Sex on Campus

I was lying in bed with Evangeline. That was not really her name, of course. It was early Sunday morning in a motel at the east end of Long Island. She was a graduate student at the women's college where I was a professor of English literature and composition. I suddenly recognized that I had skipped over a facet of my life that was part of my autobiography. I had begun to write it, thought that I could publish it. An autobiography should be honest, something I had been telling students for years. I will try.

Starting again, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before.

The two women who had just read these lines, looked at each other with wry expressions, shrugging. After their father's death in 1990, one Saturday afternoon, they were going through all the papers in his retirement apartment. They had found a carton labeled "Random Recollections for my Autobiography." It was full of papers. Some were hand written, others typed. It appeared that recollections about his youth and college years were typed final drafts, as were some about the professional side of his career, starting as a junior professor at the college in 1955. The typed pages they had just discovered bore a penciled title: Sex on Campus?

A quick flip through the pages showed several corrections; the text was not a final draft. His daughters glanced at each other again, shrugging, this time with wry smiles. They nodded and laid it aside, and returned to sorting through his papers. Before they left his apartment, the elder one grinned at her sister and said:

"You're too young to read that," and snatched the pages from her sister's hand.

"Afraid you're mentioned?"

"Not me, but maybe you?"

"Not me, but if you could think so ..."

"I'll tell you, and let you read it."

"I won't be, not like Evangeline, that's for sure."

"Disappointed?"

"Hmm! Sounds like she wasn't. Are you?"

They shrugged again with grins. The elder one took the pages home and spent the evening reading.

Starting again, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before. That had never happened before, not like that. I will have to let her tell how that happened, but while I was lying there, I had to admit to myself that to be honest I had to relate other incidents.

As a young professor at a women's college in the late 1950s and 1960s, of course, it was nice to have young girls as students. I have to admit that I was the youngest professor at the time, married with two young daughters. Instructing English literature and composition was more personal than other subjects. The students could choose what to write in response to the themes I suggested. An easy and very open one was asking them to describe a personal situation. Some girls wrote about a meaningful conversation with a grandparent, others about a walk in autumn leaves or the like. I was very surprised when one girl wrote about what seemed to have been her first college date to a football game. They never went to the game. In her paper, he did everything two young people could with each other. It sounded like she had been badly taken advantage of.

I started inviting students to have sherry before dinner a couple of times a semester, thinking that was a nice touch, something like at an English university. The sherry parties were a lot of fun, and my wife also enjoyed them, our young daughters too. After one of them in the spring, a student came to my office and asked if there was anything – ANYTHING – she could do for a better grade. Was I too young or innocent to understand what she was suggesting? My telling her that it seemed unlike that she could improve her final grade was not what she wanted to hear.

When that happened again, I did then understand the proposition. I told her that she could only get a better grade by working harder, but she insisted that that advice was worth what she wanted to do. Or was that all she really wanted to do? We did – my fall from grace. She did earn a better grade, but not for that reason, I swear! I never gave a girl a better grade for that.

Others tried. Some I told outright that there was no way they could improve their grade. They usually changed their major; some didn't show up for the course after that. With others, I was in a quandary. If I simply refused, would they give up and do even worse? Did I think they could do better, that my letting them think they had influenced me to give them a better grade would result in a better effort on their part?

Sometimes it did, but some disappointed my estimate of them, and I disappointed them. "Some" sounds like that happened more often than it did, less than once a semester or year. One semester was an exception. After the first girl came to me one spring term, and we did, two others also came. I hope now that we didn't.

Over the years, I could not help but notice that the girls had more experience. The first ones in the late fifties and early sixties were not virgins, but obviously inexperienced. They were blushing when they said "anything" and picking at their blouse buttons. They didn't seem to expect that they would have an orgasm and usually didn't. Later, in the seventies, they still blushed at first, but if I agreed, they often repeated "anything" with a knowing smirk. Their idea of "anything" was really that, and they knew how. To be honest, it was more of a pleasure with them, and they all wanted to have their own orgasms and usually did. Again, that sounds like it happened more often than it really did.

I like to think that I was the origin of the story about the professor in such a situation, who closes the curtains and dims the light before replying, then telling the girl: "If you want a better grade, just study harder." I did that once; she looked so innocent, and I was sure that she could do more, if I just told her.

[In the text, he had crossed out the following sentence: "She wasn't very attractive," and penciled in: "She did earn a better final grade."]

Other colleagues had the same experience, of course, but I didn't hear about any from ones at my college. At a conference once before I retired, late one evening at the bar, the subject came up. I did not raise it, but I guess we all smirked slightly, nodding, then admitting that we had not just heard about it. A man from a state college chuckled and said: "She said she wanted sixty-nine, but on our grading system, that would still have been only a "C-plus." We all snickered and finished our drinks.

Evangeline was not one of those girls. She had always been an excellent student, seeming strangely a little shy or reserved, as though she were afraid she might say something inopportune. That continued even when she did postgraduate work, and we saw each other more often. Still waters run deep. This is really her story. That spring, I found a envelope in my in-basket.

The daughter reading the text, recognized that a long letter was clipped to the back of it, but her father had typed it in his text.

"Dear Professor ... ,

You are the first man I ever wanted to sleep with. When I saw you on campus my first semester, I knew it. Oh, I had been wanting sex since I learned about it, but never had a boyfriend. My mother was a widow, and we lived in a small town where teenagers got married early or had to, if they couldn't wait. Then I had a scholarship to a convent boarding school.

"We learned about sex the only way we could, reading books we had to hide. Junior year, we devoured Lady Chatterley and Lolita. At the end of the year, the seniors invited us to a late evening meeting. It was very conspiratorial. They laid two well-thumbed paperbacks on the table, one girl holding her hands on the covers and stating solemnly: 'Since you all will have to be here for a year more.' That is all she said, taking her hands away, and the seniors all slipped silently out of the room.

"We juniors just looked at the books in silence: 'My Life and Loves' by Frank Harris, 'My Secret Life.' Finally, two girls reached out to pick them up, and we discovered that the binding of each thick book had been cut, so that there were eight sections. Bolder girls quickly picked up the six other sections. The rest of us made them swear to bring them back after summer vacation, all of us then eighteen, two already nineteen.

"They did, grinning and smirking, eager to read more. We all did, deprived, depraved girls, turning pages with wet fingers. We learned more about sex than we had imagined there was to know, and did what we could to enjoy ourselves. At the end of the year, we passed the books on to the next class with the same ceremony.

"I don't know what the other girls did that summer, just knew what I wanted to do, but didn't, promising myself that at college it would happen, but with whom? Then I saw you, too late in fall term to change courses. I would have taken chemistry or calculus to be in one of your courses, but was delighted that you taught English. The next semester I registered for your composition course, a subject I liked.

"By then it was too late for you to be the first man I slept with, but I was just as desperate about wanting to, so much so, that I was afraid I might blurt out something when I talked to you. How could I catch your attention in that context? Maybe you remember the paper I wrote about a personal experience. I didn't title it 'My First Time,' but it was, about a date to a football game that we never went to."

I had read hundreds of papers, but immediately recalled that one, not having remembered that Evangeline had written it. I had been shocked by the story, that the girl had dared to write it, wondering if it were true, hoping it was not. I returned it with a note, suggesting that she could talk to someone on the college's psychiatric staff. That was not the response she had wanted, I discovered, continuing to read her letter:

"I was very nervous about writing it, but I wanted you to think of me in that context, wanting, hoping that you would call me in to discuss it. Oh, I would have been very embarrassed, probably more than I imagined, but you didn't. Your note was sweet, but maybe would have been more helpful for him. Once I got into writing it, forgetting my intention, it was fun. It all happened, but I was the one taking the initiative. He didn't know what to think, but I knew everything I wanted to do after reading those books, and we did. But it didn't work with you the way I had wanted it to. If you had asked if the story were true, I had the wild idea of explaining that I had been in charge and that I would climb over your desk and prove it.

"I think there were sexual overtones in everything else I wrote: women seeing phallic symbols wherever I could – now that I had seen a phallus. Men saw hills as breasts or hips. You may remember a story in which the woman points out to the man that the shrubs around a spring between rolling hills reminded her of her pubic hair. I actually saw that somewhere in northern California. The story ended discreetly before he saw hers, but you didn't see mine, just gave me another good grade. You never got to see the conclusion that I had fun writing, in which he doesn't just see her pubic hair.

"I took another tack, and wrote a really bad piece, lots of incorrect punctuation and spelling, but you recognized that it was intentional, and returned it with the comment that it was a good story, but that I shouldn't make fun of how poorer students wrote. I thought you would have to call me in for blatantly copying something from Frank Harris, just changing the era and place, but you just gave him a good grade. Remember? The woman wanted to feel him 'thrill'."

That sentence let me immediately recall that paper, and that Evangeline had written it, kicking myself mentally for not having read Frank Harris's book. In his or her story, the woman wanted to feel him "thrill" in her mouth. He did write well, but so did she, so her plagiarism had not been apparent, as it was when poorer students copied another writer's work. Had Harris influenced her style? By then, I was accustomed to her direct or subtly sexual stories, enjoying them. Other students sometimes played around with less overt sexual implications. I had assumed that she was vicariously putting in words what she was missing in life. Other students did that too, idealizing family relationships: writing about happily married parents, non-existing siblings, visits to grandparents whom only Norman Rockwell could have painted.

It was almost painful to realize that I had not understood Evangeline's intentions with all the sexual over and undertones in her writing. She had explained why she was shy and reticent about talking to me, afraid she might blurt out what she really wanted, had been wanting for almost five years, now in her letter telling me so directly. She certainly was not unattractive. It was embarrassing to have to admit to myself that I had had sex with less attractive students who only were hoping it would improve their grades. Evangeline had never needed any incentive to do excellent work. If any of my students ever had merited such "special attention," she did.

Maybe – no, surely – it was better that I had not understood her desire. If I had, it would have become an affair; once wouldn't have been enough, especially when I recalled what she had said she had done in the first paper she had mentioned. Had she told that young student that she wanted to "feel him thrill"? She had, with or without those words. That she could write that and submit it in a paper?! "Deprived, depraved," her words describing herself and her classmates before she came to college. What else had she written? That paper that filled in what happened between two chapters of a book by Henry James in which she had caught his style very well, much more discreet than Frank Harris's, but still explicit enough. What else was in her letter?

"I just could not do anything to make you call me into your office to talk about what I wanted. Oh, we talked, but not about that. I got a little more comfortable with that, but my desire was always in the back of my mind, more often in the front of it, when I had heard about your 'helping' poorer students to work harder. I couldn't use that as an excuse."

How many other girls had known about that?! How did she? At least, I never heard anything, maybe a secret all professors had? If she knew about that, what reason could I have not to let her have her wish? Did I want one? Shouldn't I let her? Wouldn't it be more honest to respect Evangeline's wish? Suddenly, I thought of the liturgical expression: "meet and right," terribly in the wrong context. But if she wanted to, what excuse did I have? I couldn't think of one, and read the last few lines of her letter:

"I still want to sleep with you, not like those girls in your office. It won't happen again; there are just a few weeks before I leave here and go to England, to Cambridge University. You probably know that. Please. I'm good at being bad. Please be bad at being good."

I had to chuckle at her last turn of phrase. She had already mentioned that she knew that I could be less than good at being "good." Had she recognized that she almost had me trapped with her clever phrase? Or did I just want to see it as trap? I admitted to myself that I did, chuckling again with the thought that I had no choice but to try to be good at being "bad at being good."

She had signed the letter with just her name, not "Evangeline," my alias for her, chosen after "meet and right" had popped into my head. The name is related to Latin "evangelium," the gospel, the good news. It seemed appropriate after I had admitted to myself that I wanted to sleep with her, that her letter was good news. She would certainly think my agreeing was good news.

How should I reply? Just "YES" on a sheet of my letter paper seemed too blunt; her long letter deserved a better response, lighthearted, witty. It was a good thing my wife didn't know what I was thinking about that night. In the morning, while shaving, I remembered that she liked music, the melody of "Quando, quando, quando" suddenly ringing in my ears. That was it; I would find the notes or pick them out on the piano and write them on a page, leaving it for her to remember the words: Tell me when, when, when.

It took me another day to do that, but I was very pleased with myself when I put it in an addressed envelope in my out basket. By then I was completely attuned to her suggestion, anticipating her reply with delight. It was wickedly charming to be planning a rendezvous.

The next day I found an envelope in my in basket. In it was my sheet. She had added an exclamation mark after the notes, and drawn a big smiley, one eye winking. Beneath it she had written: "Not x/y-z," the dates of a weekend, followed by an oversized period. I nodded with a slight smile, understanding. I hadn't thought about that. "Latest" with another weekend date followed. She was assuming it would be a weekend rendezvous. I hadn't thought of that either, though I could have, since she had written that it wasn't going to be like with those girls in my office. Anything she wanted, I thought, then having to smile wryly at my thinking like those girls who had offered to do "anything" for a better grade.

A weekend sounded delightful; she deserved much more time than those girls, and I wanted her to have it. I wanted it too. I hadn't started to think about what I was agreeing to, but she had already. Anything she wanted, but when, where? My wife was going to pick up one or both our daughters from their colleges after their final exams. When?

They had chosen not to go to the college where their father taught, which was just as well, after I had "helped" a couple of girls to study harder - especially now that Evangeline had revealed that other girls knew about that. After one of the sherry parties, the younger one, then sixteen, had said something about the girls' looking like they were hanging on my lips, "but not for pearls of poetic profundity." She got a scholarship to Wellesley, the other one at Mt. Holyoke.

The older daughter, who was reading the text that she had snatch from her sister, chuckled and had a another sip of wine. It was her second glass. She refilled her glass. While reading, her expression had varied from surprised frowns to wry smiles, chuckles. Once she had murmured to herself: "Yeah, Dad, your Evangeline; you would have had to think of that. Hmm! 'Meet and right'!"

She took another sip of wine and returned to reading.

That evening, I checked my wife's calendar, relieved that she wouldn't pick up the girls the weekend Evangeline would have her period. She and the girls were going to spend a day or two in Boston, so it was certain that weekend would be all right. I had a little guilty conscience about planning a weekend rendezvous around the rest of my family, but just a very little one. I returned our sheet of paper with the dates of that weekend and a question mark, plus a smiley with a crooked smile.

This was being fun, not to mention my anticipation of how she would reply. My anticipation faded, when I didn't get a reply the couple of days before the intevening weekend. Monday morning, there was a folder of freshmen papers from her seminar in my in basket. I had to deal with more immediate items, taking the folder home in the evening, as I often did. After dinner, I settled in my armchair, resigned to having to thumb through the papers and see if I agreed with her comments. I almost always did, and did for the first few I read.

The comment at the top of the next one was only in pencil "good or bad A or D?" That was very unusual. When she wasn't sure about her marking, she did use pencil, allowing me to clip a note with my opinion, so that she could erase her question and revise it. That made the paper more interesting, at least, also its title: Montauk Lighthouse.