Crickets. I could literally hear them chirping.
In a room with so many students, who would have thought a pin dropping would have been thunderous as endless pairs of eyes stared widely in my direction?
“Waiting…” I said. “No one is brave enough to open your mouth? How will you open your mind, then? The answer is in the syllabus, isn’t it? If you can’t read, how in the hell do you think you’ll be able to write anything?”
My gaze roamed the room, the students were scrambling to look on their computers, through printed versions, or the less prepared began digging in their book bags. They were stacked up in front of and above me; in many rows; cinema-style in the large lecture hall generally reserved for basic liberal arts classes that were required of every undergraduate freshman; such as Psychology 101, Theology of Human Existence, Origins of Philosophy, or Studies of Classic Literature, and now this one single senior level course, The Art of Sex in Writing.
The department head wanted to increase the number of sessions offered on the schedule, but I’d insisted that my publishing career was too busy to accommodate them. I already taught other classes in suspense, and crime drama, but somehow, this was the one that students clamored for. As it was, I’d have to have my TA read and grade many of the assignments if I was going to give my other classes the attention they deserved. And, God help me ... some of the writing would be awful. My head almost hurt remembering many of the atrocious things that had been submitted over the past two years.
“Ummph!” I responded to my own thoughts with a grunt of repugnance.
I should have been flattered at the number of students, but I wondered if these kids truly want to learn something, or if most were thinking it would be an easy A? Or worse; assuming it would be a substitute for internet porn or a break from their real class load with the added bonus of earning college credit?
“Come on, people! You aren’t going to learn much if no one is talking! If it isn’t about getting off… What. Is. It. About?” I demanded. The timber of my voice boomed across the microphone and echoed through the room as I punctuated my words.
More silence, until finally someone spoke.
“It’s about getting your readers off,” a soft, yet lilting female voice said from somewhere in the middle of the lecture hall. My head snapped around in the direction of the reply as I searched for the owner of the voice.
“What was that?” I asked. “Please stand and say it again so that everyone can hear you.”
My eyes roamed the room, waiting for the girl to rise. It only took a few seconds for a slight young woman about midway back to stand. She had delicate features and flowing dark hair; dressed in jeans and a casual shirt that clung to her body. Typical of many students at the university, yet there was something electric about her that went straight to my dick like an electric shock. I stood and waited, my gaze upon her.
“I said; it’s about getting your readers off,” she said, this time with more confidence.
Lifting my hands to the heavens, or rather the ceiling some thirty feet above my head, I replied. “Ah! See? Thank you, Jesus! There it is. Boom! Well done.”
I smiled wryly as the room filled with tinkling laughter as she returned to her seat.
“Yes!” I kept looking at the pretty brunette. “The point is to use words to craft a scene in your reader’s mind. It’s not an easy task. It’s personal. Your purpose is to draw them into your thoughts, your fantasies; to make them see those thoughts play out in their imaginations, as it has in yours… and make the reader actually experience them. It’s not easy putting your own vulnerability on the page.” I shoved both hands into the pockets of my suit pants, as I began to walk along the platform again. “To create tangible passion and real physical arousal without the use of lips, fingers, tongues, genitals, or sex toys.” More laughter and inaudible roars filled the air. “I see that got your attention!” I flashed a brilliant smile. “Allowing your readers to live your thoughts as if they are the characters you have created is no small feat, eh?”
“No!” the room answered back in and out of unison in a series of enthusiasm and low grumbles. “No, Dr. Michaels!”
“You have no fucking idea,” I added casually, shaking my head for effect. “Are you shocked that I used the word?” My shoulders lifted in a casual shrug and I smiled again. “If you are, you need to question if you’ve got what it takes. How can you write it well enough to do it justice… if you can’t even say it aloud without being embarrassed? The course description said that this wasn’t for the timid of mind or heart, so you have been warned. It’s for future writers of bestsellers, and sex sells.”
After the room had settled down again, I continued. “What kind of sex sells?”
“All kinds!”
“Intercourse!”
“Oral!”
The room broke out in a chorus of boisterous answers.
“It’s all kinds, true, but one of the best sellers is the slow burn. Your story doesn’t have to include actual intercourse if it’s filled with sexual tension which is built with careful precision; the promise of sex, the desire, the want… foreplay… a descriptive kiss… all the juicy bits are what truly draws the reader in. But, smut for smut sake alone…” I paused briefly to shake my head, “not so much. Yes, there is a market for nuts and bolts screwing, but for this course porn is not the goal. Desire…intense and so tangible that readers can reach out and touch it… even taste it… is the end game. That, my friends, is your task; to be accomplished with just words; twenty-six characters arranged in different ways. Simple words, and the skill with which you weave them together will be your only tools.”
By now I had the rapt attention of my class, with the occasional outburst when I said words like nuts, hard, or fuck, as I meant to happen in this first class, but overall, I was encouraged by their concentration. “Writing reality is hard people. It’s harder in fiction than it is in news; no disrespect to the journalism students in attendance, but in fiction you have to completely craft a story in your mind, and then, bring it to life, to create the facts, if you will.”
The class was silent save some incessant whispers from the less serious attendees. “So where do we begin? What do you think is the most erogenous of all body parts?” I asked the question, knowing the answers that would be shouted out.
“Cock!”
“Tits and ass!”
“Pussy!” Answers were offered by several of the young men, followed by some embarrassed giggles from some the women.
Jesus, I thought, wanting to roll my eyes. Even I was thankful for the ten years that had passed since I had been a horny kid. Not that there was anything wrong with my libido; far from it, but at least I was in complete control of it.
“Hmmmm.” I laid a flat hand on my chest. “Thank you for those well thought-out, reverent, and enthusiastic answers… but alas, they are sadly lacking.”
I sometimes wondered how in the hell some of these morons were even accepted into the university, then I remembered how popular the subject of this course was. Sex sells, I had said, and Columbia was a business like many others. They wanted their classes full.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun, and I’ll encourage some of the more nefarious banter, but most of the students are here to learn a craft, so after today, consider pissing around in this manner disrespectful to them and to me.”