The Sexy Librarian: A Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  “The reason I’m pressing you on all this is because I care about you,” said Whitney. “You’re my roommate. We’re in this together.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pulling my jeans off my feet, standing there now in just a t-shirt sporting the university’s logo and my panties. I retrieved some athletic grey worn-in shorts from my closet and quickly pulled them up my legs.

  “And…” said Whitney, continuing, wagging a finger at me. “You know the ALOHA trip to Stratford, Ontario is coming up for the Shakespeare Festival. We’re all staying overnight there and it’s going to be a total fuck fest.”

  “Oh my God! Whitney!” I exclaimed. “I’m not going to just pick some boy so we can screw around during the Shakespeare trip.”

  “I’m just teasing,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “But, you know, it’ll be fun to partner up with a boy on that trip.”

  “It’s not like we’ll be sleeping in the same room with the guys,” I said, turning from the closet and walking back over to her. As I walked, I slipped my hand inside my t-shirt and unhooked my bra, then deftly began maneuvering out of it and eventually pulling it out from my sleeve. “It’ll probably be you and me sleeping in the same hotel room.”

  “And just maybe I’ll slide down the hall to a boy’s room,” said Whitney with a grin. She was not impressed with my annoyed face. “Oh c’mon.”

  “I’m going to bed,” I said, stepping to the wooden ladder connected to our loft. Our beds were both lofted up near the ceiling, giving us a bit more space in the otherwise small dorm room.

  “Wait,” she said. “I’m sorry, Natasha,” Whitney admitted. “I’m just teasing you. You don’t have to like any of the boys on the other side of the hall. I’m just being a gossipy girl.” She frowned softly.

  “That’s okay,” I admitted, putting my foot on the first rung of the ladder.

  “Will you tell me when you do like a boy?” Whitney asked with a pleading tone. I could tell she just cared about me and wanted to be involved in my life. She didn’t have any kind of nefarious plot otherwise. She just liked talking about what she considered to be girly things.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a softness in my heart for her. She really was a sweet friend. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  *

  But I wasn’t being completely honest with Whitney. It wasn’t that I didn’t like any of the other freshmen boys on the other side of our dorm. It was that I hadn’t really thought romantically about a boy for a long time. The last time I remembered thinking that I liked a boy was probably early on in high school. But it was kind of short lived. I just thought he was interesting and when I told some of my friends that, they interpreted it as though I liked him romantically. And I went along with it, half-pretending I had a crush on him to satisfy the projections of my friends.

  I can admit that I was a bit of a late bloomer. I didn’t really date at all in high school and now that I was in college, feeling a new sense of freedom and excitement, I was ready to expand my horizons and find romance. But the problem was… I just wasn’t interested in the guys.

  Ugh. I feel like I’m being cagey and indecisive here. The truth is, dear reader, that as I aged and the idea of romance slipped into my brain, I always thought of other girls.

  I didn’t know how to say that out loud. Not to my family or friends, not to Whitney, and I sometimes found it difficult to even say it to myself. I know logically that a girl liking other girls isn’t really that big of deal. You see it on television and in movies all the time now. There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. I was just having a difficult time saying it. I can’t explain it. The words wanted to jump out of my mouth, but when I parted my lips they just wouldn’t exit. I was confident that I’d figure it out at college, finally come out of my shell, maybe even shuck this husk of introversion off my shoulders. But I had to wait until the time was right, you know?

  It was midday and there was hustle and bustle around the cafeteria, students filing in and students filing out. I had just returned from my morning English class and before getting lunch, I wanted to stop in at the ALOHA office in the basement of the dorm to chat with them about the upcoming Shakespeare trip. As I wandered through the lobby of Leopold Hall, I ran into Meghan, one of the other freshman girls in the program. We weren’t really all that friendly with each other yet, but we’d talked a couple of times.

  “Hey Tasha,” she said with a smile. Meghan was a music major, cute and kind of goofy. “Are you getting lunch?”

  “In just a few,” I said. “I’m going to go stop into the ALOHA office first.”

  “I’ll save you a spot at the table,” said Meghan. “What are you going to the office for?”

  “Just to talk and pay for my spot,” I said. “Do you know if it’ll be Sacco down there or someone else?” Anna Sacco was the head of ALOHA, a professor at the university, and a very smart lady. She was also a published and respected poet.

  “I don’t know,” mused Meghan. “I imagine Sacco is teaching a class or something. I don’t see her around Leopold very much.”

  “Have you ever stopped into the office?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I suppose I still need to pay for my spot for the trip as well!”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the caf’ in just a few.”

  “Cool!” said Meghan. She grinned and gave me a theatric wave. It made me happy to feel included.

  I walked down the stairwell of the dorm and slinked through the narrow hallway. The walls were stucco and beige, like they hadn’t been redone in my lifetime. I ran my fingers along the bumpy stucco as I made my way toward the end of the hall where I knew the office was. As I neared, I saw that the office door was open and I saw the vagueness of a person sitting behind the desk.

  “Hello?” I said softly, giving a gentle knock on the wooden door. The person, a young woman, looked up from the desk. At first she was surprised but then her visage melted into friendliness. She didn’t look much older than me. Her long hair, framing her face, was very dark brown, almost black, her face was pale with a light smattering of freckles near her eyes though she certainly wasn’t as freckled as me, and her eyes were a murky blue.

  “Come in,” she said, beckoning me with her hand. She pushed her keyboard away from her, moved some paperwork around, and generally tidied up her desk to make me feel welcome. “Have a seat,” she said.

  “My name’s Natasha Blake,” I said, moving into the small office and lowering myself in the seat in front of the desk. “I’m a freshman.”

  “I’m Hosannah,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m — uh — a junior!”

  Hosannah. I meditated on her name for a moment. It was so beautiful and it fit her perfectly. I could already tell that her personality was luminous, her eyes and lips telling that story. There was something special about Hosannah and I was eager to find out more.

  “I like your name,” I blurted out and then felt embarrassed. I felt my face redden and I looked down. Hosannah just laughed.

  “You can thank my grandmother,” she said. “Or, rather, my great-grandmother who named my grandmother.”

  “It’s lovely,” I remarked.

  “Thanks Natasha,” she said. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Do you work for ALOHA?” I asked, looking around the office. It wasn’t much of an office really. There were a couple of small windows near the ceiling, as we were in a basement after all. Two wicker chairs hung off in the corner opposite Hosannah’s desk. There was a framed poster that outlined all the degree paths in the Arts & Letters department on one wall, and a poster advertising an ALOHA end of year party from a few years prior, also framed, on another. An overstuffed bookshelf sat behind Hosannah.

  “Yep,” said Hosannah. “I’ve been in ALOHA since I was a freshman. But I work for the office part time and I’m also Anna Sacco’s assistant.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

 
; “It’s a thing,” said Hosannah with a knowing grin. I suddenly felt quite anxious in my seat. There was a weird quality to Hosannah that I just couldn’t place. She made me feel excited.

  “How come I haven’t seen you at the ALOHA weekly class?” I asked. Every Monday at 8AM, the ALOHA freshmen met for an hour to discuss the program, to listen to various scheduled speakers, and to work on group projects. I’d only been at college for a couple weeks, but with Hosannah working for the program I figured I would have seen her around by now.

  “Dude,” said Hosannah, smiling, leveling with me. “I did my time. Monday at 8AM? Once you’re a junior — hell, once you’re a sophomore — you learn to not take any classes before 10:20.” She laughed, which inspired me to laugh softly with her.

  “I mean, you’re the ALOHA assistant though,” I said. “You don’t have to go?”

  “No,” she said frankly. “They know I did my time as well.”

  “I see,” I said quietly.

  “Not to keep beating the same drum…” said Hosannah trailing off and widening her eyes with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Oh!” I said. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m here to pay my dues for the Shakespeare trip.”

  “Terrific,” said Hosannah, pulling the keyboard back out. She looked into the computer monitor and clicked around a bit with the mouse. “So it’s $180 for the tickets and the hotel. Do you know which shows you want to see?”

  “I have my slip right here,” I said, reaching down into my jeans and pulling out a folded piece of paper. Between the paper was also my check for the cost. I slid them together across the desk toward Hosannah.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking down at the slip on which I marked which plays I wanted to see. “King Lear and West Side Story,” said Hosannah, raising her eyes to me and offering up a glint of joy. “That’s what I’m seeing, too.” In Stratford for the Shakespeare festival, between a handful of theaters, they not only did actual Shakespeare shows but also various musicals and other productions. ALOHA advised us to see one of the Shakespeare plays, which were always high quality, as well as something lighter because those shows were always fun.

  “Really?” I said. “I love both plays. I’m excited.”

  “Likewise, Natasha,” said Hosannah, typing my information into a spreadsheet on her computer. She affixed my slip and check with a paperclip and slid them into her desk drawer. “Have you ever been to Stratford before?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s awesome,” said Hosannah. “We’re going during the Dragon Boat Festival, which is super cool, and there’s this really neat toy store there. Like, even if you don’t care about toys, it’s just a really fun experience.”

  “Do all the juniors like you go?” I asked.

  “Nah,” said Hosannah. “It’s usually mostly freshmen. But I’ve gone the last two years with the program. I love theater and Shakespeare. I’m an English major.”

  “I’m an English major, too,” I beamed. I was thrilled that I was connecting with Hosannah though I still couldn’t tell what she thought of me yet.

  “We have a lot in common,” smiled Hosannah.

  “Do we?” I said, letting my excitement show. Hosannah let out an amused giggle.

  “What English class are you in right now?” she asked with interest.

  “I’m in 201H,” I said.

  “Honors,” she said, putting on an impressed face. “Is that taught by McGregor?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m enjoying it so far.”

  “I was in that very same class,” said Hosannah.

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s really cool. If I have questions, can I ask you about them?”

  “Totally,” she said, her smile warm and inviting. I could tell she was a good person.

  “Maybe we could hang out in Stratford, too,” I said, not sure if I was overstepping my bounds but too excited about meeting Hosannah that I couldn’t help myself.

  “Maybe,” she said, grinning with a hint of mystery.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “I had another question about the trip.”

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “What’s the hotel situation like?” I said. “I mean, who do we share rooms with?”

  “The rooms we get are all two full beds,” she said. “You can share a room with whomever you like, though not with the opposite sex,” said Hosannah. “I mean, we’re all technically adults here but some of the parents might flip if we allowed coed sleeping arrangements.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So just, like, my roommate?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Hosannah. “Most people just share with their current roommate.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Hosannah. Her face revealed a charming glow, like she was there to serve me, like I wasn’t an annoying freshman asking silly questions.

  “No,” I said, pushing my chair back and beginning to stand.

  “It’s was really great meeting you, Natasha,” she said, sticking out her head toward me. I took it in my own and we shook.

  “It was nice meeting you, too,” I said.

  “I’m in room 326 upstairs if you want to stop by sometime,” she said. “I don’t hang out in the lobby much anymore.”

  “Is that just a freshmen thing?” I asked sheepishly.

  “Yeah, kinda,” said Hosannah, grinning.

  “Room 326,” I reiterated. “Thanks Hosannah. I’ll talk to you soon!”

  “Bye Natasha,” she said with a single wave.

  I smiled at her and turned from her desk, walking out of the ALOHA office and trying to steady my frantically beating heart. I was anxious and excited, ecstatic to have met Hosannah and the possibility of making a friend that seemed so much like me.

  CLICK HERE TO SEE IT ON AMAZON

  AN EXCERPT FROM: MY WRITING PROFESSOR

  *

  “I JUST DON’T understand the main character’s motivation,” said Daniel, looking up from the stapled bundle of papers and across the table at me. He had a bit of a smarmy look to him, an air of confidence, like he was certain that he was correct and he was always ready to tell you that you were incorrect. “It’s, like, what’s the point?”

  “Okay,” I said, meeting his gaze but disinterested in arguing. If I had learned anything during the time in my creative writing graduate program it’s that you don’t argue with criticism. You just learn to take it. You absorb what makes sense and discard the rest. It didn’t make the negative criticism sting any less, of course, but when you’re putting yourself out there for a class of fifteen or so writers to tear apart, you need to grow a thick skin, realize not everybody gets what you’re trying to do, and internalize that it’s nothing personal.

  “I think you need to be a little more specific,” said Harriet Drake, our professor for this writing workshop class. Harriet was a beautiful woman in her early 40s, slender and fair with bright blonde hair — most certainly dyed, as her roots hinted — and a generally cool and calm demeanor. Harriet had recently published a novel that was well-received and lauded, and there was talk that she was to be nominated for the National Book Award. Because of this, her class was the popular one to try to enroll in for this semester. I was thankful to have gotten in.

  “I don’t see a reason for Angie to even be at the cafe,” said Daniel. “It seems so… inconsequential, you know? Just random.”

  “I think Angie’s motivation is that she wants to talk to the barista,” said Casey, coming to my defense, lightly chewing on the end of her pen as she stared down into the pages of the story in her hands. “It doesn’t have to be logical because people aren’t logical.”

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “But I think there are other, more concrete ways to get her into the cafe at this particular moment,” he said, tossing my story down onto the table. “Sure, Angie wants to talk to the barista, but you can’t just force her into this situation without showing us some greater motivation for being there in th
e first place.”

  “I don’t disagree,” said Harriet, running her willowy hand lightly over the side of her face as she contemplated my story. “But I think you also have to leave room for randomness or chance or synchronicity or whatever. We can suspend our disbelief if the story is compelling enough.”

  “I didn’t find it very compelling,” admitted Daniel. He was a tough critic, sometimes a bit of an asshole, but I think ultimately he was fair in his assessment. This was, after all, an MFA writing class and to be honest none of us, despite the fact that it was a well-known writing program, were all that good yet.

  “Penny,” said Harriet, looking over at me. “Do you have anything you want to say? Any clarifications?”

  “No,” I said. “I think everybody makes some good points.”

  “I appreciated the randomness of it,” interjected Minju. She smiled at me softly, always having something kind to say. But not in a placating way, you know, she spoke in earnest.

  “Thank you,” I said, returning her smile.

  “I think that’s about it for tonight,” said Harriet, looking down at the dainty watch on her slim wrist. She handed my story, full of her own critiques, around the table and toward me just as the rest of the class had begun doing. “Next week we’ve got Bernie, Erica, and Mac,” she said. “Please make sure to email your stories out in the next couple of days.”

  As everybody began sorting their things, standing up from their seats, and preparing to leave, Minju approached me and offered a consoling smile.

  “Don’t listen to Daniel,” she said in a murmur to keep her opinion between the two of us. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s okay. I don’t take any of this too personally.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Most people here don’t know what they’re talking about anyway. They’re just trying to sound intelligent.”