I snuggled deeper into the blankets and released a wistful sigh, thinking about what I really wanted: an active sex life. I missed the feel of warm skin, of heated kisses and large hands on my flesh. I missed the euphoric, frenzied rush of joining together with someone who stimulated my mind, heart and body.
Eight long, dry months had passed since I last had someone in my bed. Not for a lack of offers, mind you; I was just very particular. And cautious. Too often I encountered the kind of opportunists who simply wanted to nail the campus sex-guru. And on the rare occasions I met someone whose interest seemed genuine – like Brian’s had seemed to be - Ian managed to get in the way, even when that wasn’t his intent.
I punched my pillow and rolled onto my side. Ian had run some of my prospective dates off, but some guys were just too insecure to accept that I had a male best friend, especially one as… okay, hot as Ian. Oliver, my last serious boyfriend, had even given me an ultimatum. I chose Ian – no contest.
Boyfriends would come and go, but Ian Hollister was a permanent fixture in my life.
Still, it would have been nice to find a way to have both.
CHAPTER TWO
The following morning, I smiled as I read the handout my Sociology of Gender professor passed around the room, outlining the independent project we were to complete by the end of the month.
Objective: Write a case study using yourself as the subject, detailing an instance in which your life has personally been affected by gender inequality, citing the sexual archetypes and gender stereotypes that have influenced this instance.
I had this one in the bag. All I had to do was look to the radio program.
Case in point: When Ian talked about relationships and sex on the air, he was romanticized as “enlightened” for giving women a candid look into the male-psyche. When I did it, I was derided as a radical female with questionable values and loose legs. It sucked that even on Riordan’s relatively liberal campus, female sexuality was still considered “an improper and unwholesome topic for a young woman to talk about,” and any woman who did so was regarded as “an agenda pusher attacking the values of Riordan’s students.” Yeah, that was a direct quote from “a terribly disappointed and extremely disgusted [sic]” alumnus’ letter to the school’s newspaper.
I tried not to let that kind of attitude bother me. Just as I tried to laugh off the common misconception that I gained all my “sexological” know-how between the proverbial sheets. If anyone bothered to ask me – which they never did - they’d learn that most of my knowledge came from academic study and secondhand accounts in the sociology department.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Wilkinson said, “if there are no further questions, I’ll see you on Friday.”
After sliding my notes into my bag, I stood and patiently shuffled down the steps of the small, sixty-seat auditorium. My feet had just hit the ground level when Dr. Wilkinson’s eyes caught mine. “Miss Rossini, please stay behind a few moments.”
My brows drew together as I stepped aside to let my classmates file past. I was pretty sure I knew why I was being asked to stay behind. I’d kind of fudged my way through the bibliography on the paper I’d turned in at the end of the previous week.
When everyone was gone, I approached the lectern where the tall, slender woman was packing away a steno pad into her stylish leather briefcase. Dr. Wilkinson was in her mid-forties, with a short auburn shag haircut and premature lines etched around the corners of her mouth. I would have guessed they came from tobacco use, but there was no way; the woman had the most blinding set of teeth I’d ever seen. I was ashamed to admit that there were times when I got so distracted by her smile that I missed huge chunks of the lecture. They were that white.
I cleared my throat. “You wanted to speak to me?”
Dr. Wilkinson removed her aquamarine blazer and laid it over her arm. “Yes. I wanted to--”
“It’s my paper, right?” I blurted, thinking it was better to fess up before I was called out. “Because I know that I only directly quoted from four of the five sources, but I was using the fifth as more of a… general reference.”
Dr. Wilkinson held up a placating hand. “Your paper was fine,” she assured me with a toothy smile, much to my relief and confusion. What else could she want to talk about? “Actually, I’ve asked you to stay behind because I have a favor to ask.
“I teach an Introduction to Sociology class on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Next week we’re delving into the chapters focusing on human sexuality, and I’m hoping I can entice you and Mr. Hollister into doing a panel for the class. It would be an hour of your time, tops, and I’ll be able to pay you each a stipend of three hundred dollars.”
“Wow.” I was so gobsmacked by the request that I actually jumped. “You know about our program?”
She flashed one of her blinding grins. “Are you kidding? I’ve rarely missed a night since Scott told me about it.”
I raised my brow. Who was this Scott? I wanted to hunt him down and kiss him for opening the professor’s eyes and bringing this opportunity to us. Three hundred dollars!
“I’m sorry; Dr. Quinn,” Dr. Wilkinson clarified.
Eww, cancel the kiss. Dr. Quinn was the faculty advisor and head program director of the otherwise student-run radio station. He was also in his fifties and a complete ass, if I ever met one.
“Oh! Are you and he…?” My eyes widened at the realization of what I had been about to ask. “Wow, that is so none of my business.”
Dr. Wilkinson’s eyes glinted with amusement. “It’s okay. Let’s just say we’re not exclusive, but a woman has her needs, as you well know.”
I grinned, only a little surprised by the woman’s confession. In my short time as a “sex-edutainer” I’d discovered many people felt free opening up and sharing details of their personal lives with me, invited or not.
What really surprised me was that someone as cool as Dr. Wilkinson would be involved with Dr. Quinn. Not only was he a jerk, but he always struck me as the quintessential white male Dr. Wilkinson often maligned in class for perpetuating the social status-quo.
“But really,” Dr. Wilkinson continued, “I think your program is brilliant. It’s smart, it’s sexy, but most important, it’s honest. The students can relate to it because the information is coming from their peers. Plus, you and Mr. Hollister have wonderful chemistry. The battle-of-the-sexes debates are a total crackup.”
I flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, I’m flattered… and a little amazed, I must confess. Some of the professors in the department have made it clear they don’t approve.” That was an understatement. The application I’d submitted for a student research position the month before had been turned down before I was even allowed to interview. When I questioned Dr. Gladslow, the professor in charge of student research, he told me that he just didn’t feel confident I wouldn’t use the very serious and private information I was made privy to as fodder for “that radio program of yours.” No amount of assurances was able to change his mind.
Dr. Wilkinson tossed her hand. “Stuffy old prudes. Believe me, I have to work with them. Don’t let their narrow-minded views discourage you.”
“I don’t.” I tried not to, at least.
“I’m glad to hear it. So, what do you say?”
“Well, I have to talk to Ian, first.”
“Of course.” Dr. Wilkinson pulled a sheet of paper out of her briefcase. “I’ve jotted down all the details. If you could speak with Mr. Hollister and let me know on Friday, I’d appreciate it.”
***
By the time I reached the central union, where Chelsea and I routinely met after morning classes, I was practically gliding. Who would have thought our program would impress a professor so much that she would ask us to appear live in front of one of her classes? And for three hundred dollars! My upcoming mechanic’s bill suddenly seemed a lot less nerve-wracking.
With my spirits soaring even higher at that stroke of luck, I broke into a wide
grin and quickened my stride. I caught sight of Chelsea pacing by the entrance of the dining hall, studying a stack of index cards in her hand.
“You know,” I said as I approached, “you’ve reviewed your speech so many times in the last few weeks that even I have it memorized.”
Chelsea slid her cards into the pocket of her taupe pantsuit. “There’s no harm in giving it one more read-through. One can never be too prepared.”
“So you always tell me. Sorry I’m late.”
Chelsea pushed up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “No, you’re right on time.”
Which in Chelsea-speak meant she wanted me to be early. “I do have a good excuse, though,” I said as we made our way into the food court. I filled her in on Dr. Wilkinson’s request as we took our places in the line at Starbucks for our daily breakfast of coffee and scones.
“What kind of panel?” Chelsea inquired as she grabbed an orange from the case.
“A sex-education panel. It’s basically an on-location gig. And the sweetest part is she’s going to pay us.”
“That’s great, but what’s the connection between her intro class and your…” Chelsea’s eyes darted left then right, “sex show?”
I chuckled when Chelsea’s face turned an attractive shade of pink. “It’s so cute the way you whisper the word ‘sex’. And to answer your question, sexuality is an entire subfield of sociology, and our show is about relationships and sex.”
“But I thought sociology had to do with scientific studies of human relations?”
My cheek twitched. “I’ll have you know that Ian and I have invested many hours in researching scientific studies so the advice we give is accurate.” Which you would know if you bothered to listen.
“Sorry.” Chelsea flashed me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to imply--”
I lifted my hand to stem the tide of words spilling from her mouth. “It’s cool, Chels.” I shrugged it off with a resigned smile. I knew she didn’t approve of my program. She’d let enough words slip here and there to indicate she thought it was no more than a tawdry novelty show, and that the advice we gave was steeped in neither hard facts nor research. It didn’t matter how many times she’d actually seen me doing research around the apartment. It had been drummed into her head by her controlling boyfriend, Parker Cavanaugh III, that our show was trashy and inappropriate, so she didn’t listen. She wouldn’t want to face his disapproval.
We stepped forward in line and I beamed at the familiar face behind the counter. “Shekita Banana Girl!”
Skekita Reed, my ex-neighbor from my freshman days in the dorm, grinned. Her white teeth were a sharp contrast to her flawless cocoa skin. “Hey, girl!”
“So, I’ve been on tenterhooks.” I leaned far over on the counter. “How’d the trip home go?”
Trips to Starbucks doubled as my bi-weekly dose of the Shekita Saga. Two months before, Shekita came out as a bisexual to her conservative military family, and this past weekend, she had decided to shake things up even more by bringing along her Caucasian girlfriend, unannounced.
Shekita chuckled, her brown eyes lighting up. “It was tense, at first. Grandma Jo refused to even acknowledge Beth-Anne’s presence, but Bethy charmed the hell out of my dad by laughing at all his military anecdotes, and my stepmom even let us sleep in the same bed on the second night.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I know, right? Now, we’ll see how it goes with Bethy’s parents in a few weeks.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “Should be interesting.”
From what I’d gleaned, Beth-Anne hailed from a small town in Alabama, where old attitudes had gone behind closed doors, but racial tensions were still palpable – none more so than in her own home. “I look forward to hearing all about it,” I said, thinking “interesting” was probably a mild estimation of the situation.
Shekita held up a plastic cup. “Same as always?”
“Yes on the Macchiato and the scones, but…” I looked to Chelsea in question.
She put her orange on the counter. “I’ll take a Decaf Mocha Java.”
“Decaf?” Shekita’s brows rose in question.
Chelsea put a hand to her stomach and nodded. I didn’t doubt she was feeling a little nervous, which was ridiculous because she could give a perfect speech standing on her head.
I put my arm around Chelsea’s shoulders. It may have been against her nature to show pride in her accomplishments, but I was proud enough for the both of us, and had no such qualms. “Our girl here has been nominated for Winter Queen, and is speaking before the selection committee today, so her tummy is feeling a little tender.”
“That’s great! You’re probably making a good call on the caffeine, then.” Shekita winked at Chelsea as she penned the orders on the cups. “This stuff rots your gut.”
I raised my brow. “Why do you work for Starbucks, again?”
“What can I say? I hate the taste, but I am addicted to the smell.” She sniffed the air, then rolled her shoulders back and shimmied her hips in delight. “Good stuff.”
I laughed as Shekita rang up our orders and swiped my student ID in the machine. “Good luck on your speech, Chelsea,” Shekita said. “When the time comes, you’ve got my vote.”
Chelsea thanked her and we stepped aside to wait for our drinks.
“You’d think they got involved to spite their families,” Chelsea observed, studying Shekita with a pensive frown.
“It does seem to be part of the appeal,” I agreed. “But don’t let her fool you. She’s crazy about Beth-Anne. The family rebellion is just a bonus.”
We took our drinks a moment later and were making our way over to the condiment center for napkins when I heard a simpering voice behind me.
“Look who it is, girls: Dr. Fellatio and her Sandra Dee sidekick.”
I groaned and turned, pasting a smile on. “Why, Mallory, it’s been a while,” I exclaimed with false sweetness. “Finally decide to come up for air?”
My ex-roommate rolled her icy blue eyes and lifted her paint-enhanced brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oh, I was hoping you’d ask. My arch-nemesis may have drawn first blood with that “Dr. Fellatio” crap, but I was determined to have the last laugh. “Well, you do spend an awful lot of your time with your head buried in some frat boy’s lap.”
The three Zetas backing Mallory snickered but simultaneously gasped when Mallory turned to glare at them.
What drones.
Mallory’s nostrils flared in a way that ruined her porcelain beauty. “Cute. But coming from someone who has sucked off the remainder of the unwashed tools on campus, I guess I should take that as a compliment. At least frat boys bathe.”
“Now there’s a ringing endorsement for whoring it up with the Greek boys.” I looked at Chelsea and held my hand over my mouth, speaking in a stage whisper. “I guess someone forgot to tell her that baths don’t wash away herpes.”
Mallory sneered, then flicked her glossy strawberry blonde hair back and set her sights on a weaker target.
“Wow, Chelsea, I just love your outfit. That drab, power dyke look is so… you.” She lifted a hand to Chelsea’s shoulder, but pulled it back at the last possible moment, as if doing so would cause her to catch bad fashion sense. Her nasty smirk caused her “sisters” to cackle like a pack of hyenas.
Chelsea’s body tensed and her chin rose. I rushed to intervene, knowing my roommate was too timid to defend herself.
“And I just love your outfit… or outfits, I should say,” I amended, including the entire group of similarly-dressed girls in my assessment. “I see the sisters of Zeta Beta Bimbo have cloned the Kardashian-look this season.”
“What’s wrong with the Kardashians?” one of the girls demanded. I couldn’t recall her name. They all looked the same to me. “They’ve got more style than a fashion victim like you has any day.”
Mallory’s smirk deepened, as if I had been put in my place.
Such a typical S
orostitute slam. It was all about partying, money, and fashion to these girls. I tried to remember that there were plenty of quality girls in Riordan’s Greek system, but that was hard to recall when facing Mallory and her acolytes. “Fashion victim I may be, but I like leaving the house without having to powder a second set of cheeks.”
I almost laughed at the looks of puzzlement that came over the girls’ faces. They were just too clueless to function. I leveled a hard stare at Mallory before turning to grab my coffee. I nudged Chelsea’s shoulder. “Come on, Chels. The overwhelming stench of eau du skank is giving me the vapors.”
We made it halfway to the exit when I heard Marisol Vera Cruz, the only one of Mallory’s followers I did know - and only because we were both majoring in Sociology - squawk. “Ugh! What a stupid gash!”
“Guess it finally connected,” I murmured with a low, satisfied chuckle.
Chelsea shook her head, disapproval clear on her face. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Lower yourself to their level? You should turn the other cheek.”
“You mean let them walk all over me, like you do? Girl, you need to learn to stand up for yourself.”
Chelsea shrugged. “Why should I care what those girls say? It’s pathetic really. I mean, their collective IQs rival my shoe size.”
I laughed. It wasn’t the most original comeback, but Chelsea’s displays of petty humor were so few and far between that each one was to be congratulated. “Now, why didn’t you say that back there?”
“What’s the point? They’re just spiteful, spoiled princesses who deal with their own insecurities by putting others down. Why let them know they’re getting a rise out of you?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s weird, you know? I can easily ignore every other holier-than-thou bitch on campus, but when it comes to Mallory…” I growled the name with every ounce of animosity I felt for its owner. “Every time I see her I want to rip her hair out by the roots.”
The Truths about Dating and Mating Page 3
