"We're all adults here," my French Films professor pointed out so astutely, "but I feel it courteous to warn you that there are some sexually explicit scenes in this next film."
And with those words, he had the immediate attention of every half-asleep student in the room.
"Because I believe this is an excellent film and a good representation of French culture, I'm going to show it. But because I value my job and in no way want to make anyone feel uncomfortable, I'm making the essay following this film extra credit. If you don't want to write the paper, don't come to next week's class when I'll be showing the film."
And wouldn't you know it, all fourteen students in the tiny, bullshit elective class showed up to watch. He was right, there were some very steamy scenes in the film, the title of which I can't remember. He was also right that it was a decent film, unafraid of its sexuality as are many French films. And the content was no more explicit than some R-rated films I've seen in mainstream cinema, and certainly no worse than late night premium cable channels.
As the lights came back up, I looked around the room to see everyone else shifting uncomfortably in their seats, or staring intently at our professor, M. Stewart, proudly displaying their fake comfort level with the content we'd just seen. We knew based on the three films we'd watched so far in the semester, there'd be a post-viewing discussion and an expectation of total class participation. And, of course, there's only so long you can hide in a class of slightly more than a dozen students.
"So," M. Stewart began, "Who would like to start off our discussion?"
One of the squirrel-eyed fakers shot her hand up, and M. Stewart nodded once in her direction.
"I thought the character development was excellent." she spat out, likely feeling that she was off the hook for having contributed her weak support of the film.
"How so?" he folded his arms as he encouraged her to say more.
"Well," she could no longer maintain eye contact, twiddling her pen against her notebook, "I mean, watching Sandrine go from a shy woman who let people walk all over her to a confident woman was interesting to watch."
"Mmm.." M. Stewart nodded, though clearly not satisfied with her stiff answer.
A male student from the back of the room spoke up. "I liked how the director didn't spend a lot of time on wardrobe and makeup. His characters are natural and so are their surroundings. Gives a real life feel to his work."
"Very observant, thank you." M. Stewart crossed the room and stood very close to my desk. "Anyone else want to comment more on Sandrine's development as a character?"
I waved my hand slightly, just to catch his attention. "Jane," he nodded.
"I think Sandrine's development as a person and as a woman were tied to her sexual awakening."
A slow smile crept across M. Stewart's face, and he relaxed against the dry erase board, folding his arms. "But, so little of the film focuses on Sandrine's sex life. Can you back up your claim that sexual awakening is a central theme?"
"Well, in the beginning of the film, she is a pushover in all things - work, her love life, with her friends and family. But when she meets Etienne, for what seems like the first time in her life, she is challenged both mentally and physically. I think this is where she draws her character strength and motivation."
This seemed to loosen things up a bit, and the rest of the class found it easier to comment on all things related to the film, without being so focused on saying something that would make them seem like a pervert - or worse, a virgin.
Afterward, the room cleared out pretty quickly. I finished packing up my things and headed toward the door, just to the left of M. Stewart's desk. I'd just opened the door to leave when he said my name.
"Jane," he looked amused, "I wanted to thank you for your contribution to class today."
"Oh, um..." I stammered, caught off guard, "Sure. I enjoyed the movie, thanks for showing it."
"I must say I was surprised and a little impressed by your...candor." He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, peering at me from atop his black rimmed glasses.
I pulled the door back closed and stepped fully back into the classroom, now straight in front of his desk. Monsieur Stewart - or, Mike, as I'd happened to hear his colleagues refer to him - was one of my favorite professors. He graded fairly, let us out of class a few minutes early from time to time and seemed to understand that in grand scheme of things, his elective was of less priority to the majority of us who weren't French majors. He was clean-cut, but not dorky. Attractive, but not distractingly so. He was chill, but kept shit moving in his classes. He was relatable but didn't try too hard to be everyone's buddy and insert himself in his students' lives. Which is why I found him singling me out weird and a little frustrating.
"Monsieur Stewart," I stuck one hip out, and braced my hand on my heavy tote bag. "Are you trying to say you're surprised that I brought up sex before anyone else did?"
He tossed his head back and laughed, seeming to find me a lot funnier than I intended to be. When he returned his gaze to mine, I raised my eyebrows, impatiently reminding him that he had not answered me.
He suddenly became more serious again, "Every time I show this film, it is interesting for me to see who the first person will be to broach the subject of the film's sex theme."
"You still haven't asked me a question." I continued staring at him, though I set my tote bag on the floor. "Do you want to know why I am so comfortable talking about sex? Do you want to know I felt pleasure watching those scenes?"
M. Stewart narrowed his eyes. "I'm not allowed to ask you those questions. They're inappropriate."
"I have found that women have the power when it comes to sex. It explains repression, rape, and a lot of the other fucked up things about American sexual culture. We're obsessed with sex, but we're unable to just be who we are. As human beings, we can trace the root of almost everything we do back to sex."
He cocked his head to the side inquisitively, as if challenging me to say more.
"Although I will say, I find men to be the more predictable of the two sexes."
Another small smile, "I don't think many would argue with you about that," he said.
Without pause, I raised my sweater, and pulled my bra over my breasts. "For instance, I've just exposed my tits to you. We both know I'm not supposed to do that."
He leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms against the back of his head. "How do we know that?"
"The college handbook, your wedding ring, the fact that you're old enough to be my dad."
"I'm supposed to tell you it's inappropriate, report you to the discipline board and have you expelled permanently from the college. Aren't you worried I'll do that?"
"Do I look worried?" I tucked my sweater under my chin and used my free hands to caress the creamy skin of my smallish boobs, tweaking the ginger pink nipples a little. "I could lean over that chair, and feed one of these nipples into your mouth, without you ever asking me to or giving me permission. And you wouldn't stop me."
"No," he responded with a dry voice, never taking his eyes from my chest, "I wouldn't."
I put my sweater back down and picked up my tote bag. "That's why I'm so comfortable talking about it. You're the one who showed us the film. How could I get in trouble for talking about it when that's what we're expected to do?"
"Not many women your age are that aware of their sexuality," he offered, "In fact, I'm not sure many of them ever figure it out."
Once again, I placed my hand on the doorknob. Before I left, I turned to M. Stewart, "I'd take care of that long, thick problem of yours," I nodded to his crotch, "Those khakis are pretty unforgiving.
Needless to say, I wasn't expecting that to happen on this average Tuesday. But I crossed the idyllic quad feeling satisfied with myself, and dying to get my fingers between my sopping pussy lips.
