Channel 34

Chapter One

Clara Longley tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear as she surveyed the chaos of her office. The beginning of the fall semester at Georgia State University always brought a particular kind of frenetic energy that exhausted and invigorated her. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty blinds, casting golden rectangles across stacks of feminist journals, dog-eared books, and student papers waiting to be graded.

At twenty-eight, Clara was among the youngest associate professors in the Sociology Department, a fact that some of her male colleagues never failed to subtly emphasize in department meetings.

She smoothed down her loose earth-toned blouse, which did little to conceal the full curves of her breasts and adjusted the high waist of her jeans. Clara had long ago accepted that her voluptuous figure often led people to underestimate her intellect--a phenomenon she'd documented extensively in her research on the media's treatment of the female body.

Her office walls were plastered with protest posters, feminist artwork, and newspaper clippings about the women's movement. A worn typewriter sat on her cluttered desk beside a cooling cup of coffee and the syllabus for her new course: "Female Representation in Modern Media: Objects and Subjects."

A knock on her half-open door interrupted her thoughts.

"How are your nerves holding up? Did you get your work in for the debate tonight?" Raymond Phillips leaned against the doorframe, his silver hair catching the light, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth.

Clara felt the familiar flutter in her stomach that came whenever Raymond appeared unexpectedly. She straightened her posture, she wanted to meet his expectations.

"Just putting the finishing touches on my notes," she said, gesturing to the scattered papers on her desk. "The debate committee made it clear they want blood on the floor tonight."

Raymond chuckled a deep sound that resonated in the small office. "And you'll give it to them. Just like you gave it to Peterson in last week's faculty meeting." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to shrink the room.

Clara swallowed hard. "He deserved it. Suggesting that women's studies should be an elective rather than a core curriculum--in 1978, no less."

"I'm not disagreeing." Raymond moved closer, his tailored suit contrasting with the bohemian disorder of her office. "Your passion is what makes you... exceptional, Clara."

"I'm going to need every bit of that passion tonight," she said, pulling out a folder filled with clippings and notes. "Have you seen it? 'The Brass Keyhole'?"

Raymond's expression shifted subtly. "I have. For academic purposes, of course."

"Of course," Clara echoed, unable to suppress a sardonic smile. "And Dennis Carpenter is calling it 'a daring exploration of female sexuality and desire.' A 'cultural watershed.'" She practically spat the words.

"Carpenter's always been more interested in justifying his erections than actual film criticism," Raymond said.

Clara laughed despite herself. "Well, tonight, I'm going to dismantle his entire argument. This film isn't art--it's exploitation dressed up in fancy camera work." She pulled out several photographs from the folder, stills from the movie she'd managed to obtain through her research channels.

"Every scene follows the same degrading pattern. The women are stripped, displayed, and forced to spread themselves openly; then, it's straight to oral sex and anal penetration. There's no plot, no character development--just women being reduced to orifices for male pleasure." Her voice grew heated as she spoke, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Raymond's eyes were sincere and kind. "You've done your homework."

"I've watched it three times," Clara admitted, her voice dropping. "Each viewing was more disturbing than the last. The lead actress--God, Raymond..."

She spread the materials across her desk, revealing meticulous notes on each scene, timestamps, and dialogue transcriptions. "The film is gaining the same cult status as 'Deep Throat,' but at least that pretended to be about female pleasure, however absurdly. This doesn't even try. It's just..." She struggled to find the words.

"Anal sex and submission," Raymond finished quietly.

Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. "Yes."

"What bothers me most," she continued, her voice steadier now, "is how Carpenter frames it as female liberation. As if being coerced into these acts on camera is somehow empowering."

Raymond picked up one of her articles, scanning it thoughtfully. "Your counterargument is solid. The distinction between actual female sexual agency and the male fantasy of female submission packaged as 'liberation.'"

"Exactly." Clara felt a surge of gratitude for his understanding. "But Carpenter has the advantage. He's been the Journal's film critic for fifteen years, and I'm the upstart feminist who can't enjoy a good porno without analyzing it to death," Clara finished wryly. She sank into her chair, acutely aware of Raymond's proximity, as he leaned against her desk.

"You're the scholar who won't let men like Carpenter define what female sexuality should look like," Raymond corrected her.

She looked up at him, at how his silver hair caught the late afternoon light, at the intelligence in his eyes that had drawn her to him as a mentor.

"I'll be in the front row tonight; this is going to be a huge win for the department; I can feel it," said Raymond confidently as he exited her office. "Bring it home tonight, Clara."

After Raymond left, Clara exhaled slowly-trying to calm her nerves. She glanced at her watch--three hours until the debate. The university auditorium would be packed; Carpenter had his followers, primarily male students and faculty, who praised his "intellectual courage" in defending controversial films.

Clara dressed in the faculty bathroom, a ritual of transformation that felt strangely like preparing for battle. She smoothed the tailored burgundy blazer over her cream silk blouse, adjusted the matching pants, and steadied herself on the burgundy heels that added three inches to her height. The black reading glasses remained--she needed them not just for reading her notes but as a subtle barrier between herself and the audience that would scrutinize her every expression tonight.

She turned sideways in the harsh fluorescent light, frowning at her reflection. Her hands instinctively moved to her backside, cupping the generous curve that strained slightly against the fabric of her pants. Too big, she thought, as she always did. Too round, too noticeable, too much. She tugged at the blazer, trying to extend its coverage.

"You're going to debate pornography, not your ass," she muttered to herself, echoing the words of her graduate school mentor. Still, she couldn't help the familiar anxiety. In academia, in 1978, a woman's intellect was still often secondary to her appearance, and Clara's body refused to be inconspicuous. Her large breasts and ample rear end seemed to enter rooms before she did, drawing eyes that should be focused on her arguments.

She pulled her thick brown hair into a tight bun, securing it with extra pins, leaving nothing to chance or distraction. The gesture was practical and professional, yet she couldn't help noticing how it emphasized the elegant line of her neck, the delicate curve where it met her shoulder. She applied a touch of muted lipstick, nothing flashy--armor of a different sort.

Clara arrived at the campus auditorium thirty minutes early, her research materials organized in a leather portfolio, her heart hammering against her ribs. The space was already half-filled, mostly with male students lounging in seats, their postures casual, entitled. She spotted several of her female students clustered together near the front, their presence a silent show of solidarity that made her throat tighten unexpectedly.

As she made her way to the stage, she felt eyes tracking her movement, assessing her body in ways both obvious and subtle. The weight of her breasts, the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass that she was so self-conscious about--all being cataloged and evaluated by the very men she would soon be challenging about their consumption of women's bodies as entertainment.

The auditorium continued to fill, the buzz of conversation growing louder as Dennis Carpenter made his entrance. He strode confidently through the side door, surrounded by a small entourage of film students who hung on his every word.

At forty-five, Briggs Carpenter cut an imposing figure--tall and broad-shouldered with a carefully cultivated beard that he stroked when making his most provocative points. His tweed jacket with leather elbow patches was a cliché that he somehow made work. He casually held a snifter of brandy in one hand; Clara watched him work the room, shaking hands, laughing too loudly. When their eyes met across the auditorium, he offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes and a small, patronizing nod.

The moderator, Dr. Eleanor Simmons from the Communications Department, a slender, attractive blonde-haired woman of about forty wearing a brown pantsuit, approached the stage, signaling that they were about to begin. Clara took her position at the podium, arranging her notes one final time. Across the stage, Carpenter lounged against his podium, looking for all the world like he was about to discuss the weather rather than defend a film that featured women being systematically degraded.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dr. Simmons began, her voice carrying through the now-packed auditorium. "Tonight, we address a controversial topic that sits at the intersection of art, censorship, and gender politics. 'The Brass Keyhole'--pornography or revolutionary cinema? Avant-Garde classic or smut?"

Clara's heart fluttered as Dr. Simmons began introducing the participants. Sitting in the front row, she couldn't help but lock eyes with Raymond. Beside him was James Carter, the effortlessly charming professor from the sociology department. His hazel eyes sparkled mischievously, complementing his lean, athletic frame and tousled brown hair that gave him a rugged yet approachable allure. When he flashed her a thumbs-up and a smile that showcased his impeccably straight teeth, Clara felt a warmth spread through her cheeks.

James's presence alone made her pulse quicken. She was captivated by his boyish good looks, which exuded an undeniable charm. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't resist stealing another glance at him before forcing herself to redirect her attention back to the proceedings at hand.

Carpenter went first, his deep voice resonating with practiced authority.

"What we're witnessing with 'The Brass Keyhole' is nothing short of a sexual revolution on celluloid," he proclaimed, gesturing expansively. "Director Martin Reed has created a visual manifesto that liberates female sexuality from the constraints of puritanical thinking. The female performers aren't victims--they're pioneers, boldly exploring the full spectrum of human desire."

Clara gripped the edges of the podium as she delivered her rebuttal, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

"What Mr. Carpenter calls liberation, I call exploitation dressed in the emperor's new clothes," she began. "This film doesn't explore female desire--it caters exclusively to male fantasy while pretending to be revolutionary. The women in 'The Brass Keyhole' aren't subjects with agency; they're objects performing degradation for male viewers under the guise of artistic expression."

The crowd murmured, some nodding in agreement, others shifting uncomfortably. Clara caught Raymond's approving nod from the front row while James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with undisguised admiration.

Dr. Simmons stepped forward. "To provide context for our discussion, we'll view a brief excerpt from the film." She gestured toward the projection booth at the back of the auditorium. "I must remind everyone that this material is explicit and that you are free to excuse yourselves if the clips disturb you."

The lights dimmed, and Clara steeled herself, knowing exactly which scene would be shown-the one Carpenter had specifically requested as "emblematic of the film's artistic merit."

The projector whirred to life, and the screen filled with the ornate interior of a Victorian manor house. The camera panned slowly across polished, expensive-looking furniture and gilded mirrors before settling on a young Black woman in a French maid's uniform. Her costume was a parody of actual work attire--the black satin bodice cinched impossibly tight, pushing her large breasts up and together until they threatened to spill over the white lace trim. The skirt barely covered her thighs, flaring over a ruffled white petticoat.

Clara heard the collective intake of breath from the audience as the camera lingered on the maid's body, fragmenting her into parts--first her glossy lips, then her breasts straining against the fabric, and finally her shapely legs in sheer black stockings.

"Marie-Claire knows exactly what her employer desires," the narrator's voice intoned in a faux-sophisticated drawl. "And it isn't just a clean house."

The maid moved to dust a bookshelf, stretching to reach a high shelf. As she did, her skirt rode up, revealing the bare, round curves of her buttocks. The camera zoomed in slowly, capturing every inch of exposed flesh. No underwear, Clara noted clinically, though her stomach clenched just as the film's director intended.

The maid bent at the waist, reaching under a cabinet. The camera tracked every movement as her skirt rode higher, fully exposing her bare buttocks to the audience. Clara watched stone-faced as several male students shifted in their seats, their reactions painfully obvious. The camera lingered in extreme close-up, capturing the deep cleft between the woman's cheeks, the smooth dark skin glistening under studio lights meant to evoke perspiration from her "labors."

When the maid moved to dust a small bronze statue of a rearing horse on a side table, she squatted on her heels, legs spread wide. The camera angle shifted lower, capturing her from behind, focusing with clinical precision on her exposed genitalia and the tight, wrinkled pucker of her anus. Clara heard a few uncomfortable coughs from the female students in the audience, while some of the men snickered.

The scene's calculated voyeurism became complete as the "lord of the manor" entered the frame--a middle-aged white man in a convincing period costume, his cravat askew, his eyes transfixed on the maid's exposed body. His gaze, like the camera's, was unrelenting, moving from her buttocks to the intimate crevice between them.

"Marie-Claire," he said, his voice thick with exaggerated desire. "I see you've neglected to wear the proper undergarments again."

The maid turned, feigning surprise, her heavily made-up eyes widening. "Forgive me, sir. I find they...restrict my movements when I'm cleaning."

The lord approached her slowly, his hand already moving to the front of his breeches. "Then perhaps you should be restricted. For your own good, of course."

Clara felt a wave of heat rise to her face--not from arousal but from anger. The dialogue was as predictable as it was offensive, reducing what could have been a complex power dynamic to the cheapest of pornographic clichés.

The lights came up abruptly as Dr. Simmons stepped forward. "I believe that gives us adequate context for our discussion," she said briskly, though Clara noted the slight flush on the moderator's cheeks.

Carpenter was already speaking before the projector had fully stopped. "What we've just witnessed is a sophisticated exploration of power dynamics and racial taboos," he proclaimed. "Reed doesn't shy away from America's complex sexual history; he confronts it head-on, challenging us to examine our own reactions."

Clara took a deep breath, grateful for the years of academic training that allowed her to respond analytically rather than emotionally.

"What we've witnessed," she countered, her voice steady, "is the reduction of a Black woman to a collection of body parts for white male consumption. This isn't confronting history--it's fetishizing it. The 'French maid' trope is nothing more than a thinly veiled fantasy of servitude, one that reinforces both racial and gender hierarchies."

Clara could feel her face flush with righteous indignation as Carpenter continued his defense, his voice dripping with pseudo-intellectual justification.

"The film challenges our preconceptions about female pleasure," he argued, gesturing toward the screen. "Reed's camera doesn't shy away from the raw reality of human desire."

"Raw exploitation isn't reality," Clara countered, her voice steady despite her racing pulse. "And what's being presented isn't female pleasure--it's male fantasy projected onto female bodies."

The debate grew heated, with Carpenter dismissing her arguments as "puritanical" and "anti-sex." Clara noticed several female students nodding vigorously as she spoke about the difference between authentic female sexuality and its commercialized simulation.

"The problem isn't sex," Clara insisted, leaning into the microphone. "The problem is power--who wields it, who profits from it, and who is reduced to an object by it."

Just as she was building momentum, Dr. Simmons interrupted. "We have another excerpt that Mr. Carpenter has selected to illustrate his point about the film's artistic merits."

Clara's stomach dropped. She knew what was coming next, the film's most explicit and disturbing sequence. As the lights dimmed again, she gripped the podium edges.

The projector whirred to life, filling the screen with the same Victorian setting. The narrator's voice returned, heavy with affected gravitas.

"Marie-Claire learns the price of her provocations," the voice intoned as the camera panned across the bedroom.

The scene showed Marie-Claire now completely naked, her uniform torn away, her body glistening with sweat under harsh lighting. She straddled the manor lord in reverse, facing away from him, her expression visible to the camera--a grotesque mask of what a male director imagined female pleasure to look like.

The audience shifted uncomfortably as the camera focused on Marie-Claire's face contorted in what was meant to be ecstasy but looked more like pain. Her large breasts bounced violently as the older man's hands reached around to slap them, her large breasts jiggling and her eyes widening with each blow.

"Take it all," the man growled, his face flushed. "Take all of me."

Clara watched, stone-faced, as Marie-Claire struggled visibly, her body tensing as the man attempted to penetrate her anally. The camera zoomed in with clinical precision on this violation, lingering on close-ups that fragmented her body into nothing more than orifices.

"You like that, don't you?" the man demanded, slapping her breasts again as she alternated between screams and unconvincing moans.

"Yes, monsieur," she gasped, though her eyes told a different story, one of discomfort and performative sexuality that had nothing to do with her pleasure.

Marie-Claire's body was a testament to the cruelty of the scene. Sweat glistened on her dark skin, dripping from her forehead and trailing down her abdomen. Her large breasts, the nipples hardened into sharp little peaks, and twin trails of sweat ran down her torso towards her black pubic hair.

Clara's breath caught in her throat, even though she had seen the 'film' before; the lord's large shaft penetrated Marie's asshole, thick throbbing. His heavy balls, swinging below with an almost rhythmic motion, added to the erotic spectacle before them. The man's grip on her hips was unrelenting, every muscle in his forearms tensed as he pulled her down onto his shaft slowly, savoring each inch that disappeared into her bowels.