Academic Pursuits

by Harper, Lou

  Chapter Two

  I took two distinctly different English classes that semester. One was “Race, Class and Gender in American Science Fiction,” with Professor Jason Brown. The other was “Classic Russian Literature,” with the lovely Professor Richard Woodford. I had butterflies in my stomach every Monday and Wednesday morning before his class. Jo had a film class, “Women Film Directors” around the same time, so we walked to campus together. We took the same route as going home from the frat party on Saturday, just in the opposite direction.

  It was a nice morning, crisp but sunny. Along the footpath, cheerful crocuses poked their heads up from the moist earth. It would be spring soon.

  Jo broke our companionable silence. “There’s a screening tonight at the Green Room. It’s one of the films I have to see for class. Wanna come?”

  Green Hall 100, aka the Green Room, was a regular lecture hall with an added large screen—all the film and media studies screenings were held there.

  “Sure. What are we watching?”

  Jo dug a piece of paper out of her pocket and read it. “Summer Night, with Greek Profile, Almond Eyes and Scent of Basil—by an Italian director, Lina Wertmüller.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Me neither, but there’s a first time for everything. That reminds me…what are you gonna do about Hollins now?”

  “What do you mean do? I’m planning on going on like nothing happened, and I expect he’ll do the same. It’s the standard procedure.”

  “Isn’t it kinda sad?”

  “Now you’re thinking like a girl.” I moved out of the range of her elbow just in time and continued, “Two guys getting their rocks off in a bathroom is nothing remarkable. No reason to make a big deal out of it.”

  “You’re such a dog. Which one of your English classes is Hollins in, the sci-fi one or the Russian one?”

  “Science fiction. There’s no way I could concentrate on Hollins with Professor Woodford in the room.”

  “You really have the hots for him, don’t you?” she snickered .

  “I can’t help it! He has a British accent and looks like Hugh Laurie on that TV show, House, but without the attitude.”

  As matter of fact, the good professor was the main reason I took the “Classic Russian Literature” class in the first place.

  “Or the hair.”

  “He has hair!” I protested.

  “Yeah, some. He certainly has a rumpled style going on. I have hard time thinking of him as attractive, though. He wears corduroy pants, for goodness sake!”

  “I know! Isn’t it adorable?” I gushed.

  Jo gave me a pitying look. “How did you become such a pathetic anglophile, anyway?”

  “I blame my mother and the Public Broadcasting System. You know how she always harped on about how TV would rot our brains and limited our time in front of the boob tube? Yet, she had a soft spot for PBS, especially Masterpiece Theater.”

  “Yeah, Livia likes her costume dramas,” Jo agreed. She’d spent enough of her childhood with us to know my parents pretty well.

  “Mom’s a bit of a snob, but she had a point. I started reading Dickens and Jane Austen long before we got to them in high school.”

  “True; you always had your nose in a book. It still doesn’t quite explain your fixation. I watched most of those shows with you and I came out normal.”

  I considered her blue hair and blue-and-green striped tights, but refrained from commenting on them. “I had a thing for Stephen Fry when I was six, watching Jeeves and Wooster. It was my first man-crush and I guess it imprinted.”

  “Okay, now I’m confused. You said you had a crush on Stephen Fry, but Prof Woodford reminds you of Hugh Laurie.”

  “Well, you know, tastes change as you get older. Hugh Laurie didn't appeal to me as Bertie Wooster, but as Dr. House he's gruff in the sexiest way possible.”

  “Is he gay or straight?”

  “Hugh Laurie?”

  “No! Professor Woodford, stupid.”

  “I haven’t the faintest,” I admitted.

  She gaped at me. “What? I thought you always knew?”

  “Not with Brits. They all seem a little swishy to me. First, I thought it was just the upper class ones with the posh accent, but then came Ewan McGregor.”

  “What about Ewan?” Her eyes sparkled up—she was as much into the scrumptious Scot as I was.

  “Well, he’s so working class and hetero in Trainspotting, but then he gets banged by that Japanese guy in The Pillow Book.”

  “Those are only movies, you know,” Jo said with a tone one uses with a five-year-old.

  “Doesn’t matter. Whenever I hear a guy talking with any British accent, I get hornier than a horned toad, and my gaydar goes haywire.”

  Jo shook her head. “You’re hopeless. Anyway, the movie starts at six-thirty, but l have figure drawing right before.”

  “I’ll come by.”

  “Okay. Laters then.”

  Jo waved and turned left. I went right.

  ***

  “Don’t forget to drop off your paper by five on Monday,” Professor Woodford said, dismissing the class.

  We all stood and began to file out. I pulled my jacket on—it covered the bulge in my crotch. Spending a whole hour in close physical proximity with so much Britishness had predictable results. I didn’t know what I was gonna do when the weather warmed up.

  “Jamie, I’d like a moment of your time,” Woodford said.

  I stood aside and waited for all the other students to shuffle out. I didn’t dare to look him in the eye till the heavy oak door slammed shut behind the last of them.

  There was a moment of pregnant silence in the air. I waited for him to speak first.

  “Jamie, you seemed distracted in class,” Woodford said. There was nothing unusual about his words, but his voice dropped a whole octave. It was downright sultry—that on top of the accent made more blood rush to my already aching cock.

  I swallowed hard. My mouth went dry. “I was… My thoughts were elsewhere,” I admitted.

  His eyelids went to sleepy half-mast and he leaned against the desk with all the languidness of a sleepy cat.

  “Tell me,” Woodford commanded.

  Hesitantly, I began to speak. “I was thinking of you, Professor.”

  “Go on.” His voice was rich and dark, like one of those molten lava cakes.

  “I was thinking how hot you made me. I was imagining getting on my knees and worshipping you,” I said, emboldened.

  His lips curled into a hungry smile. “Show me.”

  Without hesitation, I kneeled in front of him and unzipped his trousers. He wore nothing under them. His beautiful, uncircumcised cock was showing signs of interest. I took it in my mouth and felt it thicken and grow. I sucked and licked, and pulled back the foreskin to get better access to the head and that spot right underneath. He hissed and twined his fingers in my hair.

  “That’s it, lad; suck it.”

  Encouraged by his words, I slipped my hand between his legs and massaged his balls. He widened his stance to give me better access. I kept my mouth on his cock, while slipping my hand between his ass cheeks. It must have met Professor Woodford’s approval because his grasp on my hair tightened.

  “You’re such a bloody good slut; I wish I could have you on your knees like this every day.”

  I hummed my agreement around his shaft and rubbed his hole with my fingers. With my other hand, I unbuttoned my jeans. I wore loose fitting ones every Monday and Wednesday; they made my unbidden erections easier to handle, and now they gave quick access.

  The professor got firm hold of my hair, keeping my head in place and began to fuck my throat in all earnestness. I was furiously yanking my cock, knowing I wasn’t going to last. I pushed a finger into my sweet professor’s ass, and he shot down my throat. It was just a few seconds before…

  “Jamie, are you all right?”

  Professor Woodford’s raised voice—concerned, but defin
itely unsexy, even with the accent—startled me out of my daydreams. The classroom was still full, and some of the other students gave me looks that ranged from befuddled to pitying.

  “Uh, yes?” Oh gawd, did I miss a question or something? I’d been out of it for at least the last five minutes.

  “You look a bit peaky,” he elaborated.

  “Eh, I think I’m coming down with a bug,” I said quickly.

  “You probably need to take it easy then.”

  What I needed was a cold shower.

  “I will,” I said instead.

  Professor turned to address the whole class. “All right then. That’s all for today. Your paper is due on Monday by no later than five. You can leave them in my box. Have a good weekend.”

  ***

  I went to the art building that evening to collect Jo, but got there a few minutes too early. The door to the classroom/studio was half-open, and I cautiously peeked inside. I’d gotten a nasty surprise on a similar occasion once before, when the model had turned out to be a rather flabby older gentleman. Jo had laughed her ass off at me afterward. She’d said the whole point was to learn to portray all body types, not only the pretty ones.

  These weren’t even regular classes, but something arranged by the students—they’d all chipped in and hired one of the usual models for an extra session. Any art student could participate, even those whose major wasn’t painting or illustration.

  This time, the person on the short pedestal was a young man, rather fit, from what I saw. He stood in the middle of the room, and the students sat around him in a circle with their sketchpads. From my vantage point, I could only see part of him: one well-toned leg, a glimpse of shapely buttocks and the fine lines of his back. He held a strenuous pose that accentuated musculature. That probably meant it was one of those deals where the pose changed every five minutes. They’d be done soon.

  I tried very hard not to think of my fingers tracing every muscle and tendon on the guy’s body, but failed. Perving on figure drawing models was wholly inappropriate; even I knew as much. I quickly drew back and sat down on a bench across the room to wait.

  However, my wayward thoughts kept returning to that fine physique. By the time the scrape of furniture and a burst of chatter signaled the end of the session, I was in a state of semi-arousal. Once most of the people filed out and there was still no sign of Jo, I stepped into the room. I found her, along with another other girl, crowding around the model, who now wore a blue bathrobe and flip-flops.

  “Thanks, Roger, it was nice of you to do this on such short notice.” I heard Jo say.

  I took a better look at the model and realized it was Roger Hunt. A complicated set of emotions overtook me. Shame, desire and who knows what else blended and manifested in an irrational annoyance as I watched them.

  “Not a problem. Happy to help,” Roger replied.

  “Have you done it before? You were so good,” the girl warbled.

  She was a petite Asian girl, small enough to fit into Roger’s pocket. I hated her.

  I suppressed an eye-roll. There must be a lot of skill to standing around naked. Not!

  Roger smiled back at her. “A few times.”

  She blushed and batted her eyelashes at him. Oh puh-lease. There was no reason for the twinge of irritation I felt, yet there it was. I was certain Roger was into boys, but he could’ve easily batted for both teams. What did I know? More to the point, why did I even give a rat’s ass?

  Aside from that, he was real fucking hot and couldn’t stand me. I told myself I didn’t care, but I didn’t believe me.

  “Hey, Jo, we need to go,” I said from the doorway, raising my voice. When she turned, I tapped my wrist with two fingers for emphasis.

  Roger’s head snapped in my direction and for a moment he looked surprised. Before his expression could turn into another scowl, the girl tugged on his sleeve to recapture his attention, and so he turned back to her. I stepped outside. A minute later, Jo joined me.

  “Do grad students regularly get naked in art school? Maybe I should stop by more often. There is a marked absence of nudity in the English department,” I needled Jo while we rushed across the campus. My irritation had to go somewhere.

  Jo was oblivious. “The regular model cancelled at the last minute. Roger offered to step in. Rather nice of him.”

  “Dropping your pants seems like a sure fire way to pick up girls in your neck of the woods.”

  “Jenny’s been smitten with Roger forever. Not that I can blame her. She must be in heaven now. But I don’t think Roger’s all that interested.”

  I thought he’d looked interested enough, but didn’t say it. Again, it was none of my business. Right? And anyway, we’d arrived at Green 100 and the movie was just about to start. I made a quick mental note to rifle through Jo’s sketchbook later.

  ***

  Okay, that was a weird-ass movie. It was about this blonde rich chick who kidnaps some bandit leader—a very hairy and somewhat stocky guy—and keeps him tied up in leather and chains. Very bondage and domination. Apparently the guy had been a kidnapper himself, and it was some sort of payback on her part, but as it turned out, she also had the hots for him. There was lots of talk and sexiness—with subtitles. The whole story turned out to be totally convoluted and over the top, but in a very entertaining way. In the end, there was a switcheroo, and the very same bandit carried the heroine off into the sunset. On horseback.

  I was mentally scratching my head as we walked through the campus afterward. “I don’t get it. Was the movie feminist or conformist?”

  “Both?”

  “You can’t be both.”

  “Says who? What’s so wrong with wanting to be assertive, get your way, yet still be romantic enough to want to be swept off your feet?”

  “Isn’t that a double standard?”

  “Are you saying that only simpering fools deserve to be romanced? Ah, you wouldn’t understand; you’re a man.”

  “Hey! I’m very much in touch with my feminine side.”

  “It seems to me you’re mostly in touch with other guys’ feminine sides.”

  “Touché.”

  On our way home, we stopped for cheap Chinese, aka the Joy Feast restaurant, and picked up chicken fried rice and crab Rangoon. The latter was a local invention—a mix of cream cheese and imitation crabmeat packed in a wonton wrapper and deep-fried. I’d never seen it outside of Missouri.

  Since it was the third week of February Jo and I were broke. Jo’s parents weren’t as well off as mine. Whatever Clarice had inherited from our grandparents she’d “squandered,” as my mother would say, on the many causes she and Dan supported. When I’d landed in Louisville, Missouri to join Jo and Jefferson University—or Jeff-U, as everyone called the place—it seemed sensible that we’d share an apartment and expenses. Of course, what happened was that, after paying the usual bills, we spent most of the money on my books and Jo’s art supplies, and every month by the fifteenth we were down to eating ramen noodles and cheap Chinese.

  Sitting on the couch eating fried rice, my mind was still on the movie. The image of that bandit chained to the bed, wearing nothing but a red robe—a short one—kept invading my thoughts. For a stray moment, his body morphed into Roger Hunt’s in my mind.

  “You and I mostly like the same films, right?” Jo interrupted my reverie.

  “Just about.”

  “When you’re watching a movie, do you ever identify with a female protagonist?”

  I only had to think about it for a second. “Yeah, if it’s an interesting, strong character.”

  “And you can also put yourself into the point of view of a male hero, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We both grew up watching lots of straight men on TV and film, so we got used to inhabiting skins that are not really our own, right?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s right. Where are you going with this?”

  “Well, I don’t think straight men are the same. I think it ma
kes them very uncomfortable when they’re told a story from a female or gay point of view.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The other day I mentioned Sex in the City to a guy, and he made noises like I was holding a rusty razor blade to his balls.”

  I involuntarily crossed my legs. “I can imagine.”

  “Yeah but why? I watch Entourage, and it’s just as sexist, but in the opposite direction, and I can still enjoy it. So why was that guy acting so insecure?”

  “I don’t know, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me.”

  “Well, it came to me the main difference is that women, gays, minorities in general, grow up being shown the world from a point of view that’s not naturally theirs, right? Meanwhile, all the straight white men are boxed into a narrow viewpoint.”

  I pondered on that for a minute. “I see what you’re saying. You can look at the same thing from different angles at the same time.”

  “Yeah, something like that.

  “Hey, I think I can use that in the paper I have to write for Professor Brown. So you don’t think the ending of the movie was a cop-out?”

  Jo shrugged. “Nobody wants to be strong all the time. It’s probably what gets straight guys so fucked up—thinking that they have to be constantly in charge.” She snorted. “Hey, maybe you’re doing a public service, showing them it’s okay to let go.”

  “I told you!”

  Jo rolled her eyes at me.

  I chuckled, remembering a scene from the early part of the film. “You know, I think the biggest shock in that movie was seeing the guy all chained up like some Princess Leia.”

  Jo laughed too. “Yeah, it was…different.”

  “Especially since he was pretty hairy and wasn’t traditionally hot.”

  “You mean, he had the body of a normal guy?”

  “I guess.”

  Jo stabbed her chopsticks into her leftover rice and gave me a marked look. It didn’t bode well.

  “I need you to model for me. Nude,” she said at last.

  “No way!”

  “C’mon! I can’t afford to hire a model. We already spent most of our allowance.”

  Jo had a point, but I was still reluctant.