by Hazel Parker
His op-eds were on everything from exploitation of models to the notions around “Paris Thin” to sweatshops and had been featured everywhere from the New York Times to CNN. That he had left behind a career that had made him rich, celebrated, and cool to come to a college town to comment on it all from an academic perspective made him the ultimate former insider turned outsider. On campus, it also certainly helped he still loved fashion—just not some parts of the industry—and he still dressed like the male model he ruefully admitted to having been in his younger days.
Ben Arbour. I looked down at Zoe gurgling on the blanket as I tickled her tummy. Zoe Callister, my daughter. Zoe Arbour. Our daughter. Ben and I had had one, ill-thought-out fling, but Zoe, my life, was anything but ill thought out in being there in my sunny living room with its comfy, second-hand couches and hand-me-down, blue rug from my parents, a rug I had dragged from one dorm to another, to one shared apartment to the next.
Ben. Six foot, rakish, dark hair, lean, muscular build gone a bit more Dad bod in his late thirties, clear, blue eyes that hide what they are thinking when they don’t want to be expressive. Eyes that are expressive when they want to be in a way that keeps you captive and looking at them. Eyes that pleaded with me not to leave when I said I couldn’t possibly take up a position on his research team after finishing grad school. Because I was having his baby. Not that I could tell him that. Eyes that now firmly looked up at me from my baby on the rug—Ben’s eyes in our daughter.
How could I tell him when he was just about to launch a damning report into how fast fashion was creating disposable clothing and a kind of waste that was not just unethical, but was damning the fashion industry itself in terms of its artistic expression? He was having an affair with his student. It would have ruined him. I closed my eyes against my will and pictured Ben holding court in the bar near campus, Tellers, we used to gather at after class.
He would sip his whiskey, neat, and lean back in his chair and expansively proclaim, “How can an industry that says you can throw you t-shirt away and buy a new one, after a month’s wear, produce fashion of any value?”
I would argue back with him, “But luxury fashion still exists! They produce lasting pieces of quality.”
Ben would smile at me, his eyes warm and enjoying the intellectual banter, “Ah, but May, couture is just for show, it’s just to sell the accessories you need to replace each season; that’s not driving people to create fashion art of lasting value.”
We would argue back and forth as the night wound on and the drinks kept coming and the people faded away. Until it was just us. I argued a man shouldn’t be head of a fashion company designing for women, Ben laughing and teasing me because he already accomplished that. How does a man know what should go on a woman’s body? And then one night, I dared him to prove to me he knew a woman’s body well enough to decide what should be sold to clothe it.
*****
Ben and I sat in the corner of Tellers, sipping our drinks as Pete, the bartender, made last call. Ben was trying to talk me into trying neat whiskey, his favorite, and ungluing me from my white wine. His ability as a mentor and professor to get me to try new things was why I liked him, even if I was usually resistant at first. I stared at the whiskey, unwilling, and smoothed down my casual, cream-colored dress over my thighs. I had chosen it as it went so well with my long, dark hair, which I had twisted up into a messy bun for the evening. The dress showed just enough cleavage to keep things tasteful.
Since coming to study under him, I had learnt Ben’s rebel ways extended beyond what he taught in the classroom. Ben believed a professor to grad students should be like it used to be, where the professor took an interest in their best students’ lives and taught them knowledge that went beyond the lecture hall.
So far that had included learning to appreciate early American cinema, screened at his palatial apartment on the luxe and hip north side of town, along with cigars (Cuban), fine leather work (Italian), and lessons on how to be upgraded by a flight attendant. Tonight, it was learning to drink neat whiskey.
“Now, May,” Ben said in his best professor’s authority voice, “it looks like it is just you and me left for tonight's lesson.”
I looked around at the table of eight now down to us two. Sarah had had to dash off early in the evening to grade papers for juniors. Paul and Alex had a band to catch. Sasha, Greg, and Cait had just drifted off over time, casually picking up jackets and papers and leaving with a laugh. Normally everyone wanted to stay around Ben as late as possible, picking his brain on this or that or hearing his dirty, funny stories of the steamy side of the fashion world.
“Yes, Ben, what is tonight’s lesson? We didn’t get to it in time for the others,” I said with concern leaning in to him.
Ben smiled. Surprisingly to me when I met him, I noticed Ben didn’t have a model-perfect smile. They were his natural god given teeth, he liked to say. His slightly off center smile gave character to his face and had helped him stand out as a male model amongst the blandness of the current standard.
“May…maybe I deliberately left the lesson till last just for you,” he said teasingly.
I blinked. I was surprised by his attention and I liked it. I was the top student in the class, but he didn’t seem to pay much attention to me, nor comment much on my top marks or smart comments. He never praised or commented on my clothes or appearance, not like how he teased the very serious Sarah about her anti-fashion grey wardrobe or Greg for constantly buying leather jackets in search of the perfect one, all the while agonizing over whether he was making the right consumer choices.
Ben liked to tease us, saying that we may be studying consumer science, but we could still have fun with our consumer choices. But not me, he never commented on me, not even when I wore something from the label he had taken to the top: Brinkton.
“Well, Ben,” I replied with a hint of flirtation I couldn’t hide, “How lucky am I to be given a private lesson by the Great Ben Arbour?”
Something flashed in Ben’s eyes as I spoke, something unknown to me. He quickly recovered his poise though, shrugging his shoulders in his navy blazer, which he wore over a plain, white-shirt with jeans and tan, leather shoes.
“May, let’s get something clear,” he said, “No one needs to be in awe of me. I grew up in small town, grew up poor, happened to look like what the market wanted to see more of, and then got lucky to be in the right place at the right time when Brinkton needed a savvy, new CEO. It’s nothing special; don’t build me up.”
I paused and replied, “Ben, cut it out. No one gets to your level of success without hard work. Is that not what you’ve always told us to put into our studies?”
Ben considered this for a moment, then ignored my point, which he had an annoying habit of doing. It left me hanging; was my point in class not worth considering? Was it foolish? Did he just not have an answer? Was he being an asshole like so many in the industry and academia world said he was when they disagreed with his blunt points?
Ben spoke, “Try this,” and he pushed the spare whiskey he had ordered across the table to me.
I knew I didn’t have a choice: Ben didn’t take no for an answer. He was determined to drag us—me—out of the comfort zone. He didn’t see how we could make uncomfortable studies in consumer science that went against the grain or were unpopular when we couldn’t even bring ourselves to read a different book or watch a different movie than we usually did.
I picked up the whiskey and kept my eyes on Ben. I drained the drink in one go—that will show him. He may have pushed me outside of my comfort zone, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of enjoying it like I was some hick who didn’t know what was good. I grew up modestly, just like him, and I resented his cultural authority sometimes. I know he never intended to make me feel foolish about not knowing cool things, but I couldn’t help feel that way sometimes.
That was all well and good as a resistance strategy until I choked on the neat whiskey and went grasping
for a glass of water. Ben was in peals of laughter, his arms folded up in front of his muscular chest, his eyes crinkled and a big bellow of a laugh escaped from him as he took in my misfortune.
“Well, May, lesson one of drinking fine, neat whiskey is to go slow. Congratulations on learning something new,” he laughed teasingly.
I glared at him from under my dark eye lashes. Now I was embarrassed. Stupid know it all. Stupid Mr. Cool. Stupid Mr. Bad Boy, I don’t need the academic world to respect me. That was all well and good for someone with his reputation and personal financial backing. Not so easy for those of us trying to fit in with an ever more conservative academic world where the tenure track was rough going.
I straightened up and challenged Ben and said, “It’s easy for you, Ben Arbour; you don’t need approval. I’m a lowly grad student. I can’t afford to annoy the university or be so controversial.”
Ben watched me with a smile for a moment before calling Pete over and persuading him with easy charm to serve us another two neat whiskeys.
“May,” he said, “your problem is you are too serious. You are a great student, my best student, but you cannot let the burdens of work and career rule your life. Learn to embrace the amusing diversions that come your way, like tonight, and neat whiskey.”
I cautiously sipped my drink. It was warm, nice, and burned in my throat in a good way.
“I just want to get somewhere, Ben,” I said with a sigh.
Ben nodded and sipped his drink, keeping his blue eyes on me as I fidgeted with my glass, “You are a young woman in a hurry. I get that. I was once a guy in a hurry. I have learnt to enjoy life while I fight against the rules.”
I considered this and said, “What is your number one rule you think is meant to be broken?”
Ben smiled, “The ever eager student wanting to wring every drop of career information out of her poor professor, even late at night when a man is just trying to relax and enjoy a drink with a beautiful woman.”
I ignored the beautiful comment entirely and said, “And is this a rule you think is meant to be broken? Fraternizing with students?”
Ben didn’t miss a beat, “For sure, but only the beautiful ones.”
I blushed. I didn’t think I was beautiful. I mean, I didn’t think I was ugly, but beautiful? And said by a former fashion mogul and a professor who had freshmen chasing after him all over campus?
I ignored him again, shy, and challenged him on another note, “What about the rule men shouldn’t design for women’s bodies?”
Ben smiled again, refusing to get serious with me, “I never designed. I ran a company. Like a boss. That happened to sell things for women. If you think I can’t make a judgment call on what women want to put on their bodies, then let me show you just how well I know women.”
I stopped what I was about to launch into saying and our eyes locked. I saw desire and fire in his. I felt desire and fire well in me in response. I could feel my cheeks flush and heat pool in my lower belly. This was a fantasy of mine. Not just to screw a professor, which I had thought about since freshman year, long before I met Ben. I’d had a crush on Ben since he first strode to the lecture podium and started casually riffing on his experiences ruling and opting out of the fashion world.
Ben grinned at me, “Don’t think so much, May. Just go with what you feel.”
I looked at Ben and he looked at me, and in that moment, I made a decision. I wanted to be in the aura of Ben, to have that casual, I-seize-the-moment, Carpe Diem life where you don’t give a damn about rules, where you are too powerful to care and too confident to notice what others say.
I leaned forward and kissed him, impulsively, with passion. His whiskey mouth met mine and the heat between our mouths was as intense as the feelings now travelling up and down my body.
Ben pulled away and cupped my face, “Did you know ‘let’s get out of here’ is the most said line in movies?”
I broke into a grin, “So, let’s get out of here?”
And we got out of there. Ben drove us to his home in his pickup truck—he didn’t care for luxury cars and was still a down to earth at heart. On we went to the north side, where old homes and warehouses were being gentrified into luxe apartments and homes overlooking the Dartment River. We arrived at his apartment. Ben led the way into his living room. The room was dimly lit. Ben put his hand around my neck and pulled me in and kissed me hard. His other hand made its way up to my breasts. He groaned, “I’ve dreamt about this for a long time, May.” I could feel his erection underneath his pants.
Ben put his hands under my dress and slid them up my thighs, grabbing my ass he lifted me up onto his island that separated his kitchen and living room. He opened my legs and pulled my lace panties aside. My juices were pooling between my folds and my clit was aching for his touch. He flicked my clit with his tongue; my head went back in pure bliss. His hand reached up, roughly grabbing my breasts. His other hand was busy working with his tongue.
“Ben, stop, stop. I don’t want to come yet. I want you inside me.”
Ben lifted me off the island. He slipped my dress over my head and like a professional, undid my bra with one hand. It fell to the floor. He stared for a moment and cupped my tits, leaning in to give each erect nipple a suck. He slid my panties off and lifted me onto the couch. He slid off his clothes and laid on top of me. His cock was thick and throbbed with desire.
Teasing me, he rubbed the head of his dick up and down my slit. I was bursting with pleasure. We didn’t talk protection. We didn’t think. We couldn’t think. The moment was so hot, our need so great for each other that he just plunged right into me. A rush of pleasure. Ben moaning, thrusting inside of me. My orgasm was building like a volcano about to erupt.
Finally, with exploding release, I came. Ben getting very close and in complete control picked me up and bent me over the back of the couch. One knee on the couch and the other standing, he expertly entered me, his dick pumping harder and harder. He yelled out my name as he filled me with his hot juices. We both collapsed on the couch, laying there, catching our breaths.
Ben was quiet, thoughtful, “We need to keep this quiet, May, just until you graduate; then you can be mine.”
I snuggled into him, “I know, I understand. I don’t want us to get into trouble.”
Ben kissed me on the head, “It’s not me I’m worried about; I’d survive. It’s you and your future career.”
I nodded dreamily. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking of my career. Just of Ben and the amazing things he had done to my body.
We carried on our affair until I graduated, this time using protection. Little did we know a life, Zoe, was already growing inside me. The result of one careless night of passion. One amazing and special night of passion. Ben and I made plans to announce our relationship once I graduated and restrictions on us dating by the university would be lifted. At the same time, I helped Ben work his research into an amazing new report on fast fashion that would kick his career up from bad boy curiosity in the academic world to serious player. Our future was bright.
All that changed when I realized I was pregnant. I was distressed at first. I felt so guilty thinking what terrible timing it was, with me trying to get my career going, with Ben’s paper about to launch.
With our relationship still a secret and with a newness to it, I didn’t have to think long about it: this was a gift. I made some clear decisions. I cut off my relationship with Ben, telling him it had been a mistake and for his own sake he would be better off than having lingering questions about his conduct with grad students in the air while he launched his paper. I told him I had changed my mind on my career and wanted to retreat for a while to think it over. I told him I was thankful for all he had done for me. I didn't mean it to be forever, just for now.
He was angry. That is all there is to say about that. I walked away from him, leaving him angry.
*****
Leaving Zoe with Natalie, I headed to Harwood University to
confront destiny. I had seen the list of RSVPs to the conference online and Ben was on it. So was mine. Good, I had thought, at least we were being mature about our past relationship and not avoiding each other.
Arriving at the red-brick campus, I headed to the Hurst Conference Centre. Located at the back of campus among shady trees and winding paths, the conference center hosted its fair share of get-togethers. Harwood University punched above its weight, given its small size and out of the way location.
Arriving at the entrance room, I lined up behind assorted guests to be checked off. You could pick the ones from the fashion and consumer industry from those in academia that was for sure. Where I fit anymore, I didn’t know. My essay had been non- academic, for a general magazine. I had written on how the world of fashion was being forced to come to grips with all kinds of body shapes and sizes, or risk going out of business due to not catering for an expansive enough audience.
