Someone to Love(53)

Cruise leans against his desk. His face blanches out as he considers this. It’s as though he realizes she diagnosed him so correctly he’s only now aware of the fact his manwhore ways were nothing more than a ruse. In the end, that’s probably all our affections will be reduced to, a meaningless sexual exchange—nothing more than a device to satisfy ourselves—no real love because we don’t believe in it—only now, I think I do.

Cruise takes a breath. “So the power exchange is what creates the vulnerability between sexual partners, and when the balance is disrupted, it crushes the weaker of the two units.”

“Not necessarily.” Cheryl straightens at the prospect of conducting a lecture all on her own. “The power exchange doesn’t need to have sexual underpinnings. It could take place with a child and its parents. Plenty of girls are victims of deadbeat fathers and statistics show that girls who grow up without a paternal influence in their lives seek male attention in other ways. Any stripper in the country can testify to this.”

Cruise cuts an involuntary look in my direction.

I know what he’s thinking—that I’m rife with daddy issues. He thinks he’s pegged the very reason I’ve decided to descend into whoredom, no thanks to the malnourished wealth of information next to me, espousing her not-so-sage wisdom. And, sadly, both he and she would be right.

“Kenny,” he says it low, robotic, “you look like you have something to say.”

I take in a sharp breath. “I guess it’s true.” I look over at Cheryl and watch as her skeletal frame gloats in my direction. “I, like any stripper in the country, can testify to this. Funny thing is, it was one of my stepfathers who enlightened me to this morsel when I was twelve.”

“That’s all right, Kenny,” he says it lower than a whisper, as if I’ve shared enough already. Cruise is trying to talk me out of carrying on with the verbal massacre of my adolescence.

“He already packed his things and was hauling his suitcase out the door.” I take in a ragged breath. “He and my mother had a really big blowout. I remember…he shouted, loud as he could, that I’d grow up to be a tramp just like my mother.” I hold Cruise’s glassy-eyed stare for a very long time. The room, the other students, they melt away like snow—it’s just Cruise and me having an intimate conversation regarding the tumultuous state of my inner child. I had lifted my skirt and bared my shame to everyone in the vicinity. I don’t see the point in stopping now. “That’s why I did it. I held onto my virginity like a very sharp knife. I’d cut anyone who came close to me because I wanted to prove the bastard wrong. I wanted to show the world I would never end up like my mother. I ran from anything that even remotely resembled love and made damn sure it never found me.” Until now.

Cruise closes his eyes. A seam of liquid seals over his lashes. He turns to the board and takes out his aggression on a tiny piece of chalk as he scrawls out an assignment.

“Give me a short essay on the vulnerability of love.” He pulls me in with a volatile stare as everyone busies themselves with the task at hand. “Kenny, can I see you in the hall a minute?”

I take him in like this, the well-dressed authoritarian with his glasses firmly in place, his hair slicked back nice and neat. I think I like the sweaty version, the midnight rendition who presses his stubble into my neck while his hard-on pleads with my body to find it a home.

“No,” I say and get to the business of writing an essay for my professor.





So far, I’ve had a pretty shitty birthday.

I managed to avoid Cruise on at least two occasions since my impromptu confessional. First, after class, when he tried to tackle me like a defensive lineman in the hall and again in the library where he tried to flag me down, but I simply made a beeline for the stacks. Who knew that hidden among rows and rows of dusty old textbooks you could find such an odd assortment carnal perversion, ranging from blowjobs to hand jobs—covert coitus with pants slightly sagging, the skirt perfectly adjusted. It was practically a Karma Sutra performance piece in there. I think they should seriously consider renaming it “The Raunchy Reference Center.”

I begrudgingly make my way to the art building where Professor Webber meets me near the door, with a purple robe in hand.

“You’re late.” She bites the air as if I’ve intentionally decided to show five minutes past the hour to stage some grand entrance because God knows I want to bare my breasts in style. Which reminds me, I meant to shave my area this morning, but was waylaid by Cruise and his sudden need to flash me.