Chivalry Is on Life Support

I have never been good with my hands. I took after my father in that respect. I was that kid who could never hold a nail steady, who was never able to catch a ball in little league (or hit a ball with a bat for that matter), who could never figure out how to fix my bike when the chain came loose. This physical ineptitude continued into my adulthood and remains as true as ever as I now write these words at the age of 41. When something breaks down in my house or car, almost no matter how simple, I call someone to fix it. I'm the antithesis to a DYIer. I can change a lightbulb, if necessary (as long as there's nothing unusual about the fixture and it's not too high for me to reach standing on a chair), or tighten the screws on a loose door knob, but that's about the extent of it. Even when I fill up my car with gas, I go to a full service pump, if possible; I don't like the smell of gasoline on my hands.

It is, therefore, highly ironic that earlier today I found myself replacing a toilet fill valve for the second time this weekend. This morning I was under a woman's kitchen sink, installing her new garbage disposal (and struggling mightily). As she watched me work, I kept pulling up my jeans. Not only didn't I want her to see my plumber's crack when I bent over, I especially didn't want her to see the bright yellow, nylon thong panties I was wearing. This was not my choice of undergarments. Rather, it was the choice of Luke, my wife's ex husband and current lover. He could be described other ways as well: my boss, my tormentor, my master, my king.

My name is Walter Rollins and I am not a plumber. I am a tenured Professor of English Literature at a well respected liberal arts college in rural Ohio. In fact, because I have Master's degree in History in addition to a PhD in English, I am one of the few professors at my college to sit on the faculty of two departments. Nevertheless, for the last six months, I've been filling the role of plumber's helper in Luke's thriving plumbing business. Luke is 29, a year younger than my lovely wife, Brooke.

I lecture and have published extensively on the subjects of chivalry, honor and shame in medieval literature and history. My best known work (the one that got me tenure), published by one of the top university presses in the world, focuses on the prominent role that shaming and humiliation rituals have played in medieval literature -- for disgraced knights, cuckolded earls, fallen ladies, traitorous lords, defeated princes, etc. Shame has always been a subject that has fascinated me. I'm sure that has something to do with the fact that I am a sexual masochist. What's less clear is whether my masochism is responsible for my fascination with the subject of shame in literature and history? Or, did all of the stories and historical accounts I've read about shame and ritual humiliation turn me into a masochist? It's a chicken and egg question. I don't really have a definitive answer, but I suspect that it's probably more the former than the latter.

I remember how even is a little kid, looking through an old American history book in my parents' house, I was mesmerized by a drawing I saw of two shirtless men tied to the back of a wagon who were being whipped on their backs as they were paraded through the town square. I actually found this image the other day on the Internet. It's easy to Google: Whipping Quakers in Streets of Boston. You can see the hint of a sadistic smile on the Puritan who is wielding the whip. Other Puritans stand by smiling at the suffering of the Quakers. In the foreground, off to the left, is a Puritan mother with her young daughter and slightly older son. Although the mother attempts to shield her daughter from the scene, the girl looks on with rapt attention; the boy, meanwhile, stares at the flogged men with delight -- a budding little sadist. Even the family dog seems to be excited by the scene.

I first met Brooke roughly nine years ago when she was a senior enrolled in my seminar course, Chivalry and Courtly Love in Medieval Literature. I had seen many beautiful coeds cycle through my courses over the years, but with her slim build, long legs, perky breasts, wavy, long brown hair and dimpled smile, Brooke was exactly my type and stood out from the rest. She was a solid B+ student in my class (I'm a tough grader), and seemed to have a genuine interest in the subject matter. There were only about ten students in the class, roughly evenly split between male and female.

Brooke usually sat in the front row. In the warm summer months, she favored short dresses or shorts. One afternoon, while reading the class some examples of chivalric poetry, my eyes caught sight of her dangling her flip flop off her lovely foot. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the poem (fortunately, I knew it well); they kept involuntarily wandering back to her lovely arches and pretty polished toes (a light red shade). I could swear that she caught me staring at her feet a couple of times; we made momentary eye contact and I thought I detected a faint, sexy smirk on her lips. She could not know how I longed to go down on my knees, gently remove her flip flop, kiss her toes and pledge my undying fealty to her. Could she?

I would have gladly done so in front of the entire class, but for the fact I didn't want to do anything that would jeopardize my cushy, tenure-track position. Like most professors, I wasn't paid well, but I was certainly comfortable. I was respected by my peers, generally liked by my students and had it pretty good overall. Thirty two years old at the time, I had only had two previous sexual relationships in my life, but had been dumped by both women. Not surprisingly, then, I was incredibly underconfident and shy around women.

My sex life at the time, sadly, essentially consisted of masturbating to my submissive, sexual fantasies. I didn't see Brooke for another six years after she left my class at the end of that semester, but I would be less than truthful if I didn't admit that she (and her beautiful feet) played a central role in my fantasy life during those intervening years.

And then six years later, I met her again when she was my server at a nice restaurant two towns over. That's when I entered what I think of as my golden age. It was not long lived, but was no less golden for its brevity.