“Meanwhile, men during this time are quite openly getting with prostitutes and satiating their hunger for—let’s call a spade a spade, dirty sex. Yep, there are accounts of men talking with their wives’ fathers about heading down to the brothel together. Women weren’t quite so lucky, and without any outlet for their sexual desires, that energy had nowhere to go, and they simply went a little insane, manifesting a condition they called hysteria. But how would you feel if your husband only wanted to have sex with you for about one minute every month, in the dark, with your clothes on?”
“Of course not every single woman had it this bad,” Professor Rose goes on. “Some women were lucky to have romantic husbands.” She shoots a glance at Professor Cole Hanks, who clenches a jaw, and oh my, I think she might have just gotten pregnant from that look. Someone is a sexually satisfied wife. Especially if the rumors about Professor Cole are true.
“Now is where you can start taking notes,” Professor Cole adds. “This channeling of different types of desire into different women is what’s known in evolutionary psychology circles as ‘the Madonna/whore’ complex. This is when a man projects a virginal, ‘Madonna’ aura onto his wife, and views a prostitute as nothing more than a vessel to do that dirty stuff with. Of course there were many exceptions—James Joyce is a notable example, just check out the ridiculously hot erotica he wrote for his wife. But quite literally, many men refused to picture their long-term partners as having the ability to have the same desires prostitutes did. I can see it right now—this is making some of you in the class very uncomfortable.”
Chuckles from the class.
“Damn, I’m glad we’ve moved on from this part of human nature in modern times,” says the young guy in the front of class. I think he must be a sophomore.
“Have we moved on from this?” Professor Rose poses the question to the class.
Mostly everyone nods their head.
Professor Cole butts in. “Nick, do you watch porn?” he asks the guy in the front row.
“Well, I mean, yeah. Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Just about everyone, yes. And I don’t want to get personal…but we’re going to get a little personal. Sorry, I don’t mean to pick on you. But do you do everything you’ve fantasized about in porn with your girlfriend?”
Nick’s eyes widen. “Uh...no. Definitely not. I’ve watched some crazy porn, Professor Cole.”
Everyone laughs.
“Ah, you laugh, but many sociologists see what’s going on with millennials and Gen-Z as a new iteration of the “hysteria age.” Gen-Z is having less actual sex than Generation X, despite the proliferation of pornography. And one of the theories is that we’re seeing a remix of the hysteria age, but instead of doctors, we have porn. People feel safer projecting their desires onto a screen—alone—then they do sharing those desires with an actual person. But, you all probably know more than us about this topic. So that’s what you’ll be journaling about for next class. I want you all to answer these questions.”
She writes on the board:
1.How important is commitment to me?
2.How important is fulfilment of my sexual desire to me?
3.Do you think the Madonna/whore complex lives on in our lives? How does it, or does it not?
As Professor Cole reminds us of the reading we have to do for next class, I drift off, thinking of what Luke told me about his parents.
I check my watch.
It’s one-twenty p.m. Luke heads to practice most days at three thirty.
I think we have time to do what I’ve been thinking about doing with him since—let’s face it, since the first time I saw him on the plane on the way down to Buenos Aires.
He does look like a hot fucking Russian Czar from the side…and not the kind who has missionary in the dark.
It’s pouring rain outside today, and it’s perfect for what I’ve decided to do.
It’s a bold move, but this term has taught me that being bold pays off. No one suspects that Luke and I are faking this engagement, probably due to how freaking big my ring is but also due to how much I’ve embraced my role.
I take off my clothes, put my rain boots back on, and my heart hammers in my chest as I put on a Fedora that makes me look like I’m from the 1920s. Thunder claps outside and the rain pours. I text Luke to make sure he’s at his apartment.
Luke: I’m here. Just listening to the thunder in the rain room.
I think about class today, about what Luke means to me. I like to think he’d be the one guy back in the early 1900s who would have held out against the predominant culture and not had a complex. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable sharing all aspects of myself with him.
I take one more look in the mirror at what I’m wearing to meet him over there, and goosebumps raise up against my skin. My stomach quivers, and I wrap the trench coat all the way around me.
Luke hasn’t even seen me without my cast since I got it off.
He wanted to come with me to the hospital, but I made up an excuse for him not to come, all because I wanted to surprise him like this.
I hurry over in the rain, and my hat blows off my head and my hair gets soaked.
Damn. Should not have worn glasses, either. They’re getting water all over them. When I make it to his place, I knock on the back door.
Luke answers quickly, wearing grey sweat pants and a ribbed tank top. He looks like he could be a model for casualwear.
“Shit, Sky, get in here. You’re soaked.”
I smirk slyly. “Yes, I am.”
My glasses fog up the moment I get inside. I take them off and dry them with a dish towel in Luke’s kitchen. He takes my hat.
“That’s quite the trench coat. Let me hang it up for you.”
I put my glasses back on, just because I want to see his eyes when I show him what I have on.
I ignore his comment about hanging up my coat and head into his living room.
“Are Jennifer and Ryan around?”
“They’ve both got classes all afternoon. Why, what’s up?”
“Sit down,” I tell him.
“Sky, why are you acting all weird?”
“Luke, shut up and sit down,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
I grin. “You’re my fiancé now. I own you.”
He bites his lower lip, catching on that I’m up to something.
Backing up, he sits on his couch. I go to the windows on the side and close the shades.
He puts his hands behind his head and leans back.
When I’m done with that, I put on The Smiths record that we listened to on our very first ‘date,’ and saunter up in front of him.
“Your mascara is running,” he informs me.
“It is?”
“Yes. And it’s quite hot.”
My heart hammers so hard I worry it might explode.
“Luke, it’s almost April. We’ve only got a month of these engagement shenanigans left. I think we had better start having our fun, don’t you think?”
“I’ve been having fun. Have you?”
Loud thunder rolls outside and almost makes me jump.
“Yeah…but have you been having this much fun?”
I open my trench coat and let it drop to the floor.