The scene is a university lecture theater – or rather, just outside one. Students are filing into it. Lecture for the day. Post-revolutionary France and sexual dissidence, or something like that. Lecturer is Professor Frenesi Foxx: forty-two, no nonsense professor, brilliant, uncloseted lesbian, weird and wonderful in her taste in clothes, and specialist not only in gender theory but French history.
One of the undergraduate students in the throng is one Patricia, holding back from the crowd a little, waiting for her friend Felicia to appear.
She does, out of breath, chattering madly but half whisperingly into Patricia’s ear as the two press through the thronged doorway and take seats right at the front of the hall.
“So,” says Patricia, “you just saw her?”
“Yes, she’s coming. And you’ve just gotta see . . .” Felicia here, obviously excited, like the impressionable young woman she is, by the impending arrival of some August personage. Patricia, for her part, is the same age, but less easily impressed. She is indeed that type: slow to make up her mind on anything, but quite definite once she does.
“See what?” asks the intelligent but ever so slightly morose Patricia.
“She is?” Patricia smiles. “Thatta girl.” Smiling so brightens one’s day. She leans back into her chair with the little armrest desk in front of it, opens a notebook. “This I gotta see. Foxx doesn’t pack very often.”
Well, you know who they are talking about now, but what is this “packed”, you may well ask? Some freshman girls’ argot no doubt, perhaps one that only the two of them share. All very cryptic, unless, of course, they really take a more than ordinary interest in professors packing their luggage or something, but that would be too stupid. Could it mean she’s “packing heat” i.e. carrying a pistol? No, the good professor does not carry a pistol, though she is definitely sexy enough to make the odd student here and there well, more than the odd one feel as if he or she has been “shot” so to speak, through heart, balls, or beaver by her oh, so aloof and raven-haired beauty.
The professor was actually a model in her early twenties, but got bored. They said, as people do, that she would never have the brains for a prof, and if they are still watching, they have egg on their faces. Oh she has the brains all right: all the degrees on the wall and a curriculum vitae as long as a French swordsman’s nose. All good stuff, too; not the finger-twiddling which so often usurps the name of postmodernism.
“So, you did see her packed, right? It’s not just something you heard. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a false rumor of packing!” says Patricia.
“Oh, she’s packed, all right, I saw her myself. I just about dropped dead. My legs went weak. I had to sit down and fan myself with my miserable psychology paper.”
“Cool. This should be good. Don’t expect me to change my mind though; I still say she’s a lipstick lesbian.”
“You don’t respect any lesbian unless she’s a truck driver.” “Lighten up. I’m a lesbian and I drive a Suzuki.” “Well, I’m a lesbian and I drive a mountain bike.” “That’s why you, my dear, are the lesser lesbian.” “Oh, fuck off!” says Felicia merrily, swatting her much larger friend with a notebook.
All the students are now in the room. A gleeful counter swat would be inevitable at this point except that at this moment the door at the front opens up. It is Frenesi Foxx. She takes the three steps up the lecture platform, puts her papers on the desk, moves the podium away because she never uses it, and proceeds to lecture: sure, confident, assuming full attention from her students and getting it – not an easy task with a room of fidgety undergrads, as any prof can tell you. This is what you need to know about sexual dissidence in post-revolutionary France she says in effect, and proceeds to tell them.
The room is filled with whirring pens and pencils.
This professor is actually pretty nice to look at, whether you are a straight male or a lesbian. She has lots of jet-black hair in a punkish style very obviously dyed, but that’s the point, not so? She’s got a very white face and deep red lipstick. Well, if that makes a lipstick lesbian, she is one. Slightly on the tall side, slender, quite “well endowed” as the euphemism goes. She’s wearing a tight long-sleeved sweater with one of those big, floppy, cowl collars. The sweater is black and goes over the pants, stopping just a little lower than the waist, hugging the top of the hip, held in close with a stretchy black belt.
Hmmm. Nice black leather boots. Tight. A high heel to them as well. They look quite fine as she slowly paces back and forth along the front of the lecture platform with the slow and unpredictable energy of a caged tiger.
Tiger, yes. Caged, no.
Pat and Felicia can’t talk anymore, so they exchange notes on half a piece of loose-leaf they pass surreptitiously back and forth.
– what did I tell you? Is she packed?
– o she’s packed alright
But, you are asking, what the hell with this “packed” stuff? You can see for yourself: her pants. Sleek, gunmetal stretch leather pants with hidden seams, a thick, but very stretchy leather that forms about her like rubber and into which, yes folks, she is really “packed”.
Do these pants make me look fat? A question the distinguished professor would never ask because she knows they don’t. They make her look packed. They make her look tight, shoehorned, exclusionary, but oh, so tastefully.
– is she some packed, or what}
– she is
– packed and stacked
– yeah. stacked and almost pointy
– a fifties bra? a cantilever?
– a heavy underwire certainly
Dirty-minded little things. Still, you can hardly blame them. How else is the lowly student to react to the inaccessible being? The scrap of paper is getting quite crowded with scribbles.
“The condition of post-revolutionary France is something which, at the time, had to be seen to be believed . . .” Yadda yadda yadda.
– how do you think she gets in?
– with great difficulty
– I mean seriously
– with serious great difficulty
The professor steps down from the platform and paces about in the space between it and the front row of desks. She is lost in her own ideas. Back and forth, back and forth, in front of Pat and Felicia. They bury their heads in their notebooks, taking real notes now, but still hazarding the odd scribble to each other when the professor’s back is turned.