Deconstructing the Professor

My name is Felicia Jefferson, a surname that goes all the way back to an ancestor's white master at least 160 years ago. I'm 40, 5'6" tall and my figure is 38D-28-40. My large breasts have been the center of many people's attention since I became a teen. They're both a blessing and a curse. I work out regularly (have for decades), both for stress relief and to keep fit, so I'm firm and in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. I have some sag and jiggle of course, with gravity and three kids, but I look younger than my age. I have large brown eyes, naturally long lashes, prominent cheekbones, and large luscious lips that all my men have loved. I keep my hair unnaturally straight, but its natural black (no tints or dyes), shoulder length (professional styles; as I said, not with its natural tight curls, but no weaves, braids, dreads, or the kind of curls many other women favor). I have chocolate brown skin (not milk chocolate, but pretty dark), smooth skin with a few wrinkles but not many age wrinkles (just crow's feet), no stretch marks, dimples in all four cheeks (face cheeks and ass cheeks), and no cellulite. In truth for my age, I'm told I'm still very attractive, although I haven't ever felt that I was since my second divorce and a subsequent relatively long dry spell.

The dry spell was for a variety of reasons, but the main two were because of my professional career, and how my upbringing still held me back from being remotely outgoing, at least socially; I was perfectly capable of holding my own in a classroom setting. I was raised to be a prim and proper girl, a black girl living in a white man's world. The early blossoming of my chest had brought me tons of unwanted attention, and I won't even begin to go into the details of the sexual harassment I endured beginning at puberty. I learned to hide the curves of my body as best I could and to focus on my studies, because I was determined to become successful. So I became a compulsive over-achiever, a workaholic with the tendency to take work and myself too seriously, always restless to test myself at something new, thus sacrificing my personal relationships. I always felt I had to prove myself.

I'm a professor, specializing in gender and race/ethnicity studies. I also have a law degree, I've worked both in the State Attorney's and Public Defender's offices, both briefly, as well as for a non-profit firm, partnering with two other female attorneys. I also worked for my first ex-husband's law firm while teaching part-time at a small law school. Branching out, I obtained my Master's and Ph.D. in Sociology, then began teaching at a liberal arts university and finally got tenure a few years ago. I now head the race/ethnicity division of the Gender Studies Department, where my more recent ex still works, ironically under me except when he's coaching sports.

I come across as rather stern, prim and proper and dress that way too, for the most part. I wear business suits with matching jackets and skirts (rarely dress pants, or even pants of any sort, mostly skirts and dresses, none of them too short or tight) and mostly standard, basic colours (black, grey, tan or cream; nothing too bright, loud or garish). Even most of my undergarments are rather staid, at least by today's standards. Basic colours again, mostly white and black, a few mauve and lavender. Like my outerwear, no prints, or loud or garish colours. I do have some push up bras, and even some demi-bras, half-cup, shelf cup, I'm embarrassed to say, mostly gifts from ex-husbands before we parted ways, or to cater to their tastes for lower cut tops or dresses that revealed some cleavage. Which was also the reason for the few thongs I still own, along with two garter belts (white and black), and lace-top thigh-high stockings. I must confess that I hate pantyhose and have worn the stockings to avoid them when not going bare-legged. I have some black slips and white slips (full and half) for my business suits and some dresses, but most of my panties are either white bikinis or white briefs (and several granny style).

Due to my stuffy professional persona, my sexual experiences as an adult have been very restricted. I was morally rigid and sexually frigid with both of my husbands, with very limited dating before, between or since my marriages. In retrospect, such a standoffish attitude was at least partly to blame for the collapse of both of these marriages.

At forty, I had long accepted myself for who I was, and I didn't expect to change. I'd tried to be more open with my second husband, I'd tried to let go of my insecurities and my feminist boundaries, an odd contradiction I know; but in the end I'd never been able to free myself from the invisible chains holding me back... until along came Madison.

3. OUT OF THE BLUE

I was teaching a class on cultural patterns in the U.S. about a month after my N word lesson. The course analyzed many aspects of cultural diversity, in an attempt to break down racial barriers and to understand the difficulties that still exist in attaining true equality, regardless of the civil rights movement and eight years of our first Black President. The reality is, we're still a far cry from equality and from abolishing racism. Further into the first semester, we get into the nitty-gritty of the course. For example, I talk about rape and how it's all too often not perceived as a crime the way it should be, and that some countries actually encourage and justify rape, or at the very minimum turn a blind eye. I point out how defendants on trial for rape generally fare better with females on the jury, because female jurors are more likely to subconsciously decrease their fear of rape by looking for things the victim might have done to place herself at risk (where she was, who she was with, what she was wearing, all the 'she asked for it' bullshit). I also teach about how the rape of black females (or males for that matter) wasn't even prosecutable from the end of slavery (during slavery it often wasn't even frowned upon) through the era of the Jim Crow laws until later in the 20th century. This unconscionable bias is still reflected in even lower rates of prosecution for rapes of black women than the already shamefully low rates of prosecution on behalf of women generally.

The students' personal research papers, worth 30% of their final grade, are assigned halfway through the course and are due a month before the end of the term. The days after the papers were assigned, Madison Adams, a C student so far, and one who'd frequently challenged my lectures ever since the N word session, came to my office. Dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans with her blonde hair in a ponytail, she informed me, her tone conveying her feeling of superiority over me, "Professor Jefferson, I want to do my paper on a rather intriguing, but potentially controversial topic."

I was curious, as I usually get the same generic essay topics. "What do you have in mind, Madison?"

"It's Ms. Adams, actually," she responded, a condescending look on her face.

"Sorry, Ms. Adams, then," I apologized insincerely, slightly uncomfortable and a bit threatened by this young, confident white student.

"That's better," she replied, her tone still conveying her opinion of a class distinction between her and me. "I want to write my research paper on Visual Sexual Harassment."

Unsure where she was going with this, I asked, "And how exactly do you define that topic?"

She explained, "After listening to all your lectures on sexual harassment, I've realized that many girls, especially young ladies like myself, are disrespected based on our good looks, and that staring, gazing, and leering constitute sexual harassment."

I was intrigued, thinking back to the way I'd been treated by men, mostly white men, ever since I was a young blossoming girl. I agreed, but warned, "Well, that's a very interesting topic, but finding some quality research on that topic should be very difficult."

She shrugged, her tone still displaying the vaguest hint of superiority, showing the upper-class white-girl snobbish mentality I'd experienced off and on for my entire life. "I already have some research under way."

"Okay, go for it, Ms. Adams, I'm looking forward to learning about your research."

"I just bet you are," she scoffed, and exited before I had time to process her implication.

After she left, I tried to figure out what had just transpired. Clearly she'd treated me with a lack of respect. I wondered if it was because I was black. Deciding the thoughts of one student shouldn't be... weren't enough to bring me down, I reflected on her topic some more. It goes both ways, I reflected. There are a surprising number of pretty female students who wear jeans and t-shirts to class except on test days, when they come scantily attired in mini-skirts and low-cut tops, even for female professors and even when the tests are machine graded. Setting heterosexual male professors aside, even for heterosexual female and feminist professors, it's difficult not to look. Your eyes just gravitate to what's being so provocatively placed on display.

My thoughts were disrupted by another girl, Miko Mora, a light-skinned Asian, who came in and asked if she could do her project on power based upon racial privilege and how it impacts the class system. Again, I was intrigued; I knew she was a very strong student, and her submission would be a good read, of which I got very few. Miko was also one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen in person. An American-born Asian, with big eyes, big breasts and butt, rare in Asian girls, and long thick black hair. She had the body I wished I had, and the brains to go with it. She was also always smiling, and oddly she always sat with the rather dim-witted Madison, her polar opposite.

The very next day in class, I saw a new Madison who continued making her appearance over the next three weeks. Gone were the t-shirt and jeans she usually wore except on exam days, and instead she was always dressed in a micro-mini skirt and a low-cut blouse that did nothing to contain the movement or obscure the shape of her clearly braless breasts. She also now sat in the very front row flanked by her pretty girl posse (Miko, and Ashley Washington, a pretty, big-busted brunette). As I lectured, I was greatly distracted by the constant crossing and uncrossing of Madison's legs and how she deliberately let them wander apart and thus gave me plenty of opportunities to look up her skirt and see her sheer white panties.

I should note that I wasn't a lesbian or bi or even bi-curious in my first forty years of life. I knew when a girl was pretty, or noticed when a girl dressed like a slut, but that was about it. Such details created no particular stirrings in me. In reality, I was more jealous than anything. I was envious of girls like Madison and her I'm entitled attitude; she got whatever she wanted, while I had to work my ass off for every little thing.

My resentment was mixed with the fact that she evidently thought flashing me would somehow bolster her power over me. But what stirred my resentment the most was more about how her condescending attitude towards me brought flooding back my many levels of guilt. I know: it makes no sense, it shouldn't work that way, but just try arguing yourself out of your emotions. I've always suffered from multiple layers of shame and guilt. Guilt and shame created by any sign of increasing sag or jiggle. Guilt and shame as a feminist from feeling... whether I wanted to or not... so body-conscious and competitive with other women: black women, white women, and especially young women of any race in their teens and twenties. I felt envious and jealous in spite of myself, and even though I didn't consider myself as being on the market since I was still licking my wounds from my second marriage, I still felt envious and jealous about how I sized up against these young tarts (sorry for the attitude, I couldn't help it) as a sex object: breasts and butt, waist and legs, face and hair. This jealousy and envy was especially ironic given my relative lack of sexual desires. But my guilt and shame weren't only because of the ways I felt unattractive. Contrarywise, I also felt these same negative emotions because of the secret sense of pride I felt whenever a man did notice my body, because of the vapid vanity and inanity of it all.

Lastly, although I tried to push her out of my dreams, a recurring dream of Madison treating me as her personal maid began to play itself over and over during my nights. It was always the same: I was dressed in a slutty Halloween-ish maid's costume and forced to serve food and drinks to Madison and her other sorority girls. The dream wasn't ever sexual, just a clear-cut line between Mistress versus servant, White versus black, Aristocrat versus serf.

On the day the essays were due, I rummaged through the papers and was surprised to see that Madison hadn't handed in her essay. I shook my head out of a mixture of I should have known and disappointment, as I was curious to read her findings and her supporting arguments. I read a few papers that first night, and I was about to go to bed when I reached Miko's. I wasn't intending to read it as it was already past midnight, but the title page stunned me: My White Mistress: Understanding My Place.

Curiosity got the better of me and I flipped to the first page:

The history of female submissiveness in the Japanese culture is very clear. The woman is to be submissive and obedient to her father, to her brothers, and eventually to her husband. The American-born Japanese girl lives in two very contrasting worlds. On the one side, the Japanese daughter is expected to be loyal and obedient to her Father and to demonstrate her worthiness by being successful in school. On the other side, the Japanese teenager attempts to fit in with American culture and fads, a culture where academics are less important, and at least among her peers, shallow appearances are what define success. Attempting to satisfy two very different collections of expectations, most Japanese young women end up gravitating to one of the two extremes. Non-Asian people assume that Japanese girls in America have evolved and severed themselves from such historical submission... but in truth we have not, even though parts of us want to. As a result of being pulled in these opposing directions, the American-born Japanese girl often ends up never really finding her identity in the world. She has grown up trained to be submissive, but in today's America, extra-familial pressures tell her she should be aggressive and confident.

In my case and in some ways, growing up in America has made me into a girl without an identity or a culture. I'm no longer a stereotypical Japanese girl; yet I'm also not a truly American girl. This absence of a clear identity had me struggling all through my high school years. I was attempting to adapt myself to two worlds, but I felt that I was fitting into neither... and then... and then in college I met my Caucasian Mistress. It was only through complete submission to my Mistress that I have at last come to grips with who I am.

The rest of the essay was a mixture of the history of Japanese submissive expectations, and how such ingrained traditions made it impossible for an American-born Japanese girl (obviously meaning herself) to avoid being a submissive as well... regardless of her American birth certificate. She also alluded to her sexual submissiveness (without going into details, this was a term paper after all) and how through such obedience she'd found the equilibrium she had long searched for, and from the platform of such an equilibrium, she'd found her true identity.

As I read the lengthy essay, I couldn't help but feel my long-neglected vagina getting wet. I tried ignoring the temptation, but I frequently felt my hand involuntarily going to my vagina. I continued reading the naughty admissions of my strongest academic student. She paralleled her Mom's obedient behaviour towards her Father with her own submission to her Mistress. In conclusion, she reflected on how only through complete and utter surrender of her own sexual desires to her Mistress had she been able to accept herself for who she was, not only in the bedroom, but generally.

I had to admit, if only to myself, that I'd found her essay arousing. And I'd been stirred even though I hadn't been reading about sex exactly, but rather a well-written description of what Miko had thought and felt during the various stages of her journey. Once I'd finished reading her conclusion, I closed my eyes, and not because of any particular erotic imaginings, but rather from the intense emotions she'd evoked in me (I had no idea why), I brought myself to an intense orgasm, an orgasm that was finally released by an erotic image: Madison, together with her superior attitude, popping into my head just as the wave of pleasure crested through me, and her condescending smile sent my ecstasy cresting even higher.

As I caught my breath however, my frequent companion Shame made a reappearance. This time I was ashamed because of the impact that very personal essay had had on me, and because of my weakness to submit to my wanton desire. I shook my head and decided I wouldn't assess the essay tonight but would compose my comments tomorrow.

I tossed and turned all night, my head reeling from the revelation that Miko was a submissive lesbian. That night the maid dream replayed in my head, only this time it ended with me on my knees massaging Madison's feet while she watched TV. I awoke in a sweat, mortified by this subservient dream that kept replaying in my head, and even more mortified this time to feel a sticky wetness in my panties.

4. A POWER SHIFT

Once my class had ended the following day, I asked a still inappropriately dressed Madison to meet me in my office. She agreed, her condescending tone dripping with superiority, "Sure Professor, but not until after lunch."

I considered making a scene and demanding she meet me right then (the disrespectful bitch), but it seemed like a futile time for a pissing match.

I went to lunch myself before going to my office, went back to assessing the term papers, and was reviewing Miko's paper for a second time when Madison arrived.

She didn't knock but sauntered into my office a little after three, much later than I'd thought we'd arranged. She tossed me a paper and sat down on one of my two visitors' chairs.

I reached for the crumpled paper and shook my head. It was barely over a page in length, handwritten instead of typed, and with no references. I tried to conceal by contempt for her sloppy work while I read it. After all her argumentative talk in class, and her confidence in her topic, this is the crap she submitted? I was just finishing reading the strictly opinionated and diva-centered paper when I heard a thud. I looked up to see that she'd repositioned herself, and now had her three-inch heels resting on my desk and was leaning back in her chair.

I gave her a look that could no longer hide my disgust at both her behaviour and her essay. Her insouciant smile faded in a heartbeat and she asked, "You don't like my paper?"

"Well, Ms. Adams, the paper you've just turned in, and a day late I might add, isn't really what we discussed."

"I won't say this often as it's so rarely true, but you were right," she responded, tossing me a plum and insulting me at the same time.

"Excuse me?" I asked, taken aback by her straightforward admission.

Ignoring my shocked tone, she continued, "Finding litigation and case law focusing on visual sexual harassment was very difficult to find. But I assembled a plethora of personal experiences during the time I was gathering my data." I stood up, trying to restore the power shift that seemed to be swinging to this white girl's side. As soon as I did, I could see that her skirt was so short, particularly sitting the way she was, that I could see the tops of her thigh high stockings. She noticed my gaze, and smugly added, implying I was even now visually sexually harassing her myself, "And even as I speak, my evidence continues to pile up."