Писатель: Zwing Zwing Zzwing
Входит в цикл: “Новелла”
Глава в томе: Deconstructing the Professor: A Novella I
Случайный абзац
It was like she had the body I wished I had and the brains to go with it. She was also always smiling and oddly always sat with the rather dim-witted Madison, her polar opposite. The very next day in class I saw a new Madison that continued over the next three weeks. Gone was the t-shirt and jeans she usually wore, except on exam days, and instead she was dressed in a micro-mini skirt and a low cut blouse that did nothing to hold in her clearly braless breasts. She also now sat in the very front row with her pretty girl posse (Madison, Miko, and Ashley Washington, a pretty, big busted brunette). As I lectured, I was greatly distracted by the constant crossing and uncrossing of Madison's legs and how she purposely let them part and thus gave me plenty of opportunities to look up her skirt and see her sheer white panties. I should note that I was not a lesbian or bi or even bi-curious in my first 40 years of life. I knew when a girl was pretty, or noticed when a girl dressed like a slut, but that was about it. In reality I was more jealous than anything. I was envious of girls like Madison and her 'I'm entitled' attitude; she got whatever she wanted, while I had to work my ass off for every little thing. My resentment was mixed with the fact that she evidently thought flashing me would somehow bolster her power position over me. The resentment was actually more at how her condescending treatment of me brought flooding back my many levels of guilt. I have always had multiple layers of shame and guilt. Guilt and shame over any sign of increasing sag or jiggle. Guilt and shame as a feminist of being so body-conscious and competitive with other women: black women, white women, and young women in their teens and twenties. Feeling envious and jealous in spite of myself, about how I sized up against them as a sex object: breasts and butt, waist and legs, face and hair. This was ironic given my relative lack of sexual desires. Guilt and shame about the secret sense of pride I felt when a man noticed my body, and the vapid vanity and inanity of it all. Lastly, although I tried to push her out of my dreams, a recurring dream of Madison treating me as her personal maid began to replay in my nights. It was always the same. I was dressed in a slutty Halloween maid costume and forced to serve food and drinks to Madison and her sorority girls. It had never been sexual, just a clear cut line between Mistress and Servant, white versus black, aristocrat versus serf. On the da
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