Second Comings - Sex Type Thing

Sex Type Thing

"This snow is, like, totally outrageous, dude!"

"Outrageous? How so?"

"What? Dude! Look at the snow, wouldya? It's coming down so hard, it's like so totally bogus, ya know?!"

"Bogus. Ah. So, what was your question?"

"That thing in your last lecture? You called it the romantic impulse. I just don't get it."

"Ah, I see, what has you confused?"

"Well, the whole romanticism thing? The whole concept has me, like, bummed out, man."

"Indeed. You said you were a History major, did you not? And you're a junior?"

"Yeah man, that's right."

"And Romanticism? That has you stumped?"

"Yeah man."

"I see. Well then, can you give me an example of romanticism in literature, any literature you like?"

"Wow, man, like maybe Jackie Collins? She writes a bunch of that romanticism stuff, right?"

"Ah, well, I think I see where you're coming from, uh, man. Interesting. Don't quite know what to say right now, so let me think this over, and I'll talk to you after class next Monday."

"Cool, Professor Lake. Yeah man, see you then..."

'Professor' Justin Lake looked up at the clock on his office wall and shook his head. Twenty minutes more – then office hours were over, and he was not sure he could take another student like that last one. Tony Bianchi, wasn't that his name? Some kind of honors student. A big jock from a boarding school near Cape Cod, he seemed to recall. Lacrosse scholarship, he remembered, a rough kid. Kind of mean, he'd heard.

Two weeks into the winter term and he was stumped, genuinely confused. He thought he'd been engaged to teach at what he'd always assumed was a fairly prestigious little college, but now he wasn't sure what he'd gotten himself into. The kids who'd dropped by for office hours so far weren't quite morons, he told himself, yet those he'd talked to this afternoon seemed like, at best, barely engaged middle school students. Their general academic knowledge was pitiful, yet even their basic understanding of the world was stunted, too, just like any ten year old he'd ever run into. 'Jackie Collins?' he asked himself. 'A romantic? That's news to me!'

There was another knock on his door and he looked at the clock again. "Open!" he called out. "Come in!"

The door opened and a girl he'd thought rather bright came in, and he looked up expectantly. "Yes? Ms Myers, isn't it?"

"Yessir," Jennifer Myers replied.

"What can I help you with this afternoon?"

"I know you said we didn't need to have our thesis proposals turned in before next Friday, but I wondered if you would look mine over now and see if it's any good?"

"Sure. Let me have a look."

The girl handed a page over and he sat back and began reading. "Structures of Time in the Romantic Imagination: Goethe and Wagner and the Revolutions of 1842," was the working title and he groaned, then he looked up at her, tried to take a quick visual inventory. Yes, she had that look. Studious. Too studious. A little overweight, glasses, blue jeans, thick fleece jacket – everything unconsciously designed to obscure, to hide. Dishonest body language. Evasive eyes. Borderline cute, but very insecure.

"Interesting. Give me a run down on what you hope to prove."

"Well, looking at Faust Part Two as the primary source material, I want to look at early Christian and Greek imagery in the story and how Wagner appropriated these and incorporated them as signature leitmotifs in Lohengrin, and how these musical phrases were incorporated into revolutionary music, in France, in 1842."

"Okay. Not bad. Now, assuming you've read chapter three, and the, er, poetry, where do these revolutionary impulses lead?"

"The Revolution of 1848?"

"Yup, that's right. Now, what is one of the key outcomes, in terms of political philosophy, of the '48 revolution?"

"Uh..." She was stumped, completely flustered.

"You've taken History 103 and 104, I assume?"

"Yessir."

"So? What might your conclusion be?"

She looked down, clearly fidgeting now.

"Ms Myers? I suggest you try again, however, next time with your own ideas. While I know it may seem appropriate to purchase term papers to some students, and there are probably a few professors who don't check, please keep in mind, for future reference, that I do, and oh! I check each footnote too. And I've seen this particular "research paper" several times, by the way. I even know how much it costs." He handed the page back to the girl and she fled the room in tears, leaving his door open as she ran.

He heard Elizabeth Gordon's Birkenstocks shuffling down the wood floor in the hallway outside his office, and he looked at her as she came and stood outside his door. Six feet tall, maybe three hundred pounds, regarded as brilliant once upon a time, she taught the European survey course as well as courses about the medieval church.

"Can I come in?"

"You may."

She took the seat Ms Myers had just left. "What were these last two about?"

"Excuse me? Are you listening to my conversations?"

"Walls are pretty thin, Justin, and those two are my advisees. I like to keep up with them."

"Ah, well, then I guess that makes it okay. So, let me see. Mr Bianchi is of the opinion that Jackie Collins is an English Romantic; beyond that, he seems to have very little awareness, if any, of nineteenth century romanticism. Little things, like what it is, why it's important. You know? The basics."

Gordon frowned. "Go on."

"Miss Myers wanted to turn in her thesis proposal a week early."

"Oh, that's good to hear. She's always been a favorite of mine. How was it?"

"Plagiarized. From a Term-papers-R-Us site I'm familiar with."

Gordon frowned again. "I see. And what did you tell her?"

"Better luck next time. Nice Birkenstocks, by the way. Love the color."

"Oh?" she said, blushing. "You like them?"

"Yes, they're quite...charming."

"What's your plan, for Tony, I mean?"

"Oh, I think I need to step back and make a little informal assessment of the general state of knowledge I'm dealing with. I've made some unwarranted assumptions, I think."

"Oh? Such as?"

"That our underclassmen have at least a basic understanding of history after completing their survey coursework. These are 300 level students, Ms Gordon, yet their grasp of basic concepts seems to me rather basic, and they're used to cheating. Not a good sign, I think."

"Well," Gordon said, standing, "good luck with that."

"Oh, thank you. I'm sure I'll need it." he turned back to his desk, shook his head, thinking there was little need to unpack many more boxes before he was summarily dismissed.

"You will," the woman said menacingly.

He shook his head, started to clear off his desk and wondered if he should go talk with the department chair.

"Gosh, you sure like making enemies, don't you?"

He didn't know her name, and that was a pity, he thought. "Gosh, these walls really are thin, aren't they?"

"You got no idea."

"Oops. Me bad."

"You just started here, didn't you?" the woman said.

"Yeah. Got the call in November."

"Right. That would have been just after Tischmann passed away. That makes sense. I was wondering if they'd wait 'til summer to replace him."

"Well, now you know." He smiled.

She smiled. "Oh, my name's Laura. Laura Grier. I'm in the English department. Are you teaching 302?"

"Yup. And I'm finding basic concepts difficult to assess."

She held up a single finger to her lips, pantomimed a little s-s-h-h and cast a sidelong glance down the hall. "Maybe some evening you'd be free for dinner?"

"I am tonight. And tomorrow night, and the night after..."

"Yeah. Nothing like winter in Vermont to drive home the feeling of celibacy."

He laughed. "You free? I still don't have a handle on the restaurants around here."

"I might be free. Let me ask my social secretary..."

"Well, I'm headed out now if you want to come along." He stood and made for the door, and she followed him down the hall and out to the lot.

She watched him as he walked, watched as he opened the car door for her, taking in the Stanford Cardinals license plate frame and the red and white UCSB parking permit on the windscreen. The interior of the car was spotless, just like his office.

"You better take Overlea to 7A. Miss some traffic that way. What kind of food you like?"

"You know," he said, "it's so cold out...how 'bout soup...maybe French onion soup?"

"Good call. Madison's on Main. Turn right, here..." she said, and soon they were parking on the town's little Main Street.

"Damn," he said when they walked in the door, "smells good. What is it? Pub grub?"

"Yup, pretty good brew-pub. What else in a town like this?"

When they were seated he looked over the menu; she didn't bother and he shrugged. "Know what you want?"

"Um-hmm."

He signaled their waitress. "How 'bout a beer?" he asked.

"If you do."

"What's brewed here," he asked the waitress.

"We have an IPA and a wheat beer tonight."

"Two wheats?" he asked Laura.

"Sounds good."

"Food?" the waitress asked, and he pointed to Laura.

They both ordered onion soup and fish & chips, then sat back at looked at one another.

"So," she began, looking at his hands now, "you're not married, I take it."

"Nope."

"Divorced?"

"Nope."

"Military?"

"No."

"You're like, uh, a man of few words, right?"

"Yup."

"What else have you done? Besides school."

"Not much. What about you?"

"Same."

"School, then teaching?"

"That's pretty much the whole story."

"So, Laura, what else are you into?"

"You mean, when I'm not with my husband?"

He smiled but he tensed up, expecting the worst.

"Gotcha! I'm not married."

Their soup came, a huge wad of Gruyere bubbling away on top of the bowl. "This looks like the real deal," he said as he took a spoonful. "Yup. Good grub."

"Good chef back there."

"Know him?"

"Her. And yes, I do. Very well, as a matter of fact."

"Ah."

"That's a pretty big 'ah' you got going on there, you know?"

"Sorry. So tell me about you. How'd you wind up here?"

"Boston College, then Duke. Got my PhD there. You?"

"Stanford. UC Santa Barbara."

"So, PhD in History? Specialty?"

"Weimar. European, with an emphasis on German."

"Have you met Jordan Secord yet?"

"The foreign policy guy? Briefly, last week. He seemed preoccupied."

"He probably was. Decent type, though. That's him, over there."

He looked where she pointed, saw a girl with Secord then turned back to his soup. "That his wife?"

"His friend. Michele."

"So, you specialized in English Lit.?"

"Yup."

"Interesting."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, I had a kid in the office today, I asked him to name just one author from the romantic era. Jackie Collins. That was his best guess."

"In 302? That's an upper level class for majors only, isn't it?"

"Yup. Who teaches the European survey course here?"

"Gordon does the European segment, from what I here. I think Secord did the US segment last Fall, but I'm not sure. He's a first year too, though."

"What did Tischmann teach?"

"All the upper level European stuff. The classes that matter, I guess you could say."

"So, Gordon..."

"Look, see no evil, hear no evil."

"Bad news, huh? Tenured?"

"Oh yeah. So, can I help out with the romanticism stuff?"

"I can handle it, but maybe we ought to think about developing some kind of prerequisite from your department, for the course. Something needs to be done."

"Worth thinking about."

Their fish & chips came, and Lake dug right in. "Man, really good grub here!" but when he looked up there was a man standing by their table.

"Lake, right?" the man said.

"Ah, Dr Secord, nice to see you again," Lake said, standing.

"And Dr Grier? I see you're out corrupting the youth of Athens once again?"

Laura smiled. "Do you have the hemlock, Doctor? Or shall I just disappear?"

Secord laughed. "And Dr Lake...?"

"Justin, please."

"Justin, call me Jordan. And this is my friend Michelle. Michelle Lansing."

The woman held out her hand and he took it, though out of the corner of his eye he saw a gauze bandage on her wrist. "Pleased to meet you."

"You too."

"So, we've got to be going. Hope to see you around, Dr Lake."

"You too, Dr Secord."

After they'd left, Lake mentioned the bandages.

"Long story," Laura said. "Let's save it for another day."

"Sure. Save room for dessert, by the by?"

"No way!"

"Good. Wanna take a walk?"

"No, not really."

"Okay."

He paid the bill and they got up to leave. He helped put on her coat as they walked outside, and waited as she put on gloves.

"Look, I don't want to be coy," she began. "I'm not a flirt, and I'm not a tease, but I like sex. You interested?"

He looked at her then, but she was looking away – like she was embarrassed.

"You know, it's not a crime to like sex," he said, taking her gloved hand his.

"Oh, I don't just like sex, Justin, I love it."

"Anything I need to know about that?" he asked, now thinking about her exchange with Secord.

"I guess some people around here think I have a reputation."

"Oh? Like what, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, words like 'slut' and 'nympho' come to mind. Does that bother you?"

"Slut is a meaningless term," he said. "'Nympho' isn't. Do you know the difference?"

"Yup. Do you care?"

"I do. I tend to monogamy. Do you care?"

"I think I'll disappoint you, Justin. In the long run, I mean."

"Okay. Can I drop you somewhere?"

She shook her head, seemed taken aback. "You mean you're not interested? Tonight?"

"Of course I'm interested, Laura. But not if this is going nowhere."

"Nowhere? I...well...all I want is..."

"A fuck-buddy?"

"Well, yeah."

He coughed, hid a slight laugh in there somewhere. "It's hard for me to think of another person that way." He stopped at his car, opened her door and helped her in, then went 'round to his side and got in. "Man, it's getting cold out!"

"Take 7A North," she said, but when they were out of town she asked him to pull into an empty parking lot. When the car stopped she was on him in a flash, pulling down his zipper, taking him in her mouth, and there was nothing subtle about her actions. Within a few minutes he was tensing, then erupting in her mouth, his hands straight out gripping the steering wheel, his left leg cramping as the intensity of the release hit him. He fought the urge to pull her off as she bit his engorged head, as she swirled her tongue over the tip, then she was up, licking his cum off her gloves, licking her lips, now looking somewhat like a feline predator.

"Oh, that was so good," she purred as he rubbed his left leg back to life. "I love big loads. Can't help myself, really."

Lake was too stunned to say much of anything, but he looked at his semen running down her chin and wanted to grin.

Still, he couldn't, not really, if only because the evening's end had taken him so by surprise. There was something so predatory in her eyes, too, that unsettled him even after he'd dropped her off at her house.

+++++

He thought about how to work through the whole romanticism problem all night long, when he wasn't thinking about Laura Grier, anyway. He had an idea concerning the former, and no idea what to do about the latter, then sleep came. When he woke up, he decided to head to a local diner for breakfast, and was surprised when he saw Secord and his girlfriend just being seated ahead of him.

"Can you join us, Justin?" Secord said when he saw Justin standing by the hostess at the entry.

"Sure, if you don't mind." He saw the woman, Michele wasn't it, look down, down like she was uncomfortable, and he decided to tread lightly there. "Thanks," he said as he sat opposite them in the little booth.

"So, you met Laura Grier yesterday?" Secord began. "How'd that go?"

Lake shook his head. "Not sure I have a handle on her yet."

"Oh, she's easy enough to understand," the woman said. "Oh, I'm Michele, by the way."

Secord took her hand as he sat and he held it firmly, as if there was something cautionary about the motion, something very protective. The gauze bandages were still just visible, weren't they?

Secord was looking at the entry again, then he stood and walked from the table. Moments later another woman joined them, and Lake slid over to make room for the new arrival – and was slightly curious when Michele and Sharon hugged. 'Lot of intensity there,' he thought as he watched them.

"Justin? This is Sharon Hastings, Dennis' wife. Sharon, this is..."

"Oh, I know who he is." She held out her hand as she smiled. "Dr Lake, nice to finally meet you!"

"You too," he said as he shook hands.

"Sharon teaches poli-sci at Mt Holyoke. Taking a year off, making a career trying to crucify me, I think."

"Oh? How sweet?" Lake said. "Why, if I may ask?"

"She seems to think Bush and Cheney are war criminals. Oh, yes, I worked in the White House after 9/11."

"Ah. That'd do it," Lake said. "And you came to teach in Vermont?"

"Damn straight he did," Sharon added, tossing fuel on the fire. "Damn fool! So, Michele, how're you doing?"

"Good. How's Dennis doing?"

"At Stowe this weekend, polishing knobs I hear."

"Now Sharon," Secord said, "let's be civil."

"Dr Lake met Laura Grier yesterday," Michele said, changing the subject.

"Oh, really?" Sharon replied, looking at Lake anew. "Had your shots, I hope."

He laughed. 'God, what a fucking Peyton Place this is turning out to be?' he thought. "She seemed kind of nice, if a little single minded," he said to Sharon.

Sharon laughed out loud. "Well said, Dr Lake! She is that!"

"Justin. Please."

"Well, Justin, it's none of my fucking business," she added, "but be real careful with that one. Laura can be a little, well, indiscreet, if you know what I mean. And she's not a force to be trifled with, either. Very well connected all over campus, and she seems to enjoy fucking with people's heads."

"Good to know," he said, his stomach suddenly very upset.

Secord seemed uncomfortable with all this innuendo, so he picked up a menu and got serious about ordering eggs, while his girlfriend seemed content to keep her wrists out of sight. Sharon, on the other hand, was looking at him, then Secord was looking at Sharon. 'What the fuck is going on here?' Lake said to himself.

"So," Lake said, trying to change the subject again, "you said your husband is up at Stowe? Skiing, I take it?"

"Sucking his boyfriends cock, Justin, probably best describes what he's up to right now."

Secord and Michele looked down, stifled their anxiety. Sharon, however, seemed to relish his discomfort. Fucking with people's heads, indeed, he thought.

"Sorry I asked."

Their waitress came and they ordered.

"Life's kind of three-ringed circus around here, isn't it?" Lake said to no one in particular.

"On the good days," Sharon replied. "On bad ones? Look out! So, like your house?"

"It's, uh, quaint."

"That means small, when translated from Vermontese, doesn't it?" Secord said, grinning.

"Small, yes. And those top of the line appliances!"

"Top of the line. In 1943," Michele added. Everyone laughed; soon breakfast came and they attacked their plates.

"What's with Gordon?" Lake asked when it looked like Secord was finishing up.

"Beth?"

"Yup."

"You run into her, I take it?"

"Yup. I'm teaching 302. Seems like half the kids have no idea what romanticism is, and one term paper proposal came straight from a paper mill. I kind of thought this was supposed to be a top-tier school."

"Welcome to the internet age, Justin," Sharon said. "No one learns anything anymore, they just need to know how to look it up on Wikipedia."

He laughed.

"Look at that, Jordan. He thinks I'm kidding."

"He'll learn," Secord said.

"Oh, come off it," Lake sneered. "It's not that bad."