Co-ed Naked Philosophy

by Forest, Will

  Some students laughed while others appeared to ponder the question seriously.

  “It’s like that nasty cartoon about the flasher and the elevator door,” chuckled Heather.

  “Some women’s breasts would stick out further than some men’s erections,” said Jennifer.

  “I think it depends on size and angle of erection,” said Paul, bemused, “and the width of the doorframe too, but with an average-size erection and a more-or-less ninety-degree angle, the tip of the penis could pass beyond the frame, especially if you thrust your hips out a bit.”

  “Yeah, because it would have to stick out further than your toes, right?” added Alex. “And your nose!”

  “You’re right, it is certainly possible,” Dr. Ross continued, “but even if the erection were too small or too vertical to pass over the threshold, the growth and hoist of the penis as it becomes erect are enough to suggest a movement out and beyond something. Now, in this photo we see only a static and obviously disproportionate image of Exu. But a real man, a ritual participant embodying the deity Exu, might dance while thrusting out an erection—most likely a special, phallus-shaped symbol, but perhaps his own penis. To stand on a threshold and swell to point out beyond it at the same time, to dance between two alternatives while suggesting the possibility of a third: this is the sometimes dangerous, sometimes joyful potential that can be seen in the erection. The erection as source of the man’s seed is an arrow that shows the way from thesis and antithesis—father and mother, female and male—to the synthesis of one child born from the union of two parents.”

  “Well, and a woman’s pregnant belly can extend out beyond a threshold too,” said Daphne. “I think it can mean the same thing: synthesis, potential, the ‘pregnant’ possibility. In fact, if we’re going to talk about thresholds, we need to state that the vulva is a threshold.”

  “Well said, Daphne, and definitely this is a strong comparison to what we talked about last class on pregnancy.”

  “The mouth, and the anus, then, would be other thresholds,” said Alex.

  “But without the potential for…without reproductive creation as synthesis, or at least not the same kind of potential or the same kind of synthesis,” said Daphne.

  “What about circumcision?” asked Terrence.

  “What do you mean, what about it?” said Dr. Ross.

  “The image of Exu shows him pulling back his foreskin to reveal the head of his penis. It’s just becoming visible. Going back to the dude in the doorway: if he’s uncircumcised, then his glans is only revealed during the erection, when it’s sticking out beyond the frame. Something normally unseen is unveiled.”

  “Very good, Terrence! The glans is often exaggerated in these phallic figurines like the one depicting Exu. And the glans is precisely what points out or beyond the threshold. So, you’re exactly right, it’s something that appears only at that window of opportunity, and what appears—the glans—can seem to be a heart or an eye or a fruit or even a fist. The word itself comes from the Latin for ‘acorn’: seed, potential. The erection—whether it’s still, like a drawn arrow, or bobbing like a bird with the dancer’s movement—evokes movement and potential penetration, and that penetration can be sexual, but also epistemological as a transcendence of thought.”

  Daphne noticed that Brian, seated to her right, had begun to look around uncomfortably. She remembered his comment about the involuntary nature of erections, and framed a question for her professor, trying to change the subject: “Isn’t this what they call phallogocentrism?”

  “Uh, interesting question, Daphne: I’d say no, because phallogocentrism has been used to inscribe a typically Western worldview, but we’re talking here about a definitely non-Western culture.”

  “But, isn’t all this focus on the phallus really just too much?” As she finished her question, Daphne lifted her eyebrows and rolled her eyes toward Brian, trying to alert Dr. Ross to the student’s discomfort.

  Dr. Ross didn’t understand. “It is our topic for today. We are almost done, but I want to read one more of your comments:

  ‘It seems like people think of only two states: erect or flaccid, when in fact there are all kinds of stages in between that have their own accompanying feelings. I imagine this is probably true the older you get, because an adolescent penis is probably the only one that can go from zero to 90 in two seconds. Anyway, some of the intermediate states, according to me, a proud penis owner, are: slightly erect, medium erect, almost completely erect, default erect, immediate orgasm erect, post-orgasm erect, and post-orgasm engorged. All of these we can assume to take place at normal temperatures and with the penis uncovered, but the variables of temperature and clothing, when considered with other conditions such as emotional state, blood sugar level, blood alcohol level, time of day, when you last ate, angle of erection, age, etc., provide for an incredible number of variations.’

  “I’m going to be the first to comment on this one,” continued Dr. Ross. “It strikes me as a very astute observation, and it reminds me of ancient Greek norms of male nudity. Elite males of ancient Greece practiced nudity as commonly as possible and did not practice circumcision, so for them the line between mere nudity and erotic nudity was drawn at exposure of the glans. Again, the glans indicates a threshold. If a man’s penis swelled enough to start forcing the foreskin to pull back…”

  “Stop! Just, stop! I don’t want to hear anymore. I’ve had enough.” Daphne stood up. “Dr. Ross, I think you’re trying to keep this discussion pertinent to the topic you stated at the beginning, erections in art, and to our course topic, aesthetics and the body, but it’s not working. Now we’ve traveled far into the realm of what an erection feels like. This is interesting but off-track.”

  Dr. Ross felt uncomfortably warm. “Alright, Daphne, I understand. My only justification is that, here and now, I am trying to demystify the phallus as an impossible stasis based on a quite mutable and delicate physiological condition.”

  “Daphne, we’re here talking about something that’s true and important.” Greg stood up too. “In fact, as we speak, I’m sure the penises of all the men in the room are at varying stages along the scale of flaccid to erect.”

  “Greg, don’t, I don’t want show-and-tell.”

  Brian began to fumble with his notebook, opening it, placing it, finally, as surreptitiously as he could, in a tent over his lap. He wanted to disappear, to tear out of the room as fast as his 100-meter dash, but he had been rendered immobile on the threshold of embarrassment.

  “Daphne’s right. This is not show and tell.” Dr. Ross took a deep breath and flexed his calves. “This is an attempt on my part to bring us back in touch with humanity. For most men, erections are a daily fact of life. As we have just heard from the comments I read and others you voiced, penises are not always either erect or flaccid, nor is every erection the same. That the portrayal of erections in art often freezes them into phallic immobility or shackles them exclusively to pornography is an essential conundrum of our course theme. I insist, as you should know by now, that ‘Aesthetics of the Body’ means the whole body.”

  “So where are we going with this, Dr. Ross?” asked Terrence. “Are you saying we can apply, for example, the ‘reclaim the image’ slogan to erections? Or maybe something more like that old orange juice tag line: ‘erections – they’re not just for pornography anymore?’”

  Mentally Dr. Ross bestowed an enormous garland of flowers on Terrence for the marvelous laughter that his question incited, defusing the tension. “I think, Terrence, and, to quote you yourself, ‘not only that but I feel,’ that you are exactly right. This may well be the biggest challenge: how to undemonize the erection. And, I have to say, it may be impossible.”

  Daphne looked pleadingly at Dr. Ross and pointed to her watch-less wrist.

  Dr. Ross arched his left eyebrow quizzically at Daphne before concluding. “All right, we’ll leave it there for today, then.”

  3

  MAY

  M
ay

  Delicate Matter

  There was a knock at the office door, followed by the sound of something passing underneath. Christopher found an envelope stamped CONFIDENTIAL on the floor. He retrieved it and sat down at his desk to open it. The envelope contained this message:

  Meet me in the Administration Building, room 399 today at 5:30. Use the north elevator. Wear clothes. Nice clothes. Not a word to anyone.

  Brad

  At first, Christopher couldn’t think of a single Brad he knew. Then he remembered the name of the provost. Why such short notice? His tenure case was scheduled to go before the committee tomorrow… His thoughts raced as he realized he would have to rush home for nice clothes, and be back in just two hours. But wait: why go? He started dressing but sat down again, absurdly poring over his tenure files: statement of teaching philosophy, research interests and objectives, list of courses taught, student evaluations, peer evaluations, statement of future research and teaching goals…he knew, and he felt, that he had a rock solid case. Unless, of course, there was some new challenge to the clothes-free classroom. And...the striptease video online, but that had been taken down, hadn’t it? Maybe those clandestine beach photos had indeed been posted, and someone had recognized him again. Why the image persecution? He left the office dejectedly but hurriedly, as one who races to a fate he cannot control but wants very badly to know.

  An hour later, he walked stiffly in ironed slacks and unbroken shoes along the campus path toward the Administration Building, where he had not been since the streak last Halloween. He stopped a moment to observe five students playing disc golf among the azaleas and the loblollies. Two of the men were nude except their sandals; another had on a cap, shorts and sandals; one of the young women, also bare-chested, sported only shorts and shoes; and the other young woman was completely dressed. Christopher noticed these things the way one might casually register somebody’s height or skin color or hairstyle, the way a narrator might fill in detail about a character in a novel. And he realized, like a jolt running through his retina to the back of his cranium, that this was a vision of exactly what he had proposed, months earlier, at the restaurant in California with his friends: a setting, or a set of circumstances, in which there could commingle clothed people, nude people, and people in any state of dress in between.

  As if Christopher had summoned it, the bright orange disc descended at his feet. He scooped it up and whirled it back to its hurler—the partially dressed young man—and felt the force of his epiphany ebb back out again from his cerebellum through his forehead and beyond, borne on the happenstance that a game of disc golf has few, if any, boundaries and costs.

  Reluctantly now, and looking back several times, he continued on to the Administration Building. He passed through the lobby, with its garish statue of the still-living former university president and founder who, after some thirty years at the helm, had finally been forced out in a battle over control of the GCU foundation. The north elevator, with staidly carved wooden doors, opened onto the third floor in front of the president’s and provost’s office suites.

  Dr. Ross knocked on the door of room 399. The door opened inward to reveal a long conference table, at the head of which stood the provost, directly opposite the door. To the provost’s right sat Herb Wishinsky, and to his right was where Tabitha Lasseter-Peebles had been seated before she rose to open the door. To the provost’s left sat Angela Saucedo, and to her left, Florence Lowell. One empty chair faced the provost.

  “Have a seat, Dr. Ross,” said Brad McIntire. “The rest of us have been here an hour already.”

  “Am I late?” Dr. Ross nervously glanced around the room.

  “You’re right on time,” replied the provost.

  “Why have you summoned me?”

  “I summoned you because your tenure case is tomorrow—well, it was tomorrow, but we’ve already delayed it a few days—and you act as if you already had the whole thing wrapped up. We have done so much for you, Dr. Ross, more than you know, to try to protect you, and then you go and spend a class day discussing erections. Do you so fervently wish to ruin your career?”

  Christopher sat down heavily.

  “We are here to talk about some kind of strategy for you in an absolutely confidential and secret proceeding. No word uttered here today leaves this room. Is that clear?”

  Nobody else answered, so Christopher muttered, “Understood.” He stared at the provost’s red-and-white university logo lapel pin, and blood-red tie, as if they were obscenities scrawled on a wounded corpse. Tabitha, from beneath the armor of her usual attire, stared back at Christopher. Florence wore a flower-print dress with pastel colors; Herb, a polo shirt with tweed jacket; and Angela, a terra cotta blouse with a turquoise and silver necklace and matching earrings. She avoided meeting his gaze, and her hands were still.

  Brad continued. “The secretaries have all left the office already. Just in case, if anyone asks, we were meeting to discuss a new fund-raising initiative. That would explain Florence Lowell’s presence here.” The provost motioned to his left. “The truth is, Florence appears among us at Dr. Saucedo’s request. Believe it or not, Dr. Ross, we’re all in the same boat. We all want to save your hide.”

  “Save it…I mean, save me from what?”

  “From losing tenure. Everyone here agrees you have a strong enough case. And all of us have done what we can to minimize your indiscretions. Who do you think had that awful video removed from that website? For crying out loud! Do you know how often I’ve asked myself if you’re worth it? And I kept answering yes, because of all your innovations, but now... your student’s embarrassment the other day has made a…”

  “Wait, wait, wait a second…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Dr. McIntire deferred to the dean. “Herb?”

  “A student of yours, Brian Chapman, has registered a sexual harassment complaint.”

  “What? Why? And why the hell am I the last to know this?”

  Dean Wishinsky continued. “Mr. Chapman claims that in last Wednesday’s class, in which the topic for the day was apparently erections—and for the record that’s not what the syllabus you filed at the beginning of the semester had announced for that date—he experienced sexual harassment because, due to the nature of the discussion—and, we’re told, images—he involuntarily became aroused. He claims you saw this and began to talk about how the Greeks considered the exposure of the glans as the mark of eroticism. He claims, additionally, that his condition was noticed by other students, among them Daphne Baldwin, who interrupted you at that moment.”

  Christopher sat in shock. He looked at Angela, who still averted her gaze. All the others returned his stare, expectantly.

  “Any comment?” prodded the provost.

  “Where can I begin? This is awful. Yes, yes, we were discussing erections in art, and yes there were images, though only of phallic statuary, not erect human penises. I had given them a revision to the syllabus, covering the last few days of class. Just to give a little context, we had also spent an entire class on depictions of pregnancy, which is another obvious and important human physiological change, and throughout the course we have studied depictions of all kinds of bodies: men and women, old, middle-aged, and young, and of various phenotypes.

  “Now, that day, yes, Daphne did interrupt me, and I felt like there was something wrong when she did, something more than what she was saying, which was that we had strayed off topic. But I tell you all truthfully that I did not see that Brian had an erection, because I was not looking at him anymore than at anybody else in the classroom, and if I did look at him, I would have looked at his eyes.”

  “Still, you might have noticed. What if…” began the provost.

  “Please,” said Christopher, suddenly desperate, “my class is no peep show. I have worked so hard to establish an open learning environment and to encourage the students’ complete participation in learning. I think there must be some mistake.”

  “The
reason you didn’t know about this yet is that I didn’t let you.” Tabitha looked at him with such an open, eyebrows-to-the-sky look on her face that Christopher hardly recognized her. It was not her usual commanding stare. “The university legal counsel, who, by the way, says she knew that sooner or later something would boil over in your class, called me with the details late yesterday afternoon. She stresses that Mr. Chapman has, at this point, only registered a complaint. This is not the same as filing a lawsuit. Yet. The first course of action is for the administration to investigate. So I called Herb with that information, and he got in touch with Brad and Angela and also Florence.”

  “Thank you all for being here, and for your support.” Christopher smiled weakly. “I guess I should have said that first.”

  “Christopher, if you think there’s been a mistake, then I bet you’re right,” said Florence. “From the beginning I thought this just didn’t sound like you.”

  “I’m thinking that I would really like to talk with Brian,” said Dr. Ross, “to see if we can clarify this misunderstanding.”

  “We came to the same conclusion,” said Dr. Lasseter-Peebles, “and, before you arrived, we spent the better part of our time here debating a sequence of events, which we decided should be as follows: you and Angela meet with Daphne, then you and Herb meet with Brian.”

  Christopher arched his eyebrows at the dean as if to ask, “you, of all people?”

  Herb responded to the unspoken question. “Two reasons. First, so it’s less likely that Mr. Chapman feel inhibited than if there were a woman present, and second, so that I can serve as representative of the university administration.”

  “And you agree to this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, Angie?” Christopher’s eyes betrayed his fear of her continued silence.