Academic Pursuits

by Harper, Lou

  Jo’s technique had always been strong, but this painting showed more restraint, maturity. And something else. I didn’t know what to think of the figure in oil. Yeah, it looked like me, but also like a stranger. Like listening to your own voice on the answering machine is not the same as what you hear in your head.

  “Good likeness, don’t you think? I think she captured something there,” Dayna whispered.

  “Do you really see me like that?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I looked closer. The surface of the painting was very smooth, no brush strokes drawing attention to themselves. The figure… Jo was right; the milky skin stood out against the dark cloth. Both the folds of the red fabric and the curves of flesh exuded a deep sensuality. As a whole, the picture reminded me of those old paintings from Jo’s art history books, but hers had an unmistakably contemporary flair. The figure—I couldn’t think of it as me—was definitely seductive, but with a touch of vulnerability. Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

  “It’s just a little disturbing that Jo would paint me like this,” I said to Dayna.

  She shrugged. “Disturbing is not a bad thing as far as art goes. Jo still has long ways to go—she over-romanticizes for one thing, and she really needs to work on the concept behind it—but it’s a good start. Work like this will help her get into a good graduate program.”

  Dayna and I chatted for a little longer before going our own ways. I made mine to the refreshments. I muscled past a couple of grungy art types stuffing their faces with celery stalks and dip, and helped myself to some punch. Naturally, it was nonalcoholic, with so many underage undergrads around. Oh well. I mingled, while continuously scanning the crowd for Professor Woodford, but he was a no-show.

  Eventually I had to use the bathroom, but instead of going to the surely crowded one on the same floor, I took the side stairs down a level. As I expected, the facilities were empty. I did my business and headed back to the gallery. Troubled thoughts bounced around my skull like a rubber ball; Roger Hunt’s sculpture wouldn’t leave me alone. It was messing with my mental image of the man. I’d been content picturing him as an uncouth roughneck with blowtorch in hand, listening to something very loud. However, that piece of his didn’t fit the picture at all. It was…well, not delicate, but…thoughtful. I couldn’t match it with the man who made it.

  I was so deep in my thoughts I didn’t notice the figure standing by the stairwell till I was almost there. Think of the devil—Roger Hunt leaned against the wall, looking as contradictory as my thoughts. Out of his customary flannel, the lumberjack look was gone, but the simple black sweater only enhanced his broad shoulders and muscular chest. I ripped my gaze off him before my hormones had a chance to subjugate my good sense. Head held high, jaw clenched, I moved to walk past him. I almost made it without an incident when he grabbed my arm and yanked me close.

  What happened next shocked the common sense out of me, and that was the only excuse for my reactions because when his warm lips landed on mine and his hand on my behind, pulling me close, I didn’t kick him in the nuts. Not only did I let him kiss me and squeeze my ass like a ripe melon, but after a second or two, I kissed him back. I must’ve been afflicted by some kind of temporary insanity.

  Roger had too damn much presence to ignore. His chest was broad, his arms strong, and even the wool felt good against my skin—maybe because it was permeated by his admittedly manly scent. He was a great kisser—take-charge and confident, yet tender. I’m a sucker for kissing, and that had to be the reason I had the sudden urge to rub against Roger’s hard thigh pressing into my groin. I wanted to drag him back to the bathroom with me and…and this line of thinking reminded me of the overheard conversation in another bathroom. That bucket of cold reality finally shocked me back to my good senses.

  I shoved Roger away with all my force. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I snarled at him.

  For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure about it himself. “You’re the worst kind of cock-tease, Jamie,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw how you were stroking my sculpture. Don’t tell me it was all innocent.”

  Well, shit.

  “First of all, I had no idea it was yours. Ask Dayna, if you don’t believe me. Secondly, I was most certainly not stroking it!”

  “Right. And just now you didn’t swallow my tongue?”

  I made an irate gesture as if trying to brush the mental image away. “It was momentary insanity. Trust me, I don’t cavort with people who habitually wear flannel.” I threw in the jab about his lack of fashion sense out of spite. The way Roger’s eyes kept raking over me was making me testy.

  To my annoyance, my words didn’t even make a dent in his facade. “Cut the crap. You want me as much as I want you. Cocks don’t lie.” He stared pointedly at the unmistakable bulge at my crotch.

  I pulled my jacket around me. “Involuntary physical reaction. I can assure you, I don’t want you one bit.” Liar.

  He pursed his lips. “Do you think it’s easy for me? To be so turned on by someone like you?”

  “Someone like me?” I sputtered.

  “You bang everything that moves.” There was anger and accusation in his voice, and that made no sense to me.

  “So fucking what? It’s none of your business. I like sex, okay? At least I’m not a closet fag!”

  “What the hell do you mean? I’m not a closet fag.”

  “Oh, really? Then what was that comment at O’Riley’s about my kind prancing about the place and not being like you? Hypocrite much?”

  He turned crimson. Ha!

  His shoulders slumped forward. “You heard that?” he asked, suddenly sheepish.

  “You bet your ass I did!” I went on, gloating in triumph, now I’d at least nicked his armor. “You don’t know shit about me. First of all, I don’t fuck everything that moves. I have standards. I wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole if yours was the last dick left on Earth.” I took a deep breath and went on. “Well, I guess you were right. I’m not like you at all, as I won’t fuck someone I despise.”

  I considered that a pretty good closing line, one that I couldn't top, so I turned on my heel and marched away, leaving Roger there, gulping like a fish.

  I should have felt good for finally telling him off, but inexplicably, I only sunk into a funk. It couldn’t have been because I missed the feel of his hard body against mine because that would’ve been just wrong. I couldn’t imagine going back to the gallery, milling around all those people, so I walked out of the building into the night. I texted Jo, letting her know I’d left.

  I didn’t go straight home, but took a nice long walk first. I was discombobulated and needed fresh air to clear the crud out of my head. I kept telling myself it was Roger Hunt and his bloody arrogance I was angry with, but it was a lie. The problem was that he got under my skin in ways I didn’t want him to, and it pissed me off to no end.

  Chapter Seven

  The lavender envelope arrived in the mail the following week. I knew before opening it was from my mother, of course. Nobody else wrote letters these days, especially on purple stationery. She inquired about our studies, imparted a few snippets of local gossip, relayed words of wisdom and sound financial advice from my father, and in closing she promised us—or threatened us with, depending on how you looked at it—a visit around Easter. She’d also enclosed two checks, five hundred dollars each, one for me and one for Jo. We were not to breathe a word about it to my dad, needless to say. Very typical of Mom, secretly spoiling us.

  I knew Jo would blow her riches on canvases and paint within days. At first, I had no plans for my share, but out of the blue, an idea of a philanthropic nature struck me. Dayna and her neighbors were throwing a party on Friday night and pretty much everyone was invited, even those who weren’t. I was going to be there, so was Jo, and there was no reason why Wayne wouldn’t be. Good ole Wayne, who was brimming with untapped potential, or at any rate who wasn�
��t Colin-Dipshit-Kirkwood. Wayne to whom Jo still paid no attention at all. I was going to change that.

  ***

  Wayne opened the door of his dorm room looking confused.

  “Hi, Wayne. Can I come in?” I asked cheerfully.

  He blanched, and I couldn’t imagine why. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound came out. I shrugged and took a step forward. He reflexively stepped back, and I was inside.

  I looked around. Giant Hubble space posters adorned the walls—in line with what I’d been expecting.

  I turned to Wayne. “I have a proposal for you.”

  Wayne took another step back. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m flattered and everything, but I’m really not interested.”

  He had me baffled. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “It’s kinda obvious, isn’t it?” he asked, taking another backward step. The room wasn’t that big and at this speed he’d hit the wall under a minute.

  “It is?”

  “You have reputation for seducing straight guys.”

  I laughed. “Oh that! Trust me, if I was seducing you, you’d have no clue till it was too late.”

  “You’re not?”

  Did he look disappointed?

  “Definitely not. Unless you want me to.” I winked.

  “No, it’s okay. Why are you here then?”

  “You got a thing for Jo, right?”

  “What if I do?”

  I liked the stubborn jut of his chin. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by the pushy relative forbidding him to pursue the object of his amorous attentions.

  “I’m going to help you get in with her.”

  His chin dropped. “What…why?”

  “Because you’re a nice enough guy, for sure nicer than Colin-Fuckwad-Kirkwood.”

  The darkening of Wayne’s face signaled he knew what I was talking about and no further explanations were necessary.

  He wrinkled his forehead. “How exactly do you plan to fix me up with Jo? She’s not interested.”

  “Bah! You just have an image problem. I love Jo dearly, but she sometimes has a hard time seeing beyond the surface. Typical woman.”

  He smirked. “Yeah, I’m sure guys don’t ever have that problem. So what are you proposing?”

  “Have you ever seen that show, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?”

  “No,” he said far too quickly.

  I gave him my don’t-shit-me squint.

  “I might’ve seen an episode or two,” he admitted.

  “Well, it’s exactly what we’re going to do, only on a budget. You in?”

  He wasn’t convinced. “Couldn’t you just put in a good word for me?”

  “I’ve done it already. Colin-Fuckwit-Kirkwood has a lot of surface charm. We need to fight fire with fire.”

  “I’m not convinced I have any charm.”

  “Nonsense! All you need is a makeover—we spruce up your outside, and you’ll feel all confident and charming inside. Trust me.”

  Actually, I wasn’t so sure it would be enough, but I kept my doubts to myself.

  Wayne sighed. “Yeah, all right. It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose. Are you sure it’s not some elaborate plan to get into my pants?”

  I put on my wounded face. “I’m hurt. First of all, I’ve never gotten into anybody’s pants who didn’t at some level want me to. Secondly, how much do you like Jo? Is this just a sex thing?”

  “No! I really, really like her! She’s smart and funny, dresses like an anime character, and she’s fearless.”

  Yeah, if Wayne was smitten any harder he would’ve been out cold. All the better.

  “In that case, I pledge an oath not to rest till Jo sees your hidden values, and I promise not to make any attempts to get into your pants in the meantime.”

  He looked relieved and visibly excited.

  “You’ll have to take them off at one point, however.”

  His alarm rushed back. “What?”

  “Those baggy monstrosities won’t do,” I said, motioning at his cargo pants. “Do you have anything that fits right?”

  “No offense, but tight pants are kinda gay.”

  “Yes, the skin-tight ones are,” I explained patiently. “Do you see me wearing them?”

  “N-no.”

  “There’s one thing you have to know about women: they like looking at a guy’s ass as much as I do. Now, you can be a bonehead and try to hide your body, or you can wise up and show it off.”

  “I don’t think I have all that much to show off.”

  “Bullshit,” I said, as I walked around him in a circle. “You’re lean, but not bony. As far as I can tell, you even have some muscle tone. Do you work out?”

  “I bicycle.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Not for competition or anything. I just find it relaxing,” he added.

  “Useful all the same. Okay, let’s see your wardrobe.”

  He did, and what I saw was absolutely pitiful. I told him so. “That’s it! We’re going shopping.”

  Now he looked sheepish. “I don’t have a lot of money right now.”

  “It’s on me.”

  “I can’t let you.”

  “It’s my parents’ money and, trust me, they have plenty. My mom sent me five hundred bucks to spend on something nice. I can’t imagine anything nicer than making sure Colin Dickwood doesn’t get his slimy paws on my favorite cousin. Got it?”

  ***

  We went downtown where one of the better department stores had a mind-bogglingly bountiful bargain basement section. Items of clothing hung from overcrowded racks without any sign of organization. However, you could make a great buy if you didn’t let the chaos intimidate you. We dove into the disorder and in a couple of hours of searching we bagged some nice loot. I had to strong-arm Wayne into trying on some jeans and pants I knew would fit him fabulously, but when he did, even he had to admit I’d been right.

  “I’m already regretting my promise,” I told him.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “You have one tight ass. I mean it.” I said nothing of his package up front. It was nice too.

  “No. I mean, shut up,” he said, but there was no anger in his tone. He was a smart guy; by then he’d figured out I was more bark than bite.

  He went back to the dressing room to try on more. I stayed outside.

  “How about this?” he asked, emerging in a pair of brown slacks and a close-fitting, long sleeved shirt. The shirt was dark with yellow-orange swirls reminiscent of a slow shutter speed photo of dancing flames. Fashion comes and goes, but you need to find what works for you and stick to it, as my mother was fond of saying. Earth tones went great with Wayne’s coloration.

  “Turn around slowly,” I told him.

  He did, and with the help of the mirrors, I got a simultaneous view of him from all angles.

  “Oh hell, yeah. Wayne, you look badass. Put on the trench coat.”

  The calf-length tan coat looked real fucking good on Wayne. Skinny guys like him rocked long coats.

  He grinned. “It’s a hero coat!”

  “A what?”

  “You know, like the one the Doctor wears. Doctor Who,” he added.

  “Yeah, I know the Doctor. You and Jo will get along fine. I’m getting one of these coats for myself. In blue if I can find one.”

  Wayne laughed. “That’s too perfect. I’ll be the Doctor, and you Captain Jack. He’s just like you—getting it on with everyone.”

  “Pfft. He wishes. Okay, let’s pack it up. We have an appointment with Ruby.”

  “Who’s Ruby?”

  “My hair stylist.”

  “Is it really necessary?”

  “It’s vital,” I replied, surveying his frizzy head.

  The salon was in U-town, and on the way back, I gave Wayne a lecture on the importance of finding the right person to cut your coif.

  “Cutting hair is something that seems easy, but it’s not when you try it. I learned t
hat fact at age five when Jo and I played hairdressers,” I explained as we headed over to the salon.

  “Ugh. How did it turn out?”

  “Mom quite near fainted when she saw us. There wasn’t much anyone could do about fixing it either, but trim off all the mess. Jo and I ran around with identical buzz cuts for the rest of the summer. She got mighty pissed at people who thought she was my little brother. Her fault for refusing to wear a skirt, if you ask me.”

  “She was a tomboy, wasn’t she?”

  “You bet.”

  “She’s like a Joss Whedon girl. I could so see her with a big axe or something, kicking ass.” It was almost like a confession. I guess Wayne realized it too, because he reddened.

  “She’d like that. Tell her sometime.”

  ***

  With a good cut Wayne’s hair wasn’t frizzy anymore. Even his nerd-glasses seemed stylish now. My job was almost done.

  “Let me give you some advice on women,” I said, once we got back to his place.

  “Now you’re an expert on women, too?”

  Cheeky bugger. “I have insight. Now shut up and listen.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Men are easy: they want sex.”

  “What do women want, oh wise one?”

  So Wayne wasn’t so reticent once he relaxed around you. It was good to know.

  “Everything.”

  “Oh, it’s very helpful.”

  “Ok, this is what you do—you make a move on Jo tonight. Don’t be a wimp because she won’t respect you. Don’t be too pushy either, or she’ll deck you, and I don’t mean figuratively.”

  “So what is it I should be?”

  “Yourself. Just a little more expressive. Chat her up.”

  “I'm sure she finds me boring.”

  “She doesn’t know you. Having a conversation usually helps in this regard. But don’t just talk about yourself. Find a common interest. You both like Doctor Who, so start there.”

  “All right.”

  I left him with strict instructions on what to wear that night and crossed my fingers. I’d done my duties as the matchmaker fairy, the rest was out of my hands.

  ***

  Dayna and her roommates lived in a house her parents bought when she’d been accepted for the graduate program at Jeff-U. The parents planned to keep it as a rental property once she graduated. Trees lined the yard on all sides, shielding the house from the neighbors. Good place for a shindig with lots of college students already drunk on their upcoming week of freedom.