourselves having anything other than nice things to say about anyone, anyway. Maybe later though? I do, however, hope you’ll focus on the lecture once it starts. I’m sure the rest of your conversations will be extremely exhilarating, but might I ask that you allow me to engage you for the next hour or so?” He winks, and I swear to eat all the rice in Japan that my clit was waving a “hell, yes” sign at the words, engage, you and hour.

  Looking from me to Court, he offers a nod. “I do hope you feel better, and let me assure you both that this class will be well worth it. I promise,” he adds, his mouth pulling to one side, offering a hint of a satisfied grin before he rights himself back to an upright position. He pauses in the aisle, his eyes resting on mine, and something passes between us, but I ignore it, worrying instead about being in trouble on the first day of class. This is my grad school prof, after all. I’m going to need him to take me seriously.

  “I promise we won’t need you to pull a Mr. Vernon and keep us a bunch of Saturdays,” I finally pipe up, wondering if he’ll get my Breakfast Club reference.

  “Ah.” He waits a second. “Nice reference. I take it you’re a John Hughes fan?”

  “Very much,” I say, again not sure where my cheekiness is coming from.

  “Me too. The man was a mastermind on the subject of teen angst. Oh, and may I clarify that the ‘A’ is most definitely not for ‘Asshole’,” he whispers to me before turning his back to us.

  “Wow,” Courtney whispers beside me.

  “Er,” is all I can muster back, as my eyes are trained on his deep blue stovepipe jeans. His ass is all kinds of tight, I note, as he starts to make his way down the stairs on a pair of legs that I want to bounce me up and down while he’s deep inside of me.

  About half way down the steps he stops, standing silently as if he’s heard my thought, or is doing his own brand of contemplating. After a beat, he calls out over his shoulder: “And welcome to my class, ladies.” I swear I see his shoulders moving with laughter as he resumes his way to the front.

  Oh my shit. I’m in huge trouble here.

  “Holy morsel of mouth-watering man,” is all I hear being whispered, and I soon realize it came from me. It seems my brain has looped the saying as I sit repeating it to myself over and over under my breath as we watch Mr. A-is-Not-For-Asshole move to his podium at the head of the class.

  “Welcome to FSD470B4: Sexual Aesthetics & Representations in Film. I’m Professor—or Doctor—Ryan, first initial ‘A’—as in ‘Ace’, and not a word that rhymes with masshole.” His emerald eyes find mine, and I slip further into my seat. “So, welcome.” He raises his hands to the room, “I’m excited to see such a great turnout. I’ve enjoyed teaching this class at other universities, and seeing as it’s the first year it’s being offered here at U of T, space is limited, therefore I’ve been instructed to take a roll call. If your name is not on the list, I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave and see the registrar’s office about being added to a waitlist.”

  With that, he spends the next five or so minutes calling our names. I try to avoid getting trapped in his gaze again, but it’s useless. As soon as my name falls from his lips, my body responds by shifting forward as if his voice alone were enough to pluck me from my seat and deposit me wherever he might want me. When his green eyes land on my brown ones, I feel a warmth in my chest I’ve never felt before.

  This is gonna be trouble.

  “Ah, a name to the face, nice to meet you, Ellie.” He smiles and I know I blush, I feel it. His gaze settles on me a beat too long, but he’s quick enough to move on that I don’t think anyone else noticed. Other than Courtney, of course.

  “Jesus, Els, you hot for teacher or what? You two just totally eye-boinked!”

  “‘Boinked’? What are we, thirteen? And we did not.”

  “Fine. You completely and utterly eye-fucked.”

  “Shhh, we did not,” I whisper.

  “You so totally did. Captain Obvious and you had better be careful,” she clucks, all giddy.

  “You’re still drunk. You, my shitty friend, are hallucinating,” I hiss. “Court, he looked at you just as long.”

  “Whatever. I might be hung-over, but I know what I saw. Complete eye-boinking.”

  “Please. Enough. Let’s listen, he already thinks we’re idiots, I bet.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop it,” she relents.

  “Thank you.”

  “…for now,” she adds.

  Turning my head back to Professor Ryan, I notice that the lecture hall seems to have cleared out quite a bit.

  “Great. Now that’s done.” He places what I assume is the registration sheet on his desk, swapping it for a remote. Plugging a USB stick into the computer and pointing the remote at the overhead projector on the ceiling, he begins: “Please follow along with your syllabus as we go over the course, the projects, and any questions you may have.” He seeks my gaze one last time before pulling up a copy on the SmartBoard.

  “Ha! Told ya,” is whispered beside me, and I elbow Courtney in response.

  Yep. I’m in big trouble.

  Chapter 6

  Ace

  Screwed.

  Done for.

  Finished.

  Finito.

  Fucked.

  Completely fucked.

  I need to get a grip.

  I knew taking the job here was going be a risk; it always is when taking a job where you’re the one on faculty with the least seniority. What I didn’t expect was that there might be a risk I didn’t foresee that could end my goddamned career. And one
I’d meet on the first day of school.

  It’s my first year teaching at the University of Toronto. I was headhunted by the school, and finally agreed to make the move from Queen’s in Kingston to Toronto this year. Having my friends Mercer and Dylan both teaching here helped with my decision, but it was the chair offering me the two courses I loved to teach most that cinched it: Sexual Aesthetics & Representations in Film and Masters Thesis Essay in Sexual Diversity in Film. Both fascinating courses, and both with the same student enrolled who has me rethinking my decision to come here.

  Three words.

  Ellie Raine Hughes.

  They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression, and my first impression of Ellie—albeit unique—is not one I’ll soon forget. I’ve never had quite the “meet cute” as I did this morning—she is adorable. I swear to Christ, I thought my dick was going to spring out of my jeans when she settled into the seat in front of me in my Sexual Aesthetics class.

  First impression: not only is Ellie beautiful, she smells incredible, a mix of fruit and candy with a subtle vanilla twist, and I’ve never smelled anything quite so satisfying before. Don’t get me started on my thoughts when she took her sweater off. I’m curious to see if she’s actually a serious student or just the little jokester I saw glimpses of this morning. Not going to lie, I’m eager to find out.

  I always like to sit back and observe the students as they make their way into class on the first day. I find it gives me a better sense of who’s who, provides me with good insight for the semester; it gives an outlook as to what type of class I might have on my hands. Is there a good balance of serious and non-serious students? Are they a loud crew? Is the room full of students that think this will be a bird credit? And so on. This morning, however, I noted none of that. Sitting behind Ellie and Courtney only proved to distract me from my ritual viewing as my eyes and ears didn’t make it past them. I was instead too caught up in them—in her.