don’t you, Athena?”
I felt my face grow hot. I reminded myself that Kip wasn’t much older than I was (thirty-something), or much taller. She was slim and muscular, but I was slim too. She had read a lot, of course, but that went with the territory; the same could be said about me. Like me, she had dark brown hair and eyes, although her eyes were smaller and looked more knowing than mine. Her hair looked short enough for the military, while mine flowed halfway down my back on occasions like this when it wasn’t pinned up.
When we first met, Kip already knew that I had been a faculty brat all my life. She had heard of my parents: the historian Abraham Chalkdust and the linguist Anna Parle Chalkdust. If my pedigree impressed her, she didn’t show it.
The quality in Kip that made me weak in the knees (even though I was not a weak person, as I reminded myself) seemed beyond my power to analyze. Telling myself that she was just an academic dyke like me didn’t help me at all.
I ignored her last comment and plunged on with a discussion of my students, as though I were being interviewed for a job.
“They get the irony of the host’s concern for his friend’s health as the two men go deeper and deeper into the crypt of the family castle. Each time the host asks, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back?’ the guest tells him to lead on. The guest ignores the cold, damp air of the place because he’s drunk and trusting and curious. And he’s dressed as a fool or jester, in a cap with bells. Students get it.”
“It’s one of your favorite stories, isn’t it, Athena?” asked Kip, my boss. She was almost openly laughing at me. “This is interesting. What’s your favorite part?”
I felt as if the answer must be written on my face, or maybe in the modest cleavage that showed above my neckline, the little valley that led directly to my heart. I knew that I couldn’t ignore her question this time.
I nervously brushed the long hair out of my eyes and tossed it behind my shoulders before I realized how flirtatious this must look.
“That moment when the host chains his friend to the wall,” I told her. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kip’s gaze dropped to my small, perky breasts, and her smile widened. “It’s so intimate. He fastens his victim’s wrists to bolts in the wall that have been used to secure captured enemies for centuries. Then the host chains his victim’s waist. They must be physically close for that, and the fool doesn’t fight back at first because he trusts his friend. It’s only when he realizes that he’s not going to be released that he struggles. ‘For the love of God, Montresor!’ he begs, but he gets no mercy.”
I shifted my butt on Kip’s sofa, and she looked down at my hips in sleek black pants.
“It’s horrifying, of course,” I said, “but think about it: Montresor wants to keep his old friend there forever, with the bones of his own ancestors. No one makes commitments like that anymore.” I was trying to lighten the mood. I thought I sounded young and foolish.
“So you think the story has a homosexual subtext?”
“Yes,” I told her, forcing myself to look into her shrewd chocolate-colored eyes. “No one names it, but it’s there.”
“And the act of chaining someone up seems erotic to you?” she demanded. “Or would you rather be the helpless victim? The one who gets shackled or fettered in a dungeon by one who lured you down there by offering you something special?”
For the love of God! She had led me to this point in the conversation, and I had willingly followed. And now I couldn’t find a graceful way to go back or get away. “Uh,” I answered. “I’d like to be chained up.” There. I had said it. “Not permanently, of course! Just for awhile. By someone with better intentions than any of the maniacs in Poe’s stories! I’d like to be locked up or tied up by someone who wants me. Alive. Not someone who wants me
I felt my face grow hot. I reminded myself that Kip wasn’t much older than I was (thirty-something), or much taller. She was slim and muscular, but I was slim too. She had read a lot, of course, but that went with the territory; the same could be said about me. Like me, she had dark brown hair and eyes, although her eyes were smaller and looked more knowing than mine. Her hair looked short enough for the military, while mine flowed halfway down my back on occasions like this when it wasn’t pinned up.
When we first met, Kip already knew that I had been a faculty brat all my life. She had heard of my parents: the historian Abraham Chalkdust and the linguist Anna Parle Chalkdust. If my pedigree impressed her, she didn’t show it.
The quality in Kip that made me weak in the knees (even though I was not a weak person, as I reminded myself) seemed beyond my power to analyze. Telling myself that she was just an academic dyke like me didn’t help me at all.
I ignored her last comment and plunged on with a discussion of my students, as though I were being interviewed for a job.
“They get the irony of the host’s concern for his friend’s health as the two men go deeper and deeper into the crypt of the family castle. Each time the host asks, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back?’ the guest tells him to lead on. The guest ignores the cold, damp air of the place because he’s drunk and trusting and curious. And he’s dressed as a fool or jester, in a cap with bells. Students get it.”
“It’s one of your favorite stories, isn’t it, Athena?” asked Kip, my boss. She was almost openly laughing at me. “This is interesting. What’s your favorite part?”
I felt as if the answer must be written on my face, or maybe in the modest cleavage that showed above my neckline, the little valley that led directly to my heart. I knew that I couldn’t ignore her question this time.
I nervously brushed the long hair out of my eyes and tossed it behind my shoulders before I realized how flirtatious this must look.
“That moment when the host chains his friend to the wall,” I told her. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kip’s gaze dropped to my small, perky breasts, and her smile widened. “It’s so intimate. He fastens his victim’s wrists to bolts in the wall that have been used to secure captured enemies for centuries. Then the host chains his victim’s waist. They must be physically close for that, and the fool doesn’t fight back at first because he trusts his friend. It’s only when he realizes that he’s not going to be released that he struggles. ‘For the love of God, Montresor!’ he begs, but he gets no mercy.”
I shifted my butt on Kip’s sofa, and she looked down at my hips in sleek black pants.
“It’s horrifying, of course,” I said, “but think about it: Montresor wants to keep his old friend there forever, with the bones of his own ancestors. No one makes commitments like that anymore.” I was trying to lighten the mood. I thought I sounded young and foolish.
“So you think the story has a homosexual subtext?”
“Yes,” I told her, forcing myself to look into her shrewd chocolate-colored eyes. “No one names it, but it’s there.”
“And the act of chaining someone up seems erotic to you?” she demanded. “Or would you rather be the helpless victim? The one who gets shackled or fettered in a dungeon by one who lured you down there by offering you something special?”
For the love of God! She had led me to this point in the conversation, and I had willingly followed. And now I couldn’t find a graceful way to go back or get away. “Uh,” I answered. “I’d like to be chained up.” There. I had said it. “Not permanently, of course! Just for awhile. By someone with better intentions than any of the maniacs in Poe’s stories! I’d like to be locked up or tied up by someone who wants me. Alive. Not someone who wants me
Similar Books
