I raised my hand nervously and knocked on his door. It wasn't technically office hours, being close to the end of the day, but I was hoping he'd be in. I had to ask him about my essay topic, and it wasn't going to be easy. I didn't seem to be able to find my words when he was around.
There was the sound of a chair pushing back on creaky wheels, a pause, and then the door opened a few inches. His tawny eyes peered out from under that mop of chestnut hair. A crooked smile flashed onto his face. "Indigo," he acknowledged me. The door opened wider, revealing him. A soft blue cotton shirt, collar open one button. Khakis broken in to the point of being comfortable, without being too shabby for the faculty.
"Hi, Dr. Dee." My heart jumped. "Uhh, is this an okay time?"
"Sure. What is it about?"
"Oh, ummm... my essay topic. I wanted to check with you on... something." Watching his kind eyes, I felt a flash of confidence.
"Why don't you come in and sit down?" The door swung all the way open. He motioned me towards a wooden chair, standard issue for the university, beside the desk.
I had to step past him, just a centimetre or two from brushing against him with my arm. The skin on my shoulder tingled.
I seated myself, and he also took his seat on the wooden swivel chair at his desk. Looking anywhere but at him directly, I took in the space he called his own. The wall opposite the door was a nearly floor-to-ceiling window, but all the other walls (and above his desk) were lined with bookshelves, crammed full. A couple of stacks of books teetered beside the desk, which was itself surprisingly uncluttered. His keyboard, a notebook, a few pens, and sticky notes were laid out beside a few slim volumes of poetry.
"So, what topic are you considering?" he asked casually.
Looking at him, I felt my pulse quicken. Oh dear, this is really not good, I thought. He's not even trying to be handsome, but I find him so irresistible. What are you doing, get out of here now! My inner voice warned. Seeing his head cocked to one side, a curious and gentle look on his face, made the words come back to me all at once and tumble out.
"I'm going to write about how the submissive female is viewed as a victim in critical analysis, but with a broader understanding of feminist values, we can see space for both submissiveness and dominance as choices that denote strength on the part of women. And that liberates the dominant male voice from being one of oppressor, to being part of a functioning dyad allowing broader expression of personal identity within a dynamic of exchange. I want to find examples in modern literature that show this."
My face had reddened progressively as I spoke. There was a moment of silence and inwardly I cringed. His curious and gentle look had morphed into a curious and slightly bemused look. Oh no, I thought. How much of that actually came out of my mouth? Did I make it sound like I was talking about literature, not the other things that had started crossing my mind the minute I set foot in his classroom this fall?
"Well, that's an interesting topic," he noted, lightly. His eyes didn't leave me. I was painfully aware of my slight lack of breath that made my chest seem to shake. "Do you think this - what did you say, dyad? - do you think this dyad including the dominant male voice is congruent with feminist values, then?"
"Oh that depends, sir, uh I mean, Dr. Dee," I responded quickly, without giving a second thought. "When paired with some women, certainly. But that's what feminism gives us - choice."
"Choice in what way, would you say?"
"Well, choice..." I stammered, running low on courage. "In how you want to relate..."
"... Yes?" He prompted me, pushing me to finish my thought.
