The Poet (Part 1)
Kathryn M. Burke
When she was growing up, Rowena Morris hadn't liked her unusual first name--but now she took pride in it. She'd never met anyone with that name, so it made her feel special. There was a charming antique flavor to it--not that she was anything but a modern, up-to-date girl who loved her smartphone and was all over social media. But it turned out that that name of hers got her into trouble in a way she never expected.
Rowena, having turned twenty-one over the summer, was in her senior year of college in southern California. She was
soooo
ready to graduate and get out into the real world. Enough of studying! But, chuckling to herself, she reflected that her college years hadn't been so bad. Maybe it was the fact that she was on her own and away from her parents for the first time; maybe it was because her college seemed to have an unusual number of cute and handsome boys. Whatever it was, Rowena had made herself available to heaps of boys during her freshman, sophomore, and junior years.
She knew she was cute as a button: lovely oval-shaped face framed by an untidy mop of shiny brown hair; a pair of knockers that would have turned the head of a monk; hips, thighs, and ass that any number of guys had actually salivated over. During those first three years of her college life, she hadn't been all that choosy about who she let into her bed: she figured she wanted to cast a wide net to see what kind of guy--and what kind of cock and butt and chest and biceps--were to her liking. She hadn't kept count of the young men who'd poked her, but they probably numbered in the dozens--maybe even a hundred or more. Most of them had exercised that privilege exactly once: they clearly didn't come up to her exacting standards. A few had been invited a second or third time, and only one had lasted for even a few weeks.
By her senior year, Rowena had decided that this revolving door of male flesh was getting a little boring, so she started to be a bit more discriminating. But by then, she'd unfortunately developed a "reputation," and so the only guys who'd approach her were these scumbags at frat parties who'd come up to her, wagging their tongues and saying "Hey, babe, let's get it on!" When she gave them a look you'd give a fly who was taking a bath in your soup, they couldn't understand it.
Where does she get off rejecting such a magnificent specimen of masculinity such as myself?
they thought. Rowena wondered sourly why men never get a "reputation," only women.
So there she was, more than halfway through senior year without much of a prospect for continuing her exploration of the male body--and her own. Maybe she needed to go after a different kind of guy. Whether it was a conscious wish along those lines that led her to meet up with Blake, she didn't know. But that's what happened.
She was wandering through the student center as the second semester of her senior year started, she saw this guy sitting at a table, by himself, with what looked like hundreds of sheets of paper spread all around him. She vaguely recognized him as Blake Turner, who'd published some poetry in the school literary magazine,
The Oracle.
Imagine someone being a poet in this day and age! It seemed kind of antiquated. But he certainly had a fitting name for a poet! And, as she gazed upon him, she thought he was not at all bad-looking. Even though he was poring over those pages as if nothing else in the world existed, she could see that he had an unruly mop of straight black hair, a chiseled face, and what looked like a pretty solid body.
Let's face it,
she reflected,
women are the ornaments of the human species. Men--well, they're just kind of utilitarian. Still, some are better than others.
"Hey," she said, coming up to Blake, "whatcha doin'?"
He was so oblivious of her presence that he gaped up at her with a look of terror on his face, and a jerky motion sent some of his papers floating to the floor.
"Oops!" she said, bending down to pick up the papers. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
When Blake still said nothing, only staring wide-eyed at her, she went on. "You're Blake Turner, aren't you?"
He managed to croak, "Yeah."
"I've read some of your stuff in
The Oracle.
It's pretty good. I'm an English major, so I should know. Kind of dark, even pessimistic, but that's cool."
A glum expression came over Blake's face. "A lot of it is rubbish," he muttered, seemingly to himself.
Rowena flared in anger. "Hey, how can you say that about your own work? I mean, maybe it's not up to Shelley's level, but it's damn good for a-- How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," he said.
"Oh, so you're a senior like me?"
"Yeah."
"If you don't think your stuff's much good, what are you doing? These are your poems, aren't they?"
"Yeah."
This guy, for a poet, wasn't exactly the most articulate person in the world, at least face-to-face!
"And what's the plan here?"
With extreme reluctance Blake said, "I--I'm trying to put a book together."
"A book!" Rowena burst out. "That's great! So you must think your stuff has
some
value, if you're assembling a book."
"No one's gonna publish it," he said morosely.
"You don't know that." Suddenly becoming all businesslike, she sat down in a chair next to him. "Lemme read some of it. Maybe I can help you."
