On Tuesday and Thursday mornings I have an hour between classes, and I use the time in the gymnasium, doing floor exercises, working up a sweat.
I tossed my tights and singlet in my bag, grabbed a towel, and went into the shower room. Damp and dark; 20x20, tiled from floor to ceiling, with shower heads spaced every five feet or so. I was just rinsing off, when someone entered the room.
She selected the space beside me, which I thought somewhat unusual. Generally, if the place isn't filled to capacity after some team event, people give each other a bit more space. I wiped the water from my eyes, and looked at her.
"Ms. Larsen," I said, surprised. "Hello." Ms. Larsen, I should say, is a grad student, and teaches my English Lit class. She is bigger than I am- who isn't- with plump breasts and a bit of a belly. I'd guess she was in her mid twenties. A pretty face and red hair, which I could see was her natural color.
"I was watching you," she said. "You've had formal training."
"Years and years," I replied, reaching for my towel. I was uneasy about the way she was studying me.
"Magnificent," she said, puzzling me as to just what she thought was so great. She quickly cleared that up. She took a step closer to me, reached out, touched my lower lip with her thumb. Traced it slowly down my chin, my throat, my chest, my-
I recoiled and snatched for my towel. "I-I have a class. Gotta run!" And I did, treating her to a flash of butt as I skittered across the wet tile floor, and back to my locker. Dressed in a trice, and got the hell out of Dodge.
That afternoon, listening to her drone on about 19th Century poetry, my nasty little mind drifted back to that shower room. I felt a tingle of the sort that Marcel can induce with a certain look. Only, Marcel was nowhere in sight.
Ms. Larsen seemed to be looking directly at me, as she said, " 'The mur-mur-ing pines and the hem-locks. This is the for-est prim-e-val.' Iambic pentameter."
After class I lingered until the other students left. I approached the front of the room as she gathered her materials. "Uh, Ms. Larsen? About what happened in the shower-"
She smiled, raised her palms in front of her. "Oops, sorry! Hey, no harm, no foul, O.K.?"
"Yeah, sure, O.K." I unlocked my bike and pedalled the mile and a half back to the apartment. Put a casserole on the stove to heat, and started conjugating French verbs at the kitchen table. Je suis, vous etes, nous sommes. What a screwy language.
Marcel came home, kissed the top of my head, went into the bedroom to change. "How was class today?" he called.
"Huh? oh; 'kay, I guess."
He reappeared in linen slacks and a silk pullover. Poured himself a glass of wine, stirred the casserole. Sat, watched me study. He reached out, took my hand. "You're awfully quite this evening."
I tried to ignore him; read, my lips moving as I worked my way through the next verb. I sighed, closed the book. "Marcel? Did you ever, uh, fool around with another guy?"
He sipped his wine and studied me across the top of his glass. "Tut, tut, Swan; aren't you the curious little bird. What makes you ask such a question?"
"Today. . . Back in seventh grade I was at a party, and we played Spin the Bottle. I had to kiss a couple of the girls. And, it was like: nothing. But, then, today. . ."
I told him about Ms. Larsen in the shower, how she'd touched me, how I felt odd, later, in her class.
"And what sort of 'odd' did you feel, ma petite oiseau?"
"It was weird; just thinking about the way she'd trailed her thumb, made me feel the way I do when YOU touch me. Tingley. Flushed. Like, I sort of wished I hadn't run out of the shower room. You think I'm, you know, a-"
"A lesbian? I doubt that, dear child. You like straight sex too much! But, depending upon how strong an attraction you have for this woman, it's quite possible that your are having bi-sexual urges. I believe that we all are, to some extent. I've always thought that the loudest homophobes were repressing latent tendencies."
He got up and checked the casserole, put plates and silverware on the table. I put my books away and washed my hands.
After dinner I hurriedly did the dishes, wrapped my arms around my lover, whispered, "I'm so confused! Take me to bed, Marcel; I need you to screw my brains out."
And we did; and then we talked and talked and talked.
The following week, as I entered the classroom, Ms. Larsen touched my elbow, said quickly, "Stay after class for a moment, please."
I did as I was told. I can be SUCH an obedient child!
She sat at the desk beside mine. "Look; I appologize for last week. I don't know what came over me. It's just that, since the beginning of the year, I've noticed you, the way you carry yourself with such grace. And, when I saw you, exercising in the gymn, I had to see you. . . in the alltogether. Please! It was so stupid of me; I'll lose my job, get bounced out of grad school, if anyone finds out!"
"Yes, I suppose you would. But then, it would be my word against yours, and I'm just a lowly Freshman, while you have your degree, are about to get your Masters. Who would they believe?"
