California Conference Connections

"But I've taken to long-fingered ones in the summer months. You just can't push too long in the chair when it's over 100. I don't often wish I were a male, but I'd love to have a man's shoulders."

I hadn't even thought of this angle. Of course there were issues specific to her own situation.

"Plus, I only have half a body to do the thermal regulation business, so I have to be careful."

I was not quite able to digest this bit of intel but nodded anyway.

She looked at me. "Wish you hadn't cast me adrift with that pismire from Pepperdine this morning."

She took a sip of wine. I noted a wedding ring on her left hand. This detail had escaped me earlier.

"Excuse my phrasing. My rural upbringing is showing, sorry. But he really is quite the prick."

I winced. "I agree. But it couldn't be helped. Urgent business called. This weekend, as you might suspect, is not my own."

We talked about department culture. I pointed out that the academy was a big tent affair, included many people with quirks that maybe left them unsuitable for other places in the workforce, but a university was able to accommodate and even exploit their mental gifts. I didn't want to be defending Bletchley but somehow found myself doing so anyway.

"I imagine you have a tough time at your campus. Your department okay, I hope?"

She shrugged. "Mostly. My troubles are overwhelmingly with the old guard. Like your Bletchley types."

"You seem to be able to navigate alright."

"In my scene as a disabled female academic, you need to tweak some testicles sometimes."

The phrasing caught me off guard. I changed the subject again.

"How'd the wheelchair happen?" I asked softly. I didn't have much contact with the disability world, but hoped a direct question would come across as sincere.

"Every disabled person has a story." She looked at me evenly. "The short version is solo motorcycle accident in Australia on holiday, a eucalyptus tree in the wrong place on a rural curve north of Brisbane. An ancient Triumph, borrowed from a friend, all my own fault. T-12 vertebra break, spinal injury, back to grad school and an almost triumphant gain of a tenure track position at ASU. There's more, I have written a little about it all, but that's enough for now." She spoke simply, evenly, but of course I intensely wanted more.

Her eyes were dark and flashing. I noticed her neck for the first time, soft and white and entrancing below her dark, fairly unruly hair. I felt a strong desire to touch it with a kiss, feel the warmth beneath the skin.

We were joined by some others, and conversation went in different directions.

Later that evening back in my room with my laptop, I found her CV online and scanned the salient parts:

Clare Smirkov

Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Arizona State University

BA Bryn Mawr

Ph.D University of Pennsylvania

Dissertation: Ontology in Kierkegaard's Either/Or and Unpublished Works

Selected Peer Reviewed Publications:

"Kierkegaard's Heteronormative Stance in Fear and Trembling and the Sickness Unto Death," Journal of Kierkegaard Studies, 38.4, 2021.

"Kierkegaard and Woman: An Uncomfortable Understanding," London Philosophical Review, Jan. 2022

"Nabokov's Aesthetics: Textual Sinuosities," Journal of European Philosophy, 12.2, 2022

Non Peer Reviewed Works:

"Winding Wheelchair Wanderings: Convoluted Paths Through Able Bodied Forests," Journal of Disability, Sept. 2021.

Professional Associations:

American Philosophical Association

Søren Kierkegaard Society

I followed a link to her last piece, the one she had mentioned.

I took a breath and read fascinated, gripped by her narrative.

A short biographical essay detailing her injury and the aftermath. A perfectly normal life upended in an instant. The need to retool, wedge her way into a difficult work arena, pursue a life of the mind with a body that had been compromised. She had written searing words, plain but with a depth of emotion. I am not one susceptible to much emotional range, yet tears came to my eyes. The degree of difficulty of just normal life went off the charts, and she was adding on the pressures of the academy at the same time? She was an assistant professor, I didn't know how coarse the cutters were on the tenure-grind gears at ASU, but they are never easy, anywhere. My own divorce had been a casualty. Hard to be married to a wife and a career at the same time.

The part that grabbed my heart was a brief lament about loss of sensation. "One of my favorite things to do" she had written "was walking barefoot on an ocean beach. I'll not be able to feel cool, wet sand beneath my toes ever again."

The next day was almost entirely a blur of papers, heated arguments between sessions, the hidebound U Washington historians vs. the southern California UC folk. I had to step between Brown from Washington and Hugh from Riverside to keep things under control. The old adage is that the disputes in academia are so furious because the stakes are so insignificant. I talked to a range of people, chatted with old acquaintances, managed to avoid most of the bores, and worked hard to encourage the new attendees. LAP could always benefit from new blood.

At the wine bar later, Clare had sidled over.

"You've done a nice job. A good range of papers."

"Thanks. I've enjoyed meeting you and glad you attended. I think your career shows exceptional promise."

She smiled softly, then noted a couple of senior LAP regulars making a beeline over to me.

"I think you are going to be corralled in a moment. If you have any interest in further Nabokov discussion, feel free to stop by later. I'm in room 415." She turned and rolled away. She held her wineglass in one hand for a couple pushes before transferring it to the other. It made for an awkward zigzagging exit.

Several things ran through my head. An invitation after hours from a new woman. I had been off the dating circuit for so long I was like a captain steering a ship without a rudder. She had made her request simply, but with overtones that seemed unmistakable. I had seen a wedding band on her left ring finger. She mentioned Nabokov not Kierkegaard. The lure was as puzzling and unexpected as it was irresistible.

I schmoozed, I talked shop, I played up LAP, but the remainder of my thoughts were restless and elsewhere. Finally the evening wound down and I retreated to my room.

Later as I took the stairs up to the fourth, top, floor of the Ozwald the strangest mix of thoughts cruised through my head. Some were entirely predictable. Here I was visiting an intriguing woman, hopefully with sexual interests I had not misinterpreted.

Would I encounter any other conference goers in the hotel on the way? While these sorts of visits could be explained in all manner of professional ways, it was after ten, and people would be visiting me, not the other way around. I was on edge. One reason I took the stairs rather than the elevator.

And she was married. The wedding ring had been obvious, left hand, ring finger. While not strictly my immediate concern, and this was after all at her request, it did introduce some things to consider.

So I was off-center a bit, but excited at the same time. Those sometimes go together.

As I turned the corner from the stairwell down the hall my fears materialized. I nearly collided with Sarah Willoughsby.

"Morris! Thought you'd turned in for tonight."

I stammered for one moment, but managed to say I was slipping an unpublished paper under Clare's door, 415 she'd said, had asked about it earlier, and I wanted to deliver it while the offer was still fresh in my mind.

Sarah's face was such an open book, I admired the directness and simplicity of her manner.

"Oh, I was just there myself. She had some recommendations about ADA access to go into our conference report, thought I was the best person to speak to. You don't need to do the 'slip under the door' business, she's still awake."

I was so grateful I had contrived to have a file folder in my hand, to cover my intentions. I hoped my relief, and anxiety, were invisible to Sarah.

"Thanks, right, good to know. Won't take but a minute." I waved a hand.

"Say, Sarah, we'll talk more tomorrow, but I do want to say I appreciate all the work you've put into the conference. This latest contact," I waved towards the door of 415, "is just one example, above and beyond the call of duty, all that. I'm most grateful."

Her smile was quick and enthusiastic. "Thanks Morris. Yes we'll talk more, plenty of time later. But still another half day to go."

"Sleep well, see you at breakfast tomorrow." She put a hand on my arm and headed towards the elevator.

My internal relief was immense.

I paused before door 415 and tried to remember the last time I had halted at the threshold of a woman's abode. Plenty in high school and college, I couldn't recapture the nerves of those moments, but since then? Only a few, and not in ages.

Had I misread her interest? Misapprehended her signals? But no, the invitation itself had been explicit, and the implications non-trivial.

The main facet disturbing my excitement was disability. What sort of lovemaking might we be indulging in? I had no notion, nothing in the my limited background to compare. I could imagine myself taking some pleasures, all manner in fact, but did not have a clue as to what she might like, or prefer, or even be able to do. I had to trust in her honesty, which she had demonstrated more than once, and my ability to accept an education.

She opened the door at my second knock. The warm smile was welcome, and expected. The second person in the room however, sent me a bit more off center than I was already.

"Please come in."

"Morris, I'd like you to meet my wife, Rita Raleigh."

I tried to keep my mouth from resembling a carp's in mid-gulp.

Rita was on the tall side, willowy, her streaky blonde hair back in a ponytail. Her long, patterned skirt reached the tops of her sandals, a handsome, semi-professional, buttoned white shirt took care of her upper body. Pointed chin, touch of mascara, her eyes dancing with amusement as she took in my expression.

She extended a hand, warm and less firm than Clare's.

"Pleased to meet you." The voice was light, airy, upper range. "Clare says you've put on quite the conference."

The "wife" designation sat uncomfortably, and Clare surely recognized this.

"Rita came along on the trip, she's never been to this part of California before."

"Happy for the scenery," Rita added, "happier more just to be on holiday and not to have to sit in on the stuffy papers."

"Not an academic then?" I arched my eyebrows. I did not recollect seeing her at any point in the conference.

"No, Clare is the brains of the outfit, I am just the financial juice. I do back-end database work for the Bank of America in Phoenix. I suspect you have a pretty good idea of how hard it is to live on a faculty salary alone. My money is the connective tissue to allow Clare's 'high end' engagements." I laughed at this.

"Rita is not only my economic cushion, but my emotional divan, my financial Gibraltar, my entire abstract. Without her life would be immeasurably more difficult." Clare must have known how unexpected this bit of news would be taken.

More thoughts intruded. I had completely misread sexual interest then, and I kicked myself.

"Some cognac perhaps? Or we can open a bottle of wine."

Cognac sounded just fine, it had been awhile.

"Found some Hennessy VSOP at the store mentioned in your most handy guidebook to local businesses in the conference program. I wasn't sure what was available here in town, but the store was excellent." Rita poured me a couple fingers worth in a small glass.

"Thanks belong to Sarah. She did a bangup job with her recommendations, I'll have to pass on this compliment to her."

"Yes, she was just here herself. Lovely girl."

We sipped and chatted, Clare pretty deliberately avoided academic topics, perhaps out of deference to Rita, and that was fine.

I looked around their suite. It was large, maybe the largest the hotel had, although I couldn't know that for sure. The wide windows would look out on redwood trees and the steeply rising green mountains in the distance.

As if reading my thoughts Clare spoke up.

"In a wheelchair you usually have two courses when looking for a place to stay." She paused.

"You can ask for the ADA room. And that works, most of the time, and that's what we usually do, especially if one just needs a night to spend on the road. You usually get a decent bathroom and a subset of other 'disability' features, some of them actually useful."

"Hotels are required by the ADA to make a certain percentage of their rooms accessible. You know which ones they pick?" There was a challenge in her look to me.

"No idea. Probably not their best ones."

"You're right. They take their lousiest room or rooms, the ones with no view, maybe next to the boiler or the emergency exit, and fix them up to be accessible. We've never had such a room with a view or much convenience."

"Or? You said two choices." I cocked an eyebrow.

"Or you can ask for one of their grander rooms. Costs more, but lots of time the room is larger, more space to move around, and as long as the bathroom door is wide enough, which it usually is, you can do okay. Especially when traveling with Rita, I don't need some of the other features the ADA rooms might have, like lower clothes racks in closets, things like that. And right now I am strong and dexterous enough to be able to get by without grab bars next to the toilet, although that may not be the case forever."

"Because shoulders get worn out, gradual diminishment of movement, all of that?"

"Right. So we got ourselves a nice set up. And since I got myself a moneybags wife, I don't have to rely solely on a measly faculty salary or a university stingy with its travel funds."

I was just trying to figure out how long to stay, and how I would extricate myself from their cozy little suite, when Clare rolled over to refill my glass, almost whether I wanted more or not.

"I was hoping you might stay a bit," she said breathlessly, although somehow at the same time firm in tone.

"Does that pose any personal or professional difficulties for you?" She cocked an eyebrow.

My expression must have been of odd proportions since Rita broke out in a laugh.

"Not what you were expecting, eh? Hot little wheelchair wench comes on to you, but you find an unexpected spouse in situ?" Rita laughed again, harder.

"Clare said you were of interest, I can see why." Her eyes searched for mine, held them in a sparkle.

I gave a confused look to teach of them. "I'm happy to be here, but I am afraid my ignorance is going to be a potential stumbling block."

"Not at all." Clare waved a hand. "Couple things to know up front. You won't be able to coax a climax out of me, but you can make me feel good. Rita cannot do any more than that, either, so no worries."

"The bed's big." I looked over, it was. "And I am pretty well stuck while in it. I'll just let you two athletes handle any acrobatics we might have in the middle."

"But why me? Because I am conference head honcho?" I asked.

I looked hard at Clare. More than once in my academic position at EC, while heading some important university committee or another, colleagues had sought to curry favor with me, hoping for reciprocal results, trying for some hierarchical boost of one sort or another. A career boost maybe.

"No, not at all. Two things. One you issued me an apology. I can count on one hand the number of times a male member of a faculty has done that. I appreciate it."

"And?"

"You were so cute when you got going about Harvey. Your eyes lit up, it was like seeing a five-year old boy seeing the ocean for the first time."

"Maybe one more thing. Every so often I develop a craving for learned sperm."

She rolled over to the desk overlooking the window and retrieved a tablet.

"Here, listen to this. I've dashed off a title and abstract for a paper proposal at the next LAP conference." She handed it to Rita.

"I thought she should have titled it 'LAP Dance' but I was overruled," snickered Rita.

Rita read to me, unironically:

Academic Conference Connections: Organic and Ubiquitous or Rare and Raw?

Academic conferences, with over a hundred years of history, bring university intellectuals together for a short and intense period of discussion, exploration, and mindful ferment. Highly analytic denizens of the cerebral-sphere rub elbows, share dinners, and discourse amongst many topics. This paper hypothesizes that random erotic connections occur more frequently than expected in such a hot-house environment. While universities worldwide traditionally are regarded as left-leaning politically, the academy in general is strikingly conservative (turf driven, strongly patriarchal, self-centered on tenure and promotion, fratricidal to an unhealthy degree) and academic conferences may be regarded as a type of intellectual Mardi Gras, where libidos are unleashed, straitlaced mores are stretched or ignored, and one-night affairs produce brief connections, with perhaps extended longitudinal benefits. This case study explores a random eroto/cerebral connection, with extensive norm-disrupting sapiosexual implications.

She finished and looked at me. Clare's eyes were similarly fixated. I probably blushed, something I likely have not done since adolescence. How was I supposed to respond to this?

"The abstract is less than a hundred and fifty words, think that fits the requirements for a conference proposal. What do you think, Morris?" asked Clare.

They'd set the table, arranged the silverware and napkins (napkins!) and put a centerpiece of delicate flowers in front of me. Was I to say "grace" before partaking? Or go primal, lick my lips and start the gluttony business? I decided the only course was to go old-school, do gentlemanly the best I could. They might consider it anachronistic, but it was the best approach I could come up with at the moment.

I stood up, crossed the room to Clare, took her hand and bent down to kiss it. To my relief, her smile was sudden and authentic, I had caught her by surprise.

I walked behind Clare, aware of two sets of eyes on me, but of course Clare had to turn her head, then decide that was impossible, she wasn't an owl with a swivel head of unusual capacity. She looked at Rita while I put my hands on Clare's shoulders, gave them a squeeze and a slow, deliberate massage. She tensed at the touch, then relaxed as I put fingers onto what were memorable shoulder muscles in a woman. They were the shoulders of a shot-putter perhaps, not a weightlifter. Perhaps those of a wrestler.

I felt her relax before me as I rubbed fingers into tight, dense muscles. Rita's smile told me I had passed the first threshold suitably.

Clare spoke to Rita. "I told you he had promise."

"I will likely need some guidance," I said. "This is going to be a first on many levels."

Clare sniggered. "First crip-sex maybe?"

She looked up at me, my hands still on her neck area, and I nodded.

"First two women?"

Another nod.

"First lesbian?"

I laughed. "I cannot say for sure, but quite possible. My college sweetie was fairly coy about her experiences before me, but I had my suspicions."

"And she didn't want to puncture some manly notion you might have possessed?"

Rita laughed.

"My manly notions have always been a bit on the reserved side," I responded.

Clare lowered her head and looked back at Rita. "Should we have him disrobe me, for starters?"

I should have known that my first stab at leading things would be met by with a suitable response. I guessed that it really wouldn't matter who was in control. And I was outnumbered, was my next happy thought.