Ally Hughes Has Sex Sometimes by Jules Moulin

pseudonyms, and all the sweet and relentless courting of one nasty chair who stole her from the Economics Department.
    She had to stay in and stick it out, Claire reminded her. Tenure, tenure! She needed tenure! Providence for life! If she worked hard and played by the rules.
    Ally knew she’d never get it. Her mother had no idea what it took or how it worked. She wasn’t even sure she wanted it.
    That was it. That was the story. She gazed at Jake.
    Jake, her student! Jake, like some hero from a daytime soap! Jake in her bedroom! The boy in the back, half naked!
    He leaned in and kissed her on the lips, then rolled back on top of her, kissing her harder, even more deeply.
    Suddenly Ally was tugging at his belt.
    She couldn’t resist. She couldn’t wait. She wanted him now. She had suffered long enough.
    She sat up and pulled his belt apart, then fumbled with the button at the top of his zipper.
    Jake grew still, looking pleased and surprised.
    Ally wanted him. She wanted to release him. She’d felt him building against her belly, pressing against her inner thighs.
    She pulled down his zipper, and Jake rose back to his knees to help. He pulled down his jeans and kicked them off. Then did the same with his gray cotton briefs.
    Oh no! she thought when she saw him in the shadows, huge and ready and poised for her. Her jaw dropped and her mouth opened wide. She couldn’t help it. “Oh my goodness.”
    It was— He was absolutely perfect.
    Astonishingly perfect.
    Wider in girth, straighter, firmer, longer and wider, wider and longer, stronger somehow, than any she’d ever seen before. He was— It was magnificent. “Oh my goodness,” she said again. She couldn’t help but stare as she slid off her jeans and panties, too.
    And then the phone rang.
    The phone.
    The cordless phone at the foot of the bed.
    â€œShoot!” she said in anguish. “Sorry!”
    Jake smiled and slid to her side.
    â€œOh my goodness. Hold that thought.” She knew it was Lizzie and Claire calling. They were calling, of course, to say good night. It was after ten. “I’m so sorry. I have to get this.”
    â€œYour kid?”
    â€œI think.” She reached around him to pick up the phone.

“ WEATHER SAYS YOUR FEMINISM is
so
1960s, Mom.” Lizzie handed the pasta to Jake. “She says you’re a product of the time you were born.”
    â€œI wasn’t born in the sixties, honey.”
    â€œYou weren’t?”
    â€œNo!” Ally laughed.
    â€œYou don’t know when your mother was born?” Jake leaned across the table. He spooned the pasta onto Ally’s plate.
    â€œTeddy, could you wait?” Lizzie scolded, glaring at him.
    â€œSorry. I’m hungry,” Teddy said, looking up from his meal, chewing.
    â€œI thought you were
patient,
” Lizzie sniped.
    He put down his fork.
    â€œNineteen seventy-
three,
” Ally said as she laid out the chicken. “Thank you, Jake.”
    Jake sat down and served himself.
    â€œWeather says you’re a postfeminist.”
    â€œWeather’s wrong.”
    â€œHow is she wrong? What are you, then?”
    â€œDo we want to do this?” Ally said. “Now?”
    Lizzie continued. “She said you are. But we’re not. We’re
neo
feminists. Modern consumers. Not afraid of beauty or sex. Not afraid to define ourselves, market ourselves, sell ourselves. Wait, is this cheese?” She looked at her plate.
    â€œBuffalo mozzarella, honey.”
    â€œOh, thanks.” She turned to Jake. “I can’t touch dairy. Weather says dairy and gluten are poison.”
    â€œTrue, if you’re
lactose intolerant,
” Ally said.
    â€œOr you’re celiac,” Jake added.
    â€œWeather weighs almost two hundred pounds,” Ally continued kindly, fairly, taking a seat. “Should she be giving diet advice?”
    Really she wanted to kill Weather: Stephanie Rachel