Writing Sexuality 01

I would be lying if I said the thought of a fling with my PhD research advisor had never crossed my mind. At thirty-nine, Professor Beth Whittaker was gorgeous, charismatic, and fast becoming one of the nation's leading academics on lesbian fiction. What kind of lesbian scholar would I be if I didn't, occasionally, indulge in the fantasy of a whirlwind illicit campus romance? But as hot as I thought, I'd never been foolish enough to think that anything would actually happen: Beth was warm and generous, but unfailingly professional. A far cry from the lecherous old male professors who went out of their way to hit on any grad student in sight, Beth expressed absolutely no interest in anything that might even be construed as inappropriate. Besides, she was very publicly happily married to Prof. Elle Roseland, the biggest name in contemporary feminist philosophy. My fantasy was just that: an unsubstantiated flight of fancy, an entertaining train of thought for when I was alone. Until she proved me wrong.

It was January, I was twenty-five, and I had just received the most exciting news of my career to date. My first publication -- an article I had been slaving away at for most of the academic year -- had just passed peer review at a prestigious journal. I considered forwarding Beth the email, but decided to deliver the news in person instead and rushed across campus, giddy with pride.

"Rosa," she said inquisitively as she opened the door. She was surprised to see me, and clearly concerned -- it was unlike me to show up unannounced -- so she ushered me into her office and shut the door before I had the chance to tell her that I had good news. My cheeks were flushed from practically sprinting across campus and my unruly mahogany curls were breaking free of my usual french braid -- I looked a mess, she must have been expecting me to burst into tears. She gestured to the chair but I was too impatient to sit down.

"The article's been accepted!" I blurted out hastily, breaking into a huge, goofy grin. Beth's expression of concern melted into relief, and then delight. She congratulated me profusely, and I thanked her, stammeringly, for her help. She waved my thanks away graciously, and pulled me into a hug.

This was the first time Beth took me by surprise. The previous year, amid the collapse of my relationship, I had spent several months' worth of meetings sobbing in Beth's office, and got nothing more than a couple of encouraging shoulder-squeezes and a steady supply of tissues. But this was a hug, and a heartfelt one at that. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of Beth's soft curves pressing into me. She was an inch or two taller than me and curvier, but also, I realized, far more muscular than I had assumed. There was a hardness to her embrace that I hadn't anticipated. I felt a kick of arousal in my abdomen, and tried my best to promptly dismiss it.

She pulled away, smiling, and paused while still only inches from my face. I felt grateful for the run over, for giving me an excuse to look flushed. I was being ridiculous, I thought -- this was Beth being supportive and excited.

The feeling of the embrace haunted me for the rest of the day. As I made plans for celebratory drinks and desperately tried to focus on my work, I was constantly reminded of Beth's silken black hair against my face, her strong arms enveloping my shoulders, the heat radiating off her as she pressed against me. I knew -- or thought I knew -- that I was just horny and high on the adrenaline of the good news. The embrace meant nothing, I had no reason to think it was anything more than a warm congratulations. And yet, I couldn't shake it off.

***

The following day, I arrived on campus bedraggled, late, and hungover from a night of celebrations. I resented having to get out of bed at all, but had a looming mountain of papers to grade for a course I was TAing. My black mood lifted when I spotted a bright gift-bag in my pigeonhole. Peering inside, I found a bottle of champagne, and a note in handwriting I instantly recognized.

Congratulations again. Celebrate thoroughly and let this excitement nourish you when times are hard. B x

I smiled. These kinds of tokens weren't unheard of, but it was the first time I had received anything like this from Beth -- previously, I would have thought her too stalwartly professional. I stopped by her office to thank her, but found the door locked.

The day crawled by. Each paper I grade seemed worse than the last, and by mid-afternoon I felt I had lost all command of the English language. Around 4pm, I gave up and shoved the remaining papers in my bag, excited to head home and sleep.

As I passed Beth's office, I spotted her in the entrance, shutting her door after -- I assumed -- an office hour. Pausing to check for frightened undergraduates in or around the office, I held up the gift bag and smiled.

"No more exciting news, just stopping by to say thanks," I grinned, holding up the gift bag.

"My pleasure. How are you planning to celebrate?" She leaned against the doorframe, smiling warmly.

"Already have, regretting it." I replied, gesturing to my face. There were dark circles under my eyes, my hair was unwashed, and my lips were chapped. I was the perfect depiction of a hangover. Beth, by contrast, was characteristically perfect. Her straight black hair hung to her shoulders in silken sheets, her cherry-red lipstick was immaculate, and she looked impossibly well-rested for a professor in January. She chuckled.

"Why are you here? Go home!" She sounded more amused than concerned.

"Grading papers." This got me a sympathetic nod.

"Condolences. What course?"

"Writing Sexuality," I replied wearily. At this, Beth rolled her eyes theatrically. She opened her mouth to ask a question but, clearly fearing being overheard, held the door open and gestured for me to come in. She shut the door behind me and stood a foot or so away, leaning against a cluttered bookcase.

"Has Leary changed it at all?" She asked once I was inside. Prof Leary was the English department's resident ghoul.

"Nope."

"How are the papers?"

"Exactly what you'd expect from a course designed by someone who hasn't read an article since 1970." In my hungover haze, I only realized how scathing I had been once I heard my own voice. I braced myself for a stern remark from Beth, but she threw her head back and laughed hoarsely.

"Did you tell your students-"

"That it's a pile of heteropatriarchal dogshit and they should come speak to you if they actually want to learn about writing sexuality?" I cut in, emboldened by the sound of her laugh. Immediately, I worried that this was too far, but she laughed again, harder. "I did, yeah," I finished, chuckling.

"That's my girl," she replied, her eyes glinting with a strange mixture of mischief and pride. The air in the room fizzed with the good humor of the exchange, and I felt that kick again.

"Anyway, I should get going -- thanks again, for everything," I made my way towards the door hastily, hoping that I looked too bedraggled for the sudden flash of desire to be legible on my face.

I brushed against Beth on my way to the door, and a spark flashed through my entire body. I felt something close around my wrist -- Beth's hand, impossibly soft, but firm.

I stopped in my tracks and looked up. Our eyes locked. Beth's face was unreadable, her lips slightly parted. I couldn't say how long we stood there -- perhaps a split second, perhaps a minute. The air around us buzzed. Finally, she broke the silence.

"Don't thank me, you did all the hard work. Go get some rest. I'll see you on Monday." Her voice was different, hoarse. She dropped her hand to her side and I left, my wrist burning from the heat of her touch.

***

Beth pushing me against a bookcase and crushing her lips to mine in a bruising kiss.

Beth pulling my hair and whispering "beg me to fuck you" against my neck.

Beth with a harness, with a whip, with a possessive smirk on her face.

Beth cuffing my hands to her headboard and ordering me to cum for her.

The weekend passed in a haze of desire and confusion. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Beth. I had fantasized about her before, but it had never consumed me like this -- these fantasies weren't vague flights of imagination, they were specific and intoxicating.

Had I imagined that moment? Was I delusional in thinking that her parting words had not been at all what she had set out to say? Was I letting my loneliness get the better of me, reading tension into friendly interactions?

By Monday morning, I was exhausted. I normally looked forward to our meetings, but I contemplated sending Beth an apologetic email, feigning illness. How was I supposed to face her in this state? I was certain she would see right through me. But I knew that canceling would make things worse -- if there was even the slightest chance that something strange had happened between us, flaking on our meeting would drive home that things were weird. So I resolved to go, and to appear normal.

Beth greeted me as usual, and nothing seemed amiss. The beginning of our meeting proceeded in much the same way as they always did -- a thoughtful and challenging conversation, with no strange glances. Soon enough, we were standing over Beth's desk, shuffling post-its around frantically in an attempt to whip my draft into a serviceable chapter. It was a meeting like any other. I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing.

"If that goes there, though, where do I put this?" I held up a post-it note representing a particularly unruly paragraph, biting my lip as I surveyed the mess on the desk. Productive as the exercise was, I was losing patience. "In the bin, I guess," I turned to discard the note but Beth moved swiftly to stop me.

"What if that-" Beth started, plucking the note out of my hand -- she was behind me, suddenly close enough that I could feel her breath against my left cheek. She leaned over me, "were to go here?" Her voice was suddenly much quieter. At the same time as the note hit the desk her hand settled on my right hip. Ostensibly, she was looking over my shoulder to survey the table -- but the touch was unmistakably deliberate. I froze, a deer in the headlights. My breath caught in my throat.

"That...could work..." I replied softly, unthinkingly. My voice was hushed.

"You think so?" Beth's free hand was by my face, brushing a loose strand of hair away, tucking it gently behind my ear. I could feel her gaze on my face. I nodded wordlessly, bracing myself dizzily against the desk.

"Look at me," she whispered. In my many fantasies, I had imagined what Beth might sound like uttering an order, but this was a million times hotter than anything I could have conjured up. There was no urgency in her voice, just a steely, controlled calm. She was in control and she knew it, and the thought was driving me insane.

I turned and found myself inches from her face. My eyes wandered to her lips, slightly parted, the way they had been the other day. I wondered whether she could see my pulse from this close -- whether she could tell how frantically my heart was beating.

"Look at me," she said again, with an edge of impatience. Arousal rushed through me. I forced myself to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes bored into mine. This couldn't be real, this must be another dream -- but there was definitely a hand on my hip, and breath on my face. And it felt incredible.

"Beth-" I managed hoarsely. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say. I couldn't think beyond the heat coursing through me.

"Tell me what you want," she said, barely louder than a whisper. The commandeering edge to her voice had receded slightly, replaced by a softness that felt like concern.

I knew exactly what I wanted. But I couldn't shake the fear that I was imagining this, or misreading the situation horribly. What if I told the truth and it turned out that this was about the chapter, after all? That I had read innuendo into a perfectly innocent exchange? With every passing moment, it felt increasingly unlikely, but this felt so impossible that I couldn't be sure.

"Do you want me to stop?" She prompted. I didn't reply, so much as whimper. My eyes broke away from hers as I shook my head. The thought of her moving away was suddenly unbearable, and my body revolted against the thought before my mind had time to process it.

"No," I finally managed. In my peripheral vision, I saw her lips twitch into a smile. A hand cupped beneath my chin, gently angling my face back towards hers and holding it here. Closer still.

"Then tell me," Beth whispered. My lips parted instinctively at the feeling of her breath. I moved my face closer involuntarily, drawn magnetically towards her.

"Tell me." She said again, insistently. This time, we were close enough that I felt her lips move, so very nearly brushing against mine.

"Kiss me," I replied, breathlessly.

The split second between the words leaving my mouth and our lips touching seemed to last forever, but everything after that moved at lightning speed. Her mouth was on mine, her hand gripped the back of my neck, my body turned to face hers and she pressed herself against me. She moaned against my lips and pushed me back against the desk. I gasped and pulled her closer, one hand around her waist and the other in her impossibly silky hair. Then she was pulling away and a frustrated moan escaped me, louder than either of us had expected, and her hand was against my mouth, pressing firmly to muffle my voice. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I realized how pathetic I must seem, how helplessly out of control.

After a few seconds, Beth moved her hand away, brushing her thumb against my lips gently. I realized her cherry lipstick was smudged and imagined the damning evidence on my own face.

"We can't do this here," she said -- her voice had an edge of anger to it. I realized she was frustrated too, though carrying it much more gracefully than me. I nodded in agreement. As she stepped back, putting a few feet of distance between us, I felt another whimper tugging at my chest, but managed to contain it. It was physically painful to watch her move away. I needed her close to me. I waited for her to say something but she was looking away, her face inscrutable.

"I should go." I pushed myself away from the desk and began to gather my things, wiping frantically at my face to remove any smudges of lipstick. She gave a slight nod, still not looking at me.

As I headed towards the door, I thought she might grab my wrist again, but she remained immobile.

I left wordlessly, my body aflame with adrenaline and disbelief.

***

I walked mechanically through the rest of my day, feverishly distracted. I eventually gave up and headed home, where I tried desperately to masturbate but found myself unable to. As aroused as the moment had made me, all I could feel now was frustration and confusion. Had I done something wrong? What did this mean for mine and Beth's professional relationship, moving forward? Would it -- could it -- ever happen again?

Two days later, I looked up from my coffee in the empty graduate lounge to find Beth striding towards me. The sight -- my first glimpse of her since our meeting -- knocked the breath out of me. I felt a violent blush creep up my neck and cheeks, and took a long sip of my coffee in the hope of disguising it. As she reached me, her hand brushed my shoulder almost imperceptibly, and she placed a stack of paper in front of me.

"My annotations on your chapter. You left it behind on Monday." she said curtly.

"...thanks," I stammered, taken aback by her tone. She was being so businesslike, so different from the last time our paths had crossed. She nodded and left swiftly, leaving me staring at a draft covered in comments.

My heart sank as I looked at the stapled draft before me. This felt like a sign that it was time to return to the pedestrian normality of our relationship -- that Beth remained my advisor, above all else, and that this would be the tone of our correspondence going forward: neat rows of annotations in the margins. Not a whisper in sight. Her decision to hand it to me in person must have been an opportunity to model her cool exterior, to set the tone.

I sighed and began to flick through the pages, thinking the work might make a welcome distraction. A flash of bright pink stopped me in my tracks: a post-it note. I recognized it as the same one Beth had plucked out of my hand right before our kiss. My heart in my throat, I gingerly unstuck it from the page and flipped it over. A few rows of neat writing on the back.

The Rosehip, Trellis Suite. Friday at 8pm. No pressure, no hard feelings.

I recognized the name of a fashionable little boutique hotel in town, and my heart skipped a beat. I quietly urged myself to remain calm: perhaps she just wanted to talk, to set the record straight. It was hardly a conversation we could risk having in her office. But The Rosehip, of all places? It was hard to read that as anything other than an open invitation.

***

The hours crawled by for the rest of the week. Every waking moment was consumed by the weight of the decision -- I desperately wanted to do as Beth's note said, but couldn't shake the doubt. What if this was a terrible idea? What if this ended horribly and spelled the end of my career -- Beth was married, for God's sake. What if she had misplaced a note meant for someone else? It seemed highly unlikely, but if it was at all possible I was putting myself at risk of an extremely humiliating interaction.

Nonetheless, when Friday evening rolled around, I found myself on the steps of The Rosehip at 7:55pm, my heart in my throat. I had agonized over my outfit and had opted for a silky white shirt, black jeans, and an oversized blazer. My hair was loose and fell past my shoulders in thick, chocolate waves. I felt sexy, but casual enough for plausible deniability if it transpired that I had misunderstood. I gathered my courage and walked in, running my fingers over the crumpled post-it note in my pocket. When I gave the clerk the room number, I was surprised to see him wave me through with no effort to call up the room. She's expecting me, I thought eagerly. Or at least expecting someone, the doubt retorted.

I stood outside the room door for several seconds, catching my breath. Now was my chance to turn back, to pretend none of this had ever happened.

Against my better judgment, I knocked.

The door opened almost instantly, to a smiling Beth. It was close to the expression she wore whenever she greeted me in her office, but subtly different. The curve of her lip was reminiscent of a smirk. Her dark eyes glimmered with a different kind of recognition. Wordlessly, she stood aside, holding the door open. I stepped in shakily.

The Trellis Suite was aptly named, beautifully decorated in sumptuous dark green. The bed alone looked worth more than the entire contents of my apartment. This was a far cry from the slipshod chain hotels I was used to.

Beth's voice startled me back to the present. I stood awkwardly in the hallway as she breezed past me to sit in one of the plush armchairs in the center of the room. "Have a seat," she urged, as though she was welcoming me into her office and not a hotel suite. I sat down in the chair opposite her wordlessly, acutely aware of my posture. I desperately searched my mind for something to say to alleviate the tension, but came up empty, dumbstruck by the reality of the situation. I could feel Beth's gaze on me and was doing everything I could to avoid the intensity of her stare.