Messalina: Devourer of Men

by Zetta Brown

  “Prayerfully, Evadne, neither one of us will have to call on you,” Dean Mathis said when I was summoned to his office after my morning class. “I just wanted you to know and apologize for putting you in such a situation.”

  Prayerfully, he says. I roll my eyes and mull this over while nibbling on my ham sandwich.

  “Hello, Eva.”

  I snap back to reality and see Neil Hollister standing before my desk; his lazy smile is charming but off-putting.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Hollister?”

  He hesitates a moment, not used to my change in attitude. Usually, I call my students by last name or tagged with “Mr.” or “Ms.,” but drop the formality and shift to first names when they take more than one of my classes. Neil falls into the latter category since he’s not only my aide but has signed up for my Women in Modern Literature class this semester. But like I said, today, my thoughts are not within these four walls.

  “You said to drop by during lunch and do some work.”

  “Oh, yes, I did. Help yourself.”

  Neil has been hanging tough ever since I lived up to my promise and treated him to a drink at the pub. I proved I could handle as much lager as he and then some. Now he seems more determined than ever to show me how manly he is. It’s not that I doubt he’s a man—more of a manchild, really—but he has his share of groupies to glam with.

  I watch him from a distance as he sits at the desk on the other side of the office. I look down. My giant desk calendar is stained with meals past and my little doodles. A brass paperweight with the insignia of my alma mater, CU Boulder, does a lousy job weighing down a stack of papers. A desk lamp that belonged to my grandfather when he was a school principal sits in the middle of the far edge of the desk. It’s an art deco piece with a brass clock and a pair of lounging hounds on either side of the clock face.

  Amongst the usual desk clutter are photographs of my family. A hinged picture frame holds two pictures of Ana and me in our cap and gowns. The one on the left is us in high school and the one on the right is from college. We are in the exact same pose. There would have been three, but the only reason there isn’t one of us from our postgraduate ceremony is because we went to different universities.

  But there is a new addition to my little photo gallery and that’s a shot of Jared and me. It was taken by Alex at the youth center when Jared gave his art workshop as promised. It was a very hot day in September and I wore an off-the-shoulder peasant top and low slung Capri pants. So low, in fact, you could see the head of the J.E.T. black cat poking up from my waistband. Jared wore an old T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had just finished playing basketball with some of the kids and stood behind me with his arms about my middle and his head on my shoulder. The J.E.T. black cat on his upper left bicep is in plain view. The way Jared’s arms wrap around me gives my bosom a boost. Neil comes across with some files and I catch his eyes lingering a bit too long on that particular photo.

  “I saw you and your boyfriend in the paper the other day.”

  “Yes.” I grimace. “I’m afraid everyone has.”

  “So.” He gestures towards the picture frame. “You and your boyfriend have matching tattoos?”

  I make a noncommittal sound, throw away my sandwich bag, and give him a smile that maybe suggests more warmth than necessary, but anything to change the topic.

  He squints at me. “Are you alright, teach? You seem tired.”

  “I’m fine. What’s up?”

  “I have an assignment and I need some help.” He takes a seat on the edge of my desk. “But I think I have my topic.”

  “Good. What is it?” I cross my legs and lean forward, thankful I’m wearing slacks since Neil doesn’t hide his attraction to my legs.

  “Sexual Roles of Women in Early 20 th Century Literature.”

  “That’s pretty broad, Neil. Can you reel it in a bit?”

  “Certainly. I was thinking of focusing on Colette,” he says with a smile. “I’m intrigued by her portrayal of working, single women.”

  The boy has been doing his homework. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I have often said to my class that Colette is one of my favorite writers and I incorporated some of her work in my thesis on a topic not too different from the one he suggests.

  “You know, Neil, I’ve done a lot of research along similar lines. Do you realize what that means?”

  He looks me straight in the eye. “That you’ll be riding me hard on this?”

  The corner of my mouth twitches as I try not to smile, but I think my eyes give me away, because he grins and his brown eyes make a soft, sensual proposition.

  “Those are your words, Neil, but the sentiment is correct.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  His eyes widen once again, showing that if what I just said can rattle him, then he still has some cool points to earn. I am used to sparing with more experienced players. On the other hand, I’m willing to play this little game with him, for now.

  A girl’s gotta have her fun, doesn’t she?

  * * * *

  “Damn, Eva. Do I need to put you under lock and key, or something?”

  Jared lets me sample a spoonful of stew he made for our dinner and I laugh. He’s at my place tonight because his house is getting its yearly pest treatment. Now that I’m back at work we tend to only have time for phone sex during the week but make up for it on the weekends.

  “Oh, please. Neil Hollister is a wannabe stud muffin who thinks that just because his great-uncle is chancellor all he has to do is charm his way to a degree.”

  “You mean ya’ll spoil him.”

  “No, we don’t.” He’s pressed one of my buttons now. “Contrary to what you think, not everyone in higher education gets caught up in the politics.”

  “Just the ones with all the power.”

  “I’m gonna let that one slide. Neil has been known to insinuate his way close to certain profs—but not me.” I stick my tongue out at him and go finish setting the table. “The sad thing is he’s really very smart.”

  Jared brings the pot of stew and a plate of sliced crusty bread to the table and starts dishing it out. “It’s your overt sexuality.”

  “Overt? Me?”

  “The outfit you were wearing the day we met—you call that subtle? You can’t hide it, Eva, especially not from me.” He laughs and sits down. “You are far too sensuous. And your vibes are like a beacon to others.” He fixes me with a mesmerizing stare. “You attract people.”

  His smooth Southern drawl drips thick with suggestion and my pulse starts to race.

  “If that were true, I’d be leaving men in my wake.”

  “You cause a disturbance every time we go out. Take that night at DeGaulle’s.” He takes a bite of stew before saying, “There was the valet, then Baptiste, two guys in the lounge, a waiter, not to mention several glances from women as we made our way to the elevator.”

  He’s actually ticking them on his fingers. Now it’s my turn to laugh.

  “Give me a break! I didn’t see—”

  “No, you didn’t, because you refuse to look. You said, on the day we met, that I was very observant. You are like the sun, girl. You emit but you do not absorb,” he says with a smile.

  I shut up. Glynnis practically told me almost the exact same thing with regard to Terry Hyde. “You seem to have a keen interest in how many men look at me.”

  “Have you always been so guar
ded?” He continues like I haven’t spoke, but I say nothing.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “I think you’ve been conditioned by your family, your work, your friends—everybody—to believe that you are untouchable.” His voice softens, but he levels a gaze on me that goes deeper than my skin. “But you want to be touched. You need someone to touch you. Does that embarrass you?”

  Truth is I am getting embarrassed. What can I say?

  “It’s my defence mechanism.”

  He nods. “And a very good one too. Freud would be impressed. Look, but don’t touch. That’s exactly how you were when we met at The DeLuxe.”

  “Yeah, but you ignored the sign.”

  “I did. Unlike many of these so-called men, I have balls.”

  This time we both laugh, but when we stop, he reaches out to stroke my arm.

  “Evadne, you’re the only woman I’ve met whose defence mechanism is tuned to perfection.” He raises my hand and kisses it. “And I’ve known many women.”

  “You’re so modest.”

  “Why should I be? How many men have you been with?”

  Now there’s a question. Apart from the orgy at Trisha Stevens’s, my sexual experience with men has been pretty limited. That doesn’t mean I’m naive about sex. I read. And I do have ideas that are not vanilla, not by a long shot.

  “Eight.”

  Jared blinks. It was a rhetorical question, but he asked.

  “I assume you’ve had more than eight women?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  I snicker and we busy ourselves with our food.

  “Getting back to you and this Neil joker,” he says, wiping his mouth. “You say he’s smart. How smart?”

  I purse my lips together. “Not that smart.”

  “I don’t know, sugar. When I was in college, there were some professors I wouldn’t have minded teaching them a thing or two after class.”

  I shake my head. “The college is in enough trouble because one faculty member couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

  “Well, some student couldn’t keep it in hers, either.”

  “Point taken.” I raise my wineglass in salute.

  We finish eating, put the dishes in the sink to soak, and then go to my room. I turn on the TV and we make ourselves comfortable by stripping down. Jared goes about the room lighting candles and incense.

  We’ve developed a ritual on our weekends. For example, Friday night is “Book Night,” where we take turns reading aloud to each other from the latest in The Life of Lucrezia, if there’s a new issue, or some kind of erotic novel.

  But this is Saturday Night. Movie Night.

  Tonight’s feature: House of the Seven Orgasms .

  Jared is expanding my tastes. I’ve come to discover the different types of porno flicks from soft-core features to gonzo-style compilations of nothing but non-stop, hard-core sex for any taste imaginable. Judging by the title, tonight is a soft-core night.

  I get into bed while he turns off the lights, letting the candles do their thing, and pops the DVD into the player. Giving me a wolfish grin, he takes a flying leap onto the bed and we snuggle, eagerly turning our eyes to the TV and waiting like two kids who just sneaked into an X-rated movie theater.

  “I love their names.” I giggle as the opening credits appear: Angel Pye, Coco Buerre, Jack Hoff, Dick Cummings, and Vas Deferens. “He must be German,” I say and we laugh.

  “I bet he and Dick are related.”

  Actually, the movie isn’t half bad. As with all things, some of these flicks are more professional than others. Now that I am actually seeing some of the “classic” movies on DVD, I do have favorite actors and actresses. I like Veronica Hart, Jeanna Fine, and Ona Zee, so Jared does his best to find their videos. Ron Jeremy cracks me up because he’ll fuck almost anything. And Sean Michaels . . . mmm, gotta love that ebony hunk of a man.

  Generally, when we watch the feature films, we just snuggle, which usually leads to a round of leisurely lovemaking. But this movie has an orgy scene at the end so intense and nasty compared to the rest of the film, we had to create a scene of our own.

  “Damn, girl,” he breathes onto the side of my neck when we’re through. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  I laugh but say nothing.

  “I’ve seen orgies, but this one.” He gives a low whistle.

  He lets me sit up and then rests against me. I stroke his head then let my hand slide down to tease his nipples. He sucks in his breath and I smile.

  “Have you ever been in an orgy?” I ask him.

  “No, damn it.” He strokes my legs from under the blanket. “Have you?”

  When I don’t answer, he cranes his head to look up at me, his face showing his surprise.

  “Evadne Louise Cavell, I am shocked!” Then he turns on his side to make himself more comfortable. “You better tell me all about it.”

  I press my lips together in a poor attempt to be modest, but he grabs me and tickles me into submission.

  “Stop it, Jared! Quit!” I am weak and nearly pissing myself from laughing so hard, but that doesn’t prevent him blowing a raspberry against my belly, making me squeal again. When I catch my breath, I sit up from the supine position he had me in.

  “Let me just preface it with this,” I say, pushing my hair off my face. “ Je ne regrettez rien .”

  Jared’s lips curve in a little smile.

  “This happened almost four years ago, and until I met you, my little sex machine,” I say, patting his cheek, “it was the last time I’d been fucked within an inch of my life.”

  He grins at that admission.

  “It all started with an invitation from Trisha Stevens. She was an assistant music professor and wanted to have a combination housewarming and New Year’s Eve party . . .”

  Years ago, when I still thought clubbing was fun, I just went to have a good time. I never fooled myself thinking I’d ever play with the hearts of men and I think that’s what attracted Eddie to me.

  Eddie Norton worked as a bouncer at Turbo’s, the best nightclub in town at the time. He was a health and fitness Nazi, and the fact he gave me the time of day nearly flattered me out of my panties. I say nearly because I wasn’t thin enough for him.

  “Come on, Eva,” he’d say. “Let’s go to the gym and I’ll help you tone up.”

  I was so happy that a man with his body and good looks wanted to spend time with me, I didn’t mind his only wanting me as a workout buddy. Hell, I could use the exercise.

  Eddie was extremely fit with a body that could grace the cover of any fitness magazine. His black hair and blue eyes created such a startling contrast I got aroused just looking at him. Plus, he was good for free admission to the club and all the drinks I could handle, which was— is— quite a lot. But I soon found out drinking wasn’t good if I was going to “tighten and tone.”

  I’d go to the club, my friends would drink, and I would have water and “treat” myself to one Coke. Eddie would come by and check on me to make sure I was being good. He had me on an eating, drinking, and exercise regimen: no sweets, no meat, work out an hour a day, five times a week, alternating weight training with aerobics. After the gym, Eddie would take me to a movie or the park. But he would never buy me dinner or lunch or anything, only water or the occasional iced tea or lemonade. I went from a size 18 down to a size 12 in the th
ree months I associated with him.

  And although I was proud of the results, I felt like shit. I was tired, cranky, and my periods got all fucked up. But more importantly, I wasn’t happy. No one gave me a second thought when I was heavier, but they are now? What was up with that shit? I was the exact same person—only smaller.

  People noticed and started treating me differently. I was getting more longing looks and compliments. People were friendlier. Even my family changed. Instead of criticizing my clothes, my mom wanted to take me shopping with her—something she never wanted to do in the past because I needed to go to the “heavy stores,” as she put it, and that was too inconvenient for her. So I became my own fashion consultant. I thought I did a good job, too, even though I never dressed in a way to draw attention away from Theo’s athletic form or Beverly’s and my mother’s dancer’s grace.

  “All you needed was to lose weight,” Mom said. “And it’s about time.”

  But Dad was dubious. “I don’t want my Li’l Bit to get too little.”

  I never introduced them to Eddie. It wasn’t like he wanted to come around and meet the parents. Yet, he was my measuring tape and I still wasn’t small enough.

  “You’re pretty now,” he’d say, “but lose another five or ten pounds and you’ll be gorgeous!” Or, “Eva, you are so cute. I know you don’t think so, but you’d feel and look better if you’d exercise more and ate less.”

  The few times he did handle me, he would squeeze me as if determining the quality of fresh produce. Firm here, a little over ripe there. Then he’d give me an earth-shattering kiss at the club in front of my friends, a quick grope, and say, “Have you been a good girl by doing all your sit-ups? I’m feeling a little pudge here.”