aren’t done talking about him.” She closed the laptop and hugged it to her chest. “It means I’m not too late! I thought maybe I was but I’m not!”
“That’s awesome, Becks. I’m so glad for you.”
“I’m thinking of changing my dissertation topic, in fact.”
“Really?”
“Really. This is what came to me while listening to his last album a few days ago. While tipsy.” She blushed at that admission, which I thought was cute. Becky didn’t have any tolerance for alcohol. “The entire thing can be interpreted as representative of a feminist utopia.”
I yawned again. “Becks, I think I’m too tired to wrap my brain around how a bunch of pop songs by a white male billionaire equate to feminist utopia.”
“Okay. I’m going to bed now, too. I’ll explain it to you over breakfast and see if it makes sense then.” She bobbed up. “Good night!” She went into her room. I could hear her singing along to her MP3 player as she got ready for bed.
I popped into the bathroom to do my bedtime regimen and then stumbled back out to the futon. I was too tired to flatten it out into a bed, so I just fluffed my pillow and lay down with my back against it, like lying across a car seat. I kept the jacket on, wrapped around me, surrounded by his scent. She was right. The way he talked didn’t sound like any BDSM how-to article I’d ever seen on the Internet. They were all about how to tie people up safely and master/slave contract negotiations. What we had was a lot simpler than a contract, wasn’t it? It was only a couple of rules. By following them, we could express our interest in each other, as well as desire, respect, and loyalty. I couldn’t care less whether he measured up to some bogus online standard or not. I swallowed, a deep thrill running through me as I remembered the next time I saw him would be to make it up to him. To take my punishment, whatever that would be. Spanking? Flogging? Something else? I slipped easily into vivid dreams of his arms around me, his hands seeking my soft places, for both pleasure and pain.
Six: Just Be Still
I almost didn’t go. By the time Wednesday came, I had done the following: researched sexual harassment cases at the university, hidden in the apartment the whole day afterward, called Jill to tell her about it, chickened out and didn’t tell her anything about Renault, and gone to my part-time job working in the alumni relations office.
The university website had very clear information on how an employee of the school should report sexual harassment, but almost nothing about students other than listing lots and lots of places to report it. I could go to the campus police or any one of ten different agencies, but none of them provided any information at all about what “reporting” entailed. Nothing about anonymity, nothing about protection from repercussions or retribution, nothing about how investigations would be conducted or by whom. That was not confidence-inspiring. There were lots of detailed procedures for when the student was the one being charged with any kind of misconduct, but zero about how students could go about charging a faculty member.
I ended up on the rape crisis center page and found it even more frightening: It sounded like if I didn’t have a semen sample, I was up a creek. Looking at the employee guide didn’t inspire hope, either. If grad students were treated like employees, then I’d first have to schedule an interview with an investigator, then wait 30 days after the interview while they conducted a review, which could be extended for another 30 days if inconclusive. Ugh. By 30 days from now, I’d have missed my window to file for graduation. And really, what would the investigator find? I’d say Renault made inappropriate comments, and he’d say he didn’t. I’d say he threw out my thesis, he’d say it was no good. I’d be right back where I was, with no leg to stand on and needing another semester of thesis seminar
“That’s awesome, Becks. I’m so glad for you.”
“I’m thinking of changing my dissertation topic, in fact.”
“Really?”
“Really. This is what came to me while listening to his last album a few days ago. While tipsy.” She blushed at that admission, which I thought was cute. Becky didn’t have any tolerance for alcohol. “The entire thing can be interpreted as representative of a feminist utopia.”
I yawned again. “Becks, I think I’m too tired to wrap my brain around how a bunch of pop songs by a white male billionaire equate to feminist utopia.”
“Okay. I’m going to bed now, too. I’ll explain it to you over breakfast and see if it makes sense then.” She bobbed up. “Good night!” She went into her room. I could hear her singing along to her MP3 player as she got ready for bed.
I popped into the bathroom to do my bedtime regimen and then stumbled back out to the futon. I was too tired to flatten it out into a bed, so I just fluffed my pillow and lay down with my back against it, like lying across a car seat. I kept the jacket on, wrapped around me, surrounded by his scent. She was right. The way he talked didn’t sound like any BDSM how-to article I’d ever seen on the Internet. They were all about how to tie people up safely and master/slave contract negotiations. What we had was a lot simpler than a contract, wasn’t it? It was only a couple of rules. By following them, we could express our interest in each other, as well as desire, respect, and loyalty. I couldn’t care less whether he measured up to some bogus online standard or not. I swallowed, a deep thrill running through me as I remembered the next time I saw him would be to make it up to him. To take my punishment, whatever that would be. Spanking? Flogging? Something else? I slipped easily into vivid dreams of his arms around me, his hands seeking my soft places, for both pleasure and pain.
Six: Just Be Still
I almost didn’t go. By the time Wednesday came, I had done the following: researched sexual harassment cases at the university, hidden in the apartment the whole day afterward, called Jill to tell her about it, chickened out and didn’t tell her anything about Renault, and gone to my part-time job working in the alumni relations office.
The university website had very clear information on how an employee of the school should report sexual harassment, but almost nothing about students other than listing lots and lots of places to report it. I could go to the campus police or any one of ten different agencies, but none of them provided any information at all about what “reporting” entailed. Nothing about anonymity, nothing about protection from repercussions or retribution, nothing about how investigations would be conducted or by whom. That was not confidence-inspiring. There were lots of detailed procedures for when the student was the one being charged with any kind of misconduct, but zero about how students could go about charging a faculty member.
I ended up on the rape crisis center page and found it even more frightening: It sounded like if I didn’t have a semen sample, I was up a creek. Looking at the employee guide didn’t inspire hope, either. If grad students were treated like employees, then I’d first have to schedule an interview with an investigator, then wait 30 days after the interview while they conducted a review, which could be extended for another 30 days if inconclusive. Ugh. By 30 days from now, I’d have missed my window to file for graduation. And really, what would the investigator find? I’d say Renault made inappropriate comments, and he’d say he didn’t. I’d say he threw out my thesis, he’d say it was no good. I’d be right back where I was, with no leg to stand on and needing another semester of thesis seminar
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