It was on my mind over dinner. Sex, that is. We agreed to meet for a meal at the pub next door to the Travellodge. I'd downloaded the pics to the laptop, and resisted the urge to masturbate over them. I'd showered and shaved, and changed into evening gear; black shoes, black jeans and a black teeshirt. New batteries in the camera, condoms in my wallet, and I was ready for dinner.
So was Joss. Initially I was disappointed; another ankle length skirt; the high lace up boots again, a black silk top and a black leather jacket. New for the occasion a silk choker, with a jet brooch she'd worn during the week pinned to it. Time for my eyes to take in the detail as she walked towards me, controlled and unhurried, as if making her way along a catwalk only she could see. The skirt buttoned up from hem to waist, or rather it would have done if all the buttons from just above the knee downwards hadn't been undone.
The silk top didn't reach the waist of her skirt; if she were fashionable there'd have been two inches of bare skin. There wasn't though, just, from the front an underlying layer of black. As she turned to hang her jacket over the back of the chair there was a momentary glimpse of bare flesh, laces and the surrounding black material of a corset. Erect again, I resolved to try and maintain some degree of cool.
The conversation between us was easier now. Not a surprise really; there is so much more you can say when you've exchanged some degree of intimacy. Joss talked about the principles of non invasive archaeology, about how so much of what she wanted to do was about the history of artefacts, the relationship of the object to the built environment and the people. I talked in turn about my love hate relationship with texts, and the stories they didn't tell. We even seemed to have common ground, looking for texts and objects that told stories that were more reliable than human sources. (Yes, I know all texts are human sources, but legal charters and records are accounts that have to conform to an external framework. Read my thesis if you don't believe me.)
Once the food was on the table and the second glass of wine poured we started to put some flesh on the intellectual bones. It's a poor historian who can't find parallels between what he does and how he lives.
"Were we communicating via images this afternoon Joss? Creating artefacts that tell a story we don't trust voices to do?" She laughed and wagged a finger at me.
"Those pics are art, not artefacts Ed. You made them, I posed for them. They have no other purpose than to turn us on. So they might be fictions themselves. Have you looked at them again?" I thought for a moment that a coy response might be the right thing to do, changed my mind; honesty might be more productive.
"I didn't want to wank over them when the real thing might be a possibility later." Her turn to consider an answer.
"A couple of years ago I used to think that that was the ultimate in sex, to make boys want to wank over me. I used to get them all hard and turned on, watch them coming. The I started to wonder if the boys I was at school with would have wanked over any girl who got her tits out."
"You mean your preferred them wanting Joss for who she is, rather than what gender she is?"
"Precisely. You're a man; you know about how other men are. And of course, there's your reputation around the uni..." Swallow the piece of food that's suddenly the size of a bowling ball in my throat.
"My reputation?"
"Your reputation. The women's grapevine grades post grads who teach as well as lecturers. Letches, sexists, gays, misogynists... You have this reputation of being fair and honest; a friend of mine called you the Wysiwyg tutor."
I recognised the nickname straight away; I'd taught a woman called Sam the previous year, when I'd filled in for a tutor on sabbatical. Joss kept on going.
"And you've proved it this week. You've been honest and fair. And even today, when I've made a pass at you, you've been how I want you to be."
"Which is what Joss?"
Why do any talking when she was willing to do all the work?
"Well, confident but not arrogant. I get the impression you're enjoying this, enjoying waiting to see what happens."
"Enjoying it Joss? One of the best looking women in the uni strips for me, and I'm not supposed to enjoy it? I know we both know that you were taking your clothes off to please you, and to turn yourself on, but it wouldn't work without an audience and you decided I was this week's audience. Of course I'm enjoying myself."
"The first audience Ed. I had a girlfriend paint me once, a portrait to prove she could, but you're the first person I've posed for like that. It's about trust and desire β I've ached to feel that way for years, but.... Why does it matter who the audience is?" I was struck by the pause and the change of direction, turning the conversation back into a dialogue, cutting off the flow of information about herself.
"It's a power exchange Joss. You may be the one doing the explicitly sexual things, but you're depending on me to do the right things to make it sexy." She looked as if she was going to disagree, but changed her mind. Instead she just stared at me. Shared insights? Or just gathering our thoughts?
I sat back, as if waiting for the moment to pass. Joss flicked some hair off her brow, fussed with the neckline of her top.
"So if it is a power exchange, what's this conversation about?" I offered her more wine before I went on; she declined, and we settled on a bottle of mineral water.
"Have you ever studied theatre? There's a power exchange between audience and performer; it's like the actor is saying to the audience 'this will only work if you respond appropriately. I'm putting myself in your hands.' That was the deal this afternoon; it was only going to work if I responded appropriately. Would it have worked better if I'd been more assertive and overly sexual? I don't know. So now, tonight, we talk, and I try to work out what's appropriate next, and you try to tell me..."
"What's to tell? You've told me I turn you on, and I've told you..." Her voice trailed away.
"Not quite Joss. You did something exceptional this afternoon. I might want to know where it leads, where we go..."
She shook her head, the colour of her hair shifting as it caught in the light, a strand of brown hair amongst the black.
"You think I haven't thought about that?" She took a sip of water, then went on.
"I was the clever girl at school who liked to dress differently and knew odd looking boys who were grateful for whatever they got. At uni in the first year I was the girl who didn't fancy attending an extended club 18-30 holiday with added books. So I ended up having a girlfriend rather than a boyfriend until I realised I was sleeping with somebody I didn't like because of the things we both didn't like about college life. And this year? This year I've had a vibrator, a head full of thoughts and a drunken fumble with an impotent lecturer who wanted to know if I could get him some viagra for the next time."
I hadn't expected such an outpouring.
"And then along you come; Mr nice guy, smiling and charming, intelligent and handsome, with a big smile, a camera and all the right attitudes. Except..."
"Except what?"