Just in time for Valentine's Day, a history professor gives a lecture to his college students about the unexpectedly liberal attitude of the Victorians toward sex without realizing that a visitor to his classroom is about to make him an offer he can't refuse.
This story was contributed by RS Kovach
"Victorian morality wasn't actually the prude, stiff upper lip type of sensibility that most people today mistakenly think it to have been," Professor Andrew Pace said, shrugging out of his tweed jacket. Its leather elbow patches couldn't have screamed 'I'm English' any louder even if his accent hadn't betrayed him. After having lived in America for almost a decade, his lilt— typical of a BBC presenter just like his grandfatherly business attire—still hadn't diminished.
As he rolled up his shirtsleeves, Pace's students quietly looked on. He had a habit of starting all of his classes, not just the undergraduate History of Sexuality seminar he was currently holding, by partially disrobing while introducing the day's topic of discussion.
Maybe room 103 in McCarthy Hall where the late-thirties academic usually taught got hotter than other locations on campus. Or maybe he needed the extra freedom of movement for his arms, which—like the rest of his upper body—was more muscular than what one would have expected from a man in studious tortoiseshell glasses, a neatly trimmed blonde beard, and polished, brown Oxford shoes. Or—and this was the theory a majority of his students who had an attraction to men believed—maybe Pace was simply a tease.
The act of ritualistically peeling off his outer layers of protection (even if made of fabric instead of a more sturdy material like armor metal) could have easily been a symbolic display of power in the face of creating vulnerability. That even when left exposed without the protection of the traditional robes of the patriarchy (in this case, the suit jacket), the subject could maintain a level of control by drawing attention to his most pleasing features.
Why wouldn't he?
Pace presented more like an anti-hero from a Guy Ritchie film than a world-renowned researcher with twenty published papers in peer-reviewed journals whose nose could be found in a stuffy book on most weekends. And that was even without revealing the skull tattooed over his heart from the time of his adolescent fascination with memento mori.
"We had started this semester a few weeks ago with the boring stuff," the professor continued as he walked around the desk at the front of the classroom. "Foucault, Freud, Kinsey. Come on, admit it. None of you signed up for this course specifically for those dead, white guys."
An uncomfortable laugh came from those in attendance, but that didn't mean that Pace was any less correct. He knew these students had been drawn to his syllabus because of its rumored deep dive into the taboo rather than the philosophical or even scientific basis for analysis of the subject. In fact, the liveliest discussions every semester usually involved gender norms and feminist ideology supported by the extraordinary evidence that he enthusiastically presented.
One thing, however, was clear. Pace's popularity wasn't due to his courses being cakewalks. He had no qualms in failing anyone who deserved it, and the lop-sided bell curve of his students' grades showed as much.
Leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms, Pace continued. "So in honor of Valentine's Day tomorrow, I thought that today we would talk about one of my favorite subjects. It was certainly anathema in contemporaneous times, and even now many people don't believe the proof in spite of their eyes because it contradicts their preconceptions."
The students began to rustle their notebooks, open their laptops, and pull out their pens, knowing that the actual lecture was about to begin. Professor Pace taught mostly through his classroom presentations, and failing to note down key pieces of information or juicy anecdotes that he had found in his own research meant they'd have to recall the details from memory. Because no academic textbook would publish the things he was about to talk about.
Pace clapped his hands together and smiled. "Very well. Let's begin." Standing once again, he surveyed his audience. Most were eagerly looking up, waiting for more. Good.
"Lights, please." The request was to his teaching assistant, Tissa, who quickly obliged thanks to her forethought to position herself near the switches. She had a brilliant mind and would make a successful academic, but Pace chose her out of dozens of applicants to support his work not for that, but rather because of this impeccable ability to anticipate his every desire.
"Desire."
Pace hadn't realized he'd actually said the word he'd been thinking out loud until it left his lips and echoed into his ears. He'd been so engrossed in the girl that he'd drifted off into his own thoughts while absent-mindedly twisting his wedding band around his finger. And now he'd begun his lecture with a word he wanted to introduce later. No matter. He was a man paid for speaking, and he'd saved plenty of off-the-rails conversations in his time.
Clearing his throat, he stepped into the newly created shadow at the front of the classroom as the overhead projector clicked to life. The painting of a nineteenth century noble woman—one side of her body leaning against a drawing room wall and the other side embraced by an equally well-dressed man as he gazed at her lovely neck—filled the screen.
"Desire has many different meanings for everyone. Ask one hundred people, and you'll get ninety-nine distinct answers," he said before pointing to a student in the back. "Ninety-nine because Mister Patel will surely look to his seatmate for an answer." The room erupted into chuckles, and Pace smiled. "Just kidding, Rav. We all know that was a one-time incident that won't ever happen again."
After the laughter had quieted down, the professor continued with the lecture. "Now, Foucault tied his theory of desire to what he called a power relation," Pace said, gesturing to the painting. "Power can be social, economic, political, or gender-based, and it's basically saying that the more societal norms forbid you from having something, the more strongly you'll desire it."
Hitting the clicker with his thumb, Pace unwittingly glanced again at Tissa—pensively drawing her index finger across her bottom lip—as he advanced the presentation to the next slide. It was an old newspaper advertising showing a man with sideburns kneeling before a lady with his hands up her floor-length gown. The headline read: Dr. Swift, a wonderful healer states: here is health through the magic power of fine, gentle massage.
"And does anyone remember what our friend Dr. Freud said of desire?" Pace asked to an audible groan from the students. "I know, I know, but bear with me. We're almost to the good stuff." He paused until he had all of their attention again. "Sigmund Freud argued that the intensity of passion—as a derivative of desire—gave a higher physical value to an object. In other words, the more sensually turned on a man was by a woman, the greater attraction and love he could thereby have felt toward her."
A few students snickered, but most were now engrossed in the presentation.
"Now, the Victorians—who we all know were the people of late nineteenth century Britain—had an inherent problem with sex. That problem wasn't the lack of or even too much sex, but rather the fact that sex often led to children, and in that day and age, there were too many damn kids around already," Pace said to another roar of chuckles. "Overpopulation contributed to famine, disease, and ultimately war, all of which were—and still are—very bad things. So the act that could lead to these situations was outwardly vilified. Simply put, sex was officially considered bad. And do you ladies and gentlemen recall what I had just said about Michel Focault's view on power relations?"
A wave of "aha's" accompanied the flipping of notebook pages as realization set in. Pace waited a few more seconds before jumping back in. "That's right. I can tell that most of you got it. The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, but then . . . how does that established social construct reconcile with this?" he asked, pointing to the newspaper's image behind him.
"You wouldn't expect to see a print ad showing a physician manually stimulating his female patient in any reputable publication today, so how shocking do you suppose it was to find one from one hundred thirty years ago?" He paused, but the room remained quiet, so he went on.
"Honestly? Not shocking at all. The use of 'fingering'," he said while drawing air quotes around the word to make it more palatable for use in a classroom setting, "was quite an acceptable form of treatment for the vague group of ailments classified as female hysteria in the late eighteen-hundreds. And if now you're completely confused about the dichotomy of the Victorians in their feelings toward sex, then you're not alone. They indeed were a paradox in their treatment of the topic, which makes its study all the more fun. In fact, cross-dressing, orgies, serialized erotic fiction, submissiveness, and punishment fetishes could all be found just below the surface of their superficial prudishness."
Pace advanced to the next slide just as the door at the far-end of the lecture hall opened. While the students quietly studied the sepia photograph of two nude women in knee-high stockings, lace-up granny boots, and flowery bonnets sitting in each other's laps, the professor watched as an African-American woman maybe ten years his senior walked to the nearest empty chair, taking care not to make too much noise with the clicking of her heels. She didn't look familiar, but that wasn't unusual. He occasionally had unannounced guests sit in on his lectures, although the presence of some was less welcome than others.
The stranger stayed for the rest of the class, appearing engrossed in the discussions about the subversive expression of homosexuality in Victorian art and literature as much as in the astounding boom of pornography during the period. At the conclusion of the session when Tissa turned the lights back on, not only did she fail to leave, but rather she grabbed her large handbag and made her way to the lectern, politely dodging students fleeing toward the exit.
Pace gathered his notes from the desk as though he hadn't noticed, letting the woman commence any interaction. This was his domain; he certainly wouldn't make an extra effort.
"That was quite the presentation to start the day," she said while walking down the center aisle.
With a measured restraint, Pace looked up. His visitor was more attractive up-close than he'd first realized, albeit a little curvier. Her white ruffled blouse stretched across her breasts, testing the willpower of the top button even as her statement necklace drew the ubiquitous male gaze straight down to the ample cleavage. Forcing his eyes upward, the professor continued the internal critique, finding the woman's eyes expressive, but her mouth a tad too large for the rest of her face. While it certainly gave her a pretty smile, the sight of the plump, crimson lips inadvertently made him wonder whether she was better than average at giving head.
Although she was now stopped in front of his desk, he still hadn't responded to her blunt observation about the day's topic. Instead, Pace finished collecting the loose pieces of paper strewn across the tabletop and tapped one edge of the stack on the desk to neatly order them. Turning to Tissa—who was once again just an arm's length away waiting to oblige in any way she could—he handed over the papers.
"Take these, will you? And I'll see you back in my office this afternoon?" he asked, although they both knew it was a command, not a question.
She nodded dutifully before grabbing her backpack and leaving.
"I'm glad you enjoyed my lecture," Pace finally said to the visitor, rounding the desk to close the gap between them. "Some may claim it's too risqué for a collegiate setting, but academic freedom certainly allows me to take some liberties. It's not my fault the research my colleagues in the mathematics department pursue isn't nearly as interesting."
The woman smiled and extended her hand. "Venus Coleman, assistant curator of temporary exhibits at the Smithsonian's Museum of Ethnography," she said, ignoring the jibe. "I don't usually make it a habit to drop by unannounced, but I was already in the area and thought I'd introduce myself in person instead of emailing you out of the blue."
Slightly relieved that she wasn't an irate parent or a representative of some Title IX committee, Pace shook her hand. "Doctor Andrew Pace, associate professor of history, but I'm assuming you already knew that. To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Coleman?"
She placed her bag at the corner of the desk and leaned on one arm while casually crossing her ankles. It was a clear power pose, showing that she was comfortable in spite of being on his turf. Brava. He liked her already.
"I'm putting together an exhibition scheduled for next fall around non-conventional sexual practices displayed within their historical and cultural context," she said without breaking eye contact, no doubt to gauge his reaction.
Pace was unfazed. "Kink, you mean?" he asked matter-of-factly.
She nodded. "Yes. That's actually the working title of the exhibit. We already have several confirmed experts in the fields of contemporary drag, BDSM, and fetish subcultures, and we're working on rounding out our contributors. As you're a top authority on the historical study of sexuality, we'd be honored if you would consult for us, as well."
Pace's mobile rang just as she'd finished, and he couldn't have been happier for the interruption. He was intrigued by Miss Coleman's request, but he knew he definitely had the upper hand in negotiating the terms. Consulting on a major exhibit like this would go well with his bid to reach full professorship within the next two years. The money—if he played it right—would be good, too. However, he didn't want to inadvertently say anything now without hearing the specifics.
Fishing the phone out of his pocket, Pace read the contact name: Samira. Oh, well. His wife would have to do.
"Excuse me, won't you? I have to take this," he said to the curator, who nodded in understanding.
"Of course," Miss Coleman said, reaching for her bag. "I'll send you that email with the details. Happy Valentine's Day, professor."
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I write strong yet relatable heroines, flawed but redeemable heroes, and the occasional villain you'll love to hate. As an art historian by training and a senior financial administrator by trade, Wattpad has helped me to also be a published author three times over through the release of a piratey audiobook, a romantic e-book, and a fairy tale-ish paperback anthology. Read more from RS here