Someone to Love

by Addison Moore

  On your Knees

  Tongues and Tickles

  Art of Whoredom

  Touch me, Tease me, Lick me, Please me.

  The Fine Art of Moaning

  Skin on Skin

  Ask and You Shall Receive

  Strip Xbox

  Body Frosting

  Role Playing and Erotic Fantasy; A journey into mental imagery

  Show and Tell

  Master and Servant

  Sex Video

  Sex Video? What the hell is this? Porn 101?

  Oh my God, this is completely perverse. Cruise is going to get himself sued or fired, or worse. Obviously, he’s got some sex addiction if he plans on living out these scenarios with each one of us. I scan the room quickly, expecting half the class to burst out laughing or screaming, but they don’t say a word.

  The extras get passed in my direction and I gloss over one.

  Gender Relations: Spring Semester

  Read: The Great Gatsby

  Essays and quizzes are listed, and I take a paper for myself before shooting a look to the not-so-funny man in question. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, and he’s leering at me with his lips curled to the side. He’s so enjoying this, I can tell.

  It’s illegal and unethical to proposition a student, let alone gift her with incriminating evidence should I be moved to initiate legal action. But I’m not. I’m moved to see what the “Fine Art of Moaning” might entail. The rest of the class fades to nothing as I negotiate the deep recesses of my mind and envelop myself in a warped fantasy that involves a whole lot of vocal cords and very little clothing.

  “Good morning.” Cruise paces until he sits on the edge of his desk. “I’d like to open the class with having each of you introduce yourselves and share your position on love in the sensual, sexual sense. And why, outside of the preservation of the species, do you feel it continues to prosper as the single most valued human desire.”

  He starts in the front and goes student by student as they give a dry, rather morose view of their position on sensual love. Three girls in a row give an expository on how love degrades women and reduces our species to nothing more than a sexual porthole of pleasure, and I nod in silent agreement.

  Cruise twists his lips as he considers the words of the last girl. You’d think Cruise himself just knocked the feminist movement down three full decades the way the girl in the bright pink rain slicker cut him off at the balls for implying that love was the “single most valued human desire.”

  Things are falling to shit quickly, and a part of me feels sorry for him. Although, I’m still a little miffed he didn’t tell me he’d be morphing into my teacher in the literal sense since he was already sort of filling that role anyway. Plus that whole sexual syllabus just makes me roll my eyes, even though I plan on going over it in detail as soon as I’m alone. I have to admit, the “Role Playing and Erotic Fantasy; a journey into mental imagery” does sound interesting.

  “Ms. Jordan?” Cruise calls from the front and I spike up in my seat.

  “Yes? Oh, right, love. Um…” I pull a strand of hair over my lips the way I do when I’m nervous and consider it a moment.

  “Your views?” He leers into me with those bedroom eyes, and my stomach bottoms out. “You could share your past views, present views, that is, if they’ve evolved at all.” He says it low with the deep register of his voice, while smoldering at me openly in front of the class. Something about this forbidden foreplay lights an inferno around me, makes me choke on the prospect of every item on that syllabus occurring in real time.

  What am I saying? Cruise Elton looks at every girl that way. And to think otherwise is only setting myself up for a spectacular fall.

  “I think love is nothing but a fallacy propagated by the greeting card industry and a billion-dollar bridal enterprise that feeds into the fantasy of every little girl.” I say it a little louder than called for. “I think the divorce rate in this country is solid evidence that love and all of its trappings are nothing more than an illusion propagated by fairytales that promise ‘happily ever after’ in a world where neither happy nor ever after truly exist. At the end of the day all that really remains is high-octane lust—enough to fuel a rocket ship—still doesn’t make it real.”

  His cheek cinches to the side and his dimple goes off, but no smile. He still manages to melt me in the process. There’s that high-octane lust I was talking about. It’s as if my hormones insist on making the point for me.

  “Perhaps, Ms. Jordan”—he locks me in with a heated gaze—“you simply haven’t met the right person yet.” He moves onto the next student, but that cold steely look he gave makes me shudder. Why do I get the feeling I’ve just done something terribly wrong—like stomped out the rosebush of our love before it ever had a chance to blossom.

  The thin girl next to me clears her throat before giving an answer. She turns to face me fully. The harsh lights from above annunciate the fact she’s sporting a rather burgeoning girl-stache as she frowns. “I’m sorry for you.” She says it short and simple, and my face burns with color. She reverts her attention back to Cruise. “My parents have been married for almost thirty-years. They say ‘I love you’ and kiss each other hello and goodbye. They’ve raised four kids together, and they still go out on dates.” She cuts me a look as if I’ve just slashed open the bellies of a hundred newborn puppies. “I believe in love because it exists. I don’t take other peoples’ failures and make them my own. I will find love, and it will prosper.”

  A stunted applause comes from the back of the room and builds until the entire class is roaring and cheering, spontaneously jumping to their feet, with the exception of a well beaten down me.

  The class goes on that way with everyone declaring themselves team love, while I seem to be garnering more than my fair share of dirty looks. You would think I were secretly spearheading a matrimonial apocalypse, or I’ve made it my personal crusade to take down Valentine’s Day.

  The class ends and bodies drain from the room. I wait until the last of the stragglers dissipate before making my way to the front.

  “I see you’ve outfitted me with a syllabus tailor made for your sexual pleasure.” I mean for it to come out peppered with humor, but it comes out a sad admission from the one who all but declared herself anti-love. Anyway, that’s basically how I introduced myself to Cruise, so he should be the least surprised.

  He glances up at me from behind his large mahogany desk, looking dangerously sexy as he takes off his glasses. He walks over, wraps his arms around my waist and holds me for a long span of time. I take in his scent—memorize the girth of his body entangled with mine. He feels safe, nourishing, and hearty, as though I’ve hungered for Cruise my entire life and now I had the vitamins, the essential minerals I needed to survive. All along I had been anemic in the very thing I decried—love. Cruise was the iron my marrow so desperately needed. He kick-started my body again, put God’s own breath in my soul, and I had the nerve to deny him right to his face, openly calling these feelings budding inside me a flat-out lie.

  A ragged breath escapes from me, and then the unthinkable happens. Tears begin to fall, and I’m weeping a river over his freshly pressed dress shirt. It’s as if I’d carried a weight around with me my whole life, a heart of lead and granite. And today, in front of God and Cruise and about fifty of my newest peers, I dropped it. It lay shattered at my feet because I didn’t want it anymore.

  I do want to believe in love. I want all of its trappings, and if it costs me my sanity and a very good divorce lawyer, so be it.

  I pull back and gasp at the mess I’ve made of Cruise. His shirt has turned to velum, and his skin glows beneath. Two necrotic butterflies stain his once-pristine dress shirt, and I’m mortified at what I’ve done.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, gently tapping the mess with my fingers. God knows I can only make things worse. It seems to be my specialty.

  “Come here.” His dimple goes off as he buries a smile in his ch
eek. Cruise exudes his affection for me. All of his formidable lust pours out like oil, spilling its riches right into my soul. He leans in and blesses me with a soft peck, then dives in for something deeper, kissing me thoroughly, fully, and intensely on his quest to leave no lingual stone unturned as his tongue warms mine.

  Cruise pulls away and his mouth opens as if he’s about to say something—say it. A breath gets caught in my throat at the prospect, and I wait but it never comes.

  I wonder if it ever will.

  Cruise

  Kenny.

  I don’t remember ever walking around campus with a goofy grin on my face when I professed to “love” Blair. In fact, quite the opposite, I dragged my ass all over town like a beaten down wuss with my tail between my legs—hardly smiled at anyone. That was a relationship filled with death and dying. I lived out each of the seven stages of grief every day, and twice on Sunday. I should write her a thank you note for letting me out of the tower and escaping exorbitant legal fees somewhere down the line. Although, her father is a notorious divorce attorney and would have probably only billed me my half. Looks like I avoided having my ass handed to me twice.

  I hustle over in the direction of the administration building. A puff of fog illuminates the campus soft as a gas lamp. Kenny lit up my world. She peeled off the layer of hurt I’ve been hiding under all these months, filled me with her presence, and now the entire universe glows under her beautiful light.

  Horton Hall comes upon me with its arched Roman colonnades, and I run up and duck inside. It’s warm and suddenly, I have the urge to take off this thick ape suit I’ve strapped myself in. But Kenny left her calling card on my chest, and I’m certain the board would have its curiosity aroused at the sight of those tragic smudges.

  Back in September, I applied for a fellowship, and now the committee has called me in. I’m amped as to what it might mean—hopefully dollar signs. If I get it, I might actually afford to feed myself, and Kenny, too. I’d move heaven and earth to have her stay at the house forever even if she thinks the concept of love is just an illusion. Kenny is a dove with a broken wing, and I want to be the one to help her mend it.

  In the office, members of affluent academia line the periphery with the dean of graduate admissions, the dean of doctoral studies next to him, as well as Professor Bradshaw—and, holy crap, he looks like a corpse.

  “Cruise.” He stands to greet me, and I take his hand in both of mine, afraid he might keel over and explode into dust. He’s lost about fifty pounds, and he hardly had it on him to begin with. His skin is pale and thin as parchment with dark circles beneath each eye. If ever there was death on the move, it was encapsulated in Bernie Bradshaw. I’d ask how the chemo was going, but I think I know.

  “Did you enjoy your first class?” He gives a pleasant smile as he lands hard in his seat.

  “It went great. Better than expected. I appreciate the opportunity.”

  “Fantastic,” Dr. Barney, Dean of admissions, interjects. “I hope you’ll appreciate this new opportunity that’s about to come your way. You might even call this your lucky day.”

  I glance at the three of them. I’m a lot of things—lucky isn’t one of them.

  “Unfortunately for Garrison”—Dr. Barney offers a morbid nod—“Professor Bradshaw has decided it’s best for him to step down at this time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Shit. Knew it wasn’t good.

  I swallow hard. Bradshaw has been a mentor to me. He assisted in structuring my thesis, tailoring it for a surefire admit to the doctoral program.

  “Cruise”—Barney leans in—“we’d like to know if you’d be willing to take over for the rest of the semester?” He glances over at Bradshaw. “We realize you signed on to help out with a few classes, but this would mean running the course on your own. Professor Novak volunteered to oversee the situation. Technically, it will be considered co-teaching. Although, Professor Bradshaw assures us you’re more than capable of running the show on your own. Your passion for gender studies hasn’t gone unrecognized. However, we understand you have your own coursework to tend to, and should you decline, we would certainly support you either way.”

  A surge of adrenaline races through me. Hell yes, I want to shout but somehow manage to remain subdued.

  “Should you accept”—Professor Bradshaw expels the words as if he were utilizing his dying breath to birth them—“you’ll have the tuition of one course credited to your fellowship as income, this semester.” He withholds a smile and tilts his head back with pride.

  “I got the fellowship?” A credit for one course no less?

  “Congratulations.” Dr. Barney bears his yellow fangs, and I’m more than glad to see them. “As a part of your doctoral studies, we’d appreciate it if you would continue teaching the class in the fall as well. It will be a pleasure to watch you grow as you, yourself, become an esteemed colleague right here at Garrison.”

  “Thank you.” My heart lets off a few irregular beats like it’s misfiring. It all feels surreal. Kenny and now the fellowship? I’ve got a gut feeling someone upstairs is making more than their fair share of errors, but I’ll be the last one to point it out. “It’s an honor to be considered. I accept.”

  The three of them stand, and I shake their hands in turn. I pull Professor Bradshaw into a half-hug and accidentally brush up against the bony protrusions of his spine.

  “I won’t let you down,” I whisper. “I promise.”

  His bushy brows lift, revealing a network of green and blue veins beneath his onion-thin flesh. “You’d better not. There were far more qualified candidates, but I knew you had the fire in your belly. You’ll carry out the program much better than any of those dry wells. Just remember”—he clasps both his hands over mine—“believe what you teach. What was the topic today?”

  “Love.”

  “Do you believe in it?”

  Kenny blinks through my mind.

  “More than ever.”

  I bolt out of the administration building feeling like I’ve just won the scholastic lottery because, holy fucking shit, I have.

  That stupid grin takes over as I head into the stream of bodies rushing to their next classes. The ground is dusted with a layer of snow, and the first thing that comes to mind is Kenny and her serious lack of winter clothes. I’ll take her shopping to celebrate. I’ve got an entire semester’s worth of loans I don’t need to worry about, and even though I’m sitting under a mountain of financial duress, I’ll gladly treat Kenny to something that can keep her pneumonia-free for the next several months. Hell, I might even take her to dinner. Although the fellowship still doesn’t change the fact I’m a little low on spending cash at the moment.

  I sweep my eyes over the vicinity, hoping to see her and with my newfound luck, I just might.

  I scan every dark-haired girl as far as the eye can see and none of them even come close to the beauty that Kenny holds. Kenny is an exotic flower in a sea of common houseplants.

  All last semester, I sat at the University Bar and Grill and listened to Cal rate girls in ratio to how many beers it would take for him to sleep with them. I never once found them exceptional, but that night at Sigma Phi when Kenny walked in, I couldn’t take my eyes off that face—that mind-blowing body, her heart-stopping beauty was alarming in every good way. She openly defied my thesis on the heresy of love at first sight. I knew then I had to have her, if only for a night. A lifetime seemed like an impossibility in the least, and now, it didn’t seem like enough time at all.

  I stop just shy of the bookstore and glance at the corkboard filled with requests and opportunities. A bright yellow sign catches my eye.

  Need $200? Not shy? We want your body! Contact Professor Webber. Art department.

  I tear a fringe off the sheet, with a number on it, and tuck it in my pocket. I think I just found Kenny’s new winter coat and boots.

  A familiar head of blond hair catches my attention from inside the bookstore and I peer in to confirm m
y worst nightmare. Blair. She rocks steady on her heels while browsing the literature section. She peers out from over her book as though she’s been eyeing me all along.

  I turn and head in the opposite direction.

  Shit.

  She can’t be here. She transferred to Dartmouth to follow the idiot whose dick she impaled herself onto before she officially dumped me.

  I take a deep breath, giving one final scan of the campus for Kenny before taking off.

  Blair can’t be back.

  Garrison isn’t big enough.

  9

  Kendall

  Run into Your Arms

  The Fine Arts building is situated on the outskirts of campus. Its large circular architecture is reminiscent of an igloo if, in fact, an igloo was designed to stand seven-stories tall.

  I stumble into the giant studio in which the “study of the human body” is conducted, and after experiencing countless miniature desks that progressively seemed to get smaller throughout the day, a cavernous open space is a welcome change of pace. Benches are laid out in lieu of a miniaturized workspace with easels situated in front of each one. A charcoal pencil lies at the lip of the unit, along with an eraser that looks as though it’s made from a giant wad of grey gum.

  After spending over four hundred dollars on less than five books for only two of my classes, I’m hoping the accessories list for this class won’t break the bank. My scholarship strictly covered tuition, so books, and my non-existent dorm, are the only things my mother is taking a loan out for at the moment. I’m pretty sure it isn’t going to thrill her to know she’s spiraling into debt for coloring supplies. Although, technically, the loan is mine since I promised I’d pay back every dime.

  The thin-lipped girl from “Professor Elton’s” class sits two seats over to the left. Perfect. She’ll probably be moved to overanalyze my work, and all roads of critical interpretation will inevitably lead to the fact I gave love the middle finger. And, really? Who the hell cares about my opinion? Well, apparently, she does.