A stroll down Memory Lane:

            I was a little rusty.  It had been a while since I was in the classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads.  To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing on my specialty, art, but on literature.  You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the semester.  The course was “Post-Modernism.”  I had jumped in just as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father.  Looking out across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself.  Were colleges admitting younger students, or was I just growing old?  I know what Lo would say. 

            The lecture hall was designed much like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten feet from the lectern to the last row.  And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my eyes. 

            I must have tickled her fancy because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel.  As I was pontificating about the post-modern condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties.  I was even able to discern the dainty little ‘V’ shape of her carefully groomed pubic hair. 

            Trying my best to not stare, since a hundred other eyes were on me as I looked out and up into those vessels waiting to be filled from my fount of wisdom, I read from the text:

They stand before the hole in the ground. 

No fleece? Asked the Dead Father.

Thomas looked at Julie

She has it?

Julie lifted her skirt.

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.  That’s it?

All there is, Julie said.  Unfortunately.  But this much.  This where life lives.  A pretty problem.  As mine as yours.  I’m sorry. 

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.

He moved to touch it.

No, said Thomas.

No, said Julie.

I’m not even to touch it?

No.

After all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey?  Not to touch it?  What am I to do?

            A suggestive passage, indeed.  But what was I to do?  The page had been earmarked by the professor in whose stead I stood and the passage highlighted.  After reading aloud, it dawned on me that perhaps this was indicated for his personal pleasure and not for me to discuss in class.  Too late.  The cat was out of the bag now.  Or the puss, as the case may be. 

            My little class flirt raised her hand.  “Why is Julie’s pubic hair depicted as blonde?” she asked, unabashed.  Perhaps even a little sadistically, as her question was intended to make me squirm publicly. 

            “Excellent question!” I said like a fool.  “Maybe because the entire text is harkening to Greek mythology, and the Golden Fleece is, well, golden?”

            Unsatisfied, she followed with, “But isn’t this just perpetuating the myth of white elitism?” 

            “It could be read that way, or it could be read as a commentary or critique of those very origin stories that propounded the European and, by extension, white supremacist beliefs.”  I thought the answer not bad for an extemporaneous analysis.

            “And the centrality of the father,” she said, “isn’t that really patriarchal?”

            “You could view it that way, except for the fact that the children are taking him to be buried.  They are attempting to bury the patriarchy, you might say.” 

            As I answered, she spread her legs, very wide this time, and her right hand moved with grace and effortless flow, down to her crotch and ever-so-briefly pet her labia, causing them to spread.  I knew where I wanted to bury my patriarchy. 

            When the class was finally over, as the students were filing out of the lecture hall, I called the precocious student over to my lectern.

            “Ms. uh. . .”

            “Down,” she said, “Lola Down.”

            “Ms. Down,” I said, looking into her brown eyes.  “I am sorry that you found this week’s text so objectionable.”

            “I didn’t find it objectionable,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me.  “I just don’t understand men’s idealizing and obsessing over blonde pussy.”

            I was shocked, shocked! at her forthrightness. 

            “Well, er, yes, um, I completely understand,” I muttered, unable to compose myself. 

            “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I like blonde pussy as much as the next girl, but it’s like ice cream.  Why only taste vanilla when there’s also chocolate and strawberry?” 

            “Well put,” I said like an idiot.  “I look forward to seeing you next class.”

            “I look forward to being seen,” she said, knowing exactly what I meant. 

            “And,” I added, “I hope you won’t be too offended by our assigned reading next week.”

            “Lolita?” she asked, displaying that she was well aware of what was on the syllabus, “Don’t worry, I read it so many times in middle school that the pages fell out.  It’s my favorite!”