The Professor. Charlotte Stein

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      I am well prepared for the next session with him. The book has been annotated and circled and marked. I have thoughts on it to discuss with him, and questions to ask of him, and serious points to make – almost as though we are a real Professor and student, meeting to further my education. Which we are, we are, we are. There is no almost about it. It is an absolute fact, and I would do well to remember that.

      I do remember that. As soon as I sit down opposite him, I open my satchel. I get out the copy of the book he gave me, without thinking once of how I fell asleep – with those pages spread over my face, so I could smell their papery smell and be reminded of certain things. And though I look at him, I avoid any part that might have once struck me as pleasant. His eyes, his mouth, the way he sits. The sheer bulk of him, crowding out every rational instinct and thought.

      I even ignore new little details that shouldn’t matter at all.

      That don’t matter at all. That never matter at all.

      Like the fact that his trousers are checked today. Very faintly, and in big squares of the sort men in the nineteenth century favoured, but still. They seem strange on him – even a little wild. And his cufflinks, his usually plain silver cufflinks…they are gone and have been replaced by ones set with blood-red stones. Rubies, I think, but I could never say for sure.

      Because I don’t care.

      I only care about the work.

      ‘So I looked at Chatterley and have to say – I think it’s better than you give it credit for. Here look, this line: “He hated mouth kisses.” It might not explicitly state that he did it between her legs but what else could he possibly mean?’ I tell him, just as bright and breezy as can be. I even manage a little shrug of my shoulders and a finger-point at the passage.

      Only to be dragged back to hell by the deep, dark rasp of his voice.

      ‘Did what between her legs?’

      I look at him then, though I know it will be a mistake. And it is: his gaze is as challenging as his words are, nearly flat but with just the finest hint of something else. Amusement, my mind whispers – though I try to shake it off. I answer him with the words ‘kissed her’, in a calm and even tone.

      But he just pushes harder.

      As though he knows that I’m close to breaking.

      ‘Kissed her how? Kissed her where?’

      ‘Kissed her…kissed her clit.’

      The word sizzles through me as hotly as it did when he said it.

      Hotter, because for one moment I see a flash of something in his eyes. A brightness that dies as soon as it appears. Or at least I think so – he turns away before I can tell for sure.

      ‘I see. And you are prevented, as he might have been, from saying this?’

      ‘I just said it to you now!’

      ‘But not in your writing.’

      ‘All right, yes, that much is true.’

      ‘You have every opportunity open to you to say what Lawrence was either too ignorant or prohibited from actually saying. You can give perspective that many cannot, that indeed many would kill for.’

      ‘Would you kill for it, Professor?’

      ‘In what way exactly? What do you mean?’

      His tone is so sharp suddenly that I look up from the spot I chose to focus on – a postcard pinned to the wall of a woman with hair as black and shaggy and thick as my own. And I’m glad I do, too. I get to see his eyes narrow, as though I made an accusation of some sort. I made him feel guilty, despite never intending to do anything of the kind. I didn’t even think about what the question might mean.

      Until he reacts like this to it.

      Like I said would you kill to know my thoughts, instead of anything more innocent.

      ‘I mean, would you like to be able to perfectly describe what women desire?’

      ‘I have no desire to ever write anything at all.’

      ‘No, not in terms of writing. Just in terms of how you feel.’

      ‘You honestly believe I have any kind of feeling about anything.’

      ‘A week ago I would have probably said you were made of granite.’

      ‘A week ago you were obviously far wiser than you seem to be now.’

      ‘Because I believe you might be made of flesh and bone?’

      ‘The granite guess was a great deal closer.’

      ‘You say that, but you have just spent hours and hours of your time trying to convince me that I should let imaginary women experience pleasurable sex.’

      His eyes spark again – more obviously now.

      So obviously it makes me shiver.

      ‘That hardly says anything about my emotional state.’

      ‘You don’t think so?’

      ‘I rather find it my civic duty.’

      ‘I see. In what way?’

      ‘I find it of vital importance that men are not permitted to go away believing a woman can orgasm from the most basic of attentions. Or worse: that it doesn’t matter if she orgasms at all.’

      ‘That almost sounds like passion. Not really a civic duty.’

      ‘Not at all. Not in the least.’

      ‘Are you quite sure, Professor?’

      He pauses before answering – though I’m glad he does. My heart is hammering too hard for me to carry on doing this for much longer. I feel as though it might be showing – that it might be juddering visibly through me. In fact, it seems to be going harder than when he spoke to me about sexy things.

      Or so I think, until he says the sexy things again.

      Quite abruptly, as if he understands what will happen when he does: I will lose focus. I will stop asking him questions he maybe doesn’t want to answer.

      And he’s right.

      ‘On page fourteen you write about him coming in her mouth,’ he says.

      Then I forget every single thing we were speaking of before. I forget the delicious idea that he might feel, beneath his cold, calm exterior. I forget how tense he suddenly looks, how bright his eyes suddenly are, how his hand goes to his tie as though checking it’s still there. The only thing I know is that he just said ‘coming’.

      And is about to say more.

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