The Interview

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The way her mons was stretched tight and outlined by the pale blue silk panties almost ran me into a pillar by the staircase. I don’t often become that distracted, and never by a woman in beige stockings.

It was the Prussian blue suit that caught my initial attention, those gold buttons flashing in the sunlight of the glass lobby. The hair looked blond, then passed behind a pillar near the bottom of the stairs, the same one I almost geeked into. It was in my general direction and my gait caught a little giddy up. She was moving at business pace up the stairs, and the sheer white stockings bade me follow.

I had papers in one hand, briefcase in the other, a need to be in three places at once, and as soon as I rounded the second turn in the stairs she was at the top, hesitating for just a second to check her watch. She was one flight up, the suit skirt pushed tight by her leg on the second to top step. Those white stockings, blue garters, soft blue panties. Without effort her rear leg pushed and she resumed her march. The subtle yet sharp striations of her muscles worked in perfect concert, and by the time I hit the top she was gone, disappeared into one of the admin offices.

I cherish such moments, the precision and body knowledge of a woman who knows where she’s going, what she’s doing. It’s all too rare on campus. Students are slobs; maybe one in twenty knows how to dress. Young men don’t even know how to tie a half Windsor. If I ever see a short skirt in class or waiting in my office, I can be sure someone has a problem with a grade. Last semester I had a nudist in my Noir Lit class. He got a B. Then there’s the kilt, which goes in and out of fashion every couple years, but absolutely has to be worn with underwear. The young rebels who taunt the establishment—and this would include the slob professors who dress like street urchins and couldn’t care less, at least until the tenure interviews begin—show up unshaven, in jeans, flip flops and fatty bare midriffs. They show up late. They show up high or drunk. They skip classes with impunity, but come the grades there is always contention.

When I see a creature sheer and precise, wondrously cared for and deliciously feminine, I notice.

The admin building is architecturally enlightening and cost the university 11 million dollars. It was named after a graduate who, during the ribbon cutting, had declared that he’d received no less than 500 letters from his alma mater over the years. Needless to say, alumni relations were housed in the new digs. I hit admin as seldom as possible, hobnob with the president and his wife at social gatherings, perhaps a reading in the new amphitheater, meet with the dean. I was just coming from his office when I glimpsed the blue rapture.

Generally I don’t screw my students, or my department faculty, or anyone connected to the university. I’d thrown a couple pokes into the last dean, but she was very ambitious and had gone on to the Ivy League. “It’s better to fuck ‘up'” was her favorite saying, and she liked to buy shoes at Maud Frizon so it was hard to argue her point. She favored the classic Dior suit and her academic rigidity was pulled right out of her sexual ego. She only liked to do it standing up, skirt hoisted, door locked, condom on, to Yanni. I preferred a brisk Celtic clog, but that was fluid under the fabric, as they say.

The new dean favored Brooks Brother’s suits and had wanted as a child to become an astronaut. Now he was merely egotistical and boring. He was a hands-on guy who loved to shake hands and pointed with his cigar at faculty garden parties. “That’s a begonia.” Actually, it was a lily, but one does have to kiss some ass. Today he wanted to discuss my departmental budget. The English and Communication department was by far the largest on campus, and as the Dean of Arts and Sciences he wanted to make sure I was on the fiscal ball.

“What are you doing over this way, John?”

I turned at the top of the staircase, looked like I knew what I was doing, and checked my watch. Always a good organizational tool, that. “Hey Fred,” I greeted the provost. “I’m hiring myself out as a whore to keep my people and programs intact. How’s Marta?”

“The lump was benign,” he sighed, though the way he usually complained about her at the gym made me wonder which way the sigh was leaning. “She wanted to thank you for the card you sent, it was very considerate.”

“Glad she’s doing well.” I’d have to thank my secretary, Annie, for the thoughtful correspondence. My eyes wandered over the three doors, wondering which, and I was thinking that if I stood there all afternoon I’d find out. “The kids?”

“Expensive, avoid them,” he said knowingly. “When’s that book coming out?”

As a published novelist and occasionally well known critic, my reputation and social standing were enhanced by the utter mediocrity of higher education, political correctness, and also by my bachelorhood. At every faculty gathering wives hovered and suspicious güvenilir bahis male eyes counted the herd. Fred just wanted a couple free copies, hardcovers naturally, to spread around his office.

“Should be on Amazon next month. There might be a lecture series in the city, speaking tour. Depends on the conglomerate that gobbles up my publisher next.”

“You’re pretty cynical for a single guy, John.”

“Just realistic, Fred. You going to the gym later?”

“All depends,” he said, looking at his watch. “You?”

“I have one class, then a mediation, a meeting I’ll probably skip.”

We said our goodbyes and Fred went into the door on the left. How tactful of him not to ask what I was doing on this floor. Never ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer. That’s the secret of success in bureaucracy. The secret of supremacy is knowing without asking.

That tight little mons walked me back to the department and a class on Joyce. To piss the kids off I gave a pop quiz. It didn’t do much to neutralize my frustration. I’d have to grade them. Fantasy got me through, and one of the girls wore a short skirt. I wouldn’t pop a student, but if I met her sometime after graduation…

The mediation was bullshit, but then they almost always were. The department staff meeting was equally entertaining. A roomful of academics howling for a reduced workload and higher equipment budgets, same old same old. I told them the story of Sisyphus. Never let it be said I wasted an opportunity to condescend.

I made it to the university gym by six, not bad for a Thursday. Changed into sweats and hoped it wouldn’t be crowded. Six is past the jock time, and co-eds don’t work out like they used to. Only the kid on work-study at the sign in desk, a couple kids rowing, some doing the Nautilus circuit, hard core lifters doing squats over in the corner, the usual assembly of lean machines on the treadmills. There was an opening on one of the EFX elliptical machines so I skipped the stretch and headed right over. I love the EFX, forward and back, light or heavy tension, adjustable height. I used to favor the Stairmasters, but the EFX had won me over, and it was easier and smoother than older stepping machines.

I started light and fast, to get the heart rate up around 150 and keep it there. The co-ed on the next machine started to race me so I took my hands off the arms and straightened up, speeded up. She didn’t stand a chance. I do it every day for at least a half hour, and she was starting to sweat. Women pause when they start to sweat in public, as if it’s unseemly, and I know they wouldn’t mind except someone might see them sweating, come over and sniff their pits. I gave her the thumbs up and a smile, good show. She smiled and gave me the finger. I pretended offence and went tsk tsk. She cleaned her machine and I closed my eyes. For the next twenty minutes or so I luxuriated in clean living and dirty thoughts.

When I opened my eyes at the beep I wasn’t alone on the machines. A blond woman with a ponytail and cutoff sweats was next to me, chugging away. She looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place her. I smiled a hello and she nodded politely. I finished, cleaned the machine, and went over to the free-weight area to do curls and flies. I’ve never understood why academics don’t work out more. Yes, we’re horribly arrogant concerning athletics and jocks, but inside it’s more a thing of being emotionally insecure, of going with the mind instead of the body. I’m only 43, but I’ve learned that without some kind of balance, there can be neither. The body as holistic unit, that’s what I practiced, though I’d learned not to preach.

From the free-weight bench where I was doing bicep curls I watched the blond through the mirrors on the wall. She wasn’t speeding along, but I could see she had it on resistance level 7 or 8 at least. The muscles in her legs were moving with a kind of strenuous elegance. I didn’t think I’d seen her before, but then thousands of people had access to this place. She straightened up to wipe the sweat off her face with a hand towel and the light bulb went off in my head. White stockings, pale blue panties, and an air of capability. I did an extra set with each arm to ward off the bone in my pants.

The surreptitious watching wasn’t enough, and I put my weights away, used my own towel to wipe off, slowing meandering back towards the EFX. Yes, I do love that machine, gives one tight legs, gets a serious sweat going, focuses concentration and sets the endorphins free. It’s also a good judge of character. She wasn’t burning herself out like a co-ed, had a long, stretching stride, and she was beginning to pick up the pace. I strolled casually over with the towel around my neck, still sweating profusely.

“How far you going?” I asked.

“Not as far as you,” she said, her voice a pleasant if strained midrange. “I can’t do this with my eyes closed. I start to wander, and I don’t know if my pride could take my falling on türkçe bahis my ass.”

“It’s more relaxing with the eyes closed, more fluid, like swimming in pitch darkness. At least that’s how I sometimes picture it.”

“Skinny dipping?” she laughed.

“Actually, today it was Ferris wheel sex with two midgets and a republican lobbyist I’ve always wanted to cornhole.”

That one almost tripped her, and her laugh was positively erotic, a kind of bubbly and wicked giggle. “Sorry,” I said, though both of us knew I wasn’t. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I can see you’re building to the big finish.”

“In about a minute I won’t be able to talk.”

“Didn’t I see you over in the admin building? You had on a Prussian blue suit with white stockings?”

Her eye gave me the once over. Probably no one had commented on her attire all day. She didn’t really hesitate, but her manner seemed to stiffen. That happens when you connect disparate elements of a person’s life. “Prussian blue? Is there such a color?”

“Oh yes, the terminal opposite of Moscow red. One can find them on opposite ends of the fascist palette. A little militarism never hurt anybody.”

“You don’t sound like an administrator,” she huffed.

“Isn’t it irritating when people bother you just when you feel least prepared to speak coherently?”

She laughed again, then leaned into it for the final push. “Let me know if you need a countdown.” I grinned and pointed over to the mats. “I’ll be over there if you feel like stretching.”

She gave me the thumbs up and I ambled over to the mats and the big balls. After you’re done with a good sweat there’s nothing like stretching it all out. I use the big balls, for crunches and stretching out the back. Just roll over it and try to maintain balance, great for the core. And bent way back over the ball I could watch her, finishing strong, then cleaning the machine. Standing up, she was ramrod straight, the bare belly tight under the baggy cutoff sweatshirt, her legs slender, smooth and defined under what I wished were tighter shorts. She wore the sweat well, too. Her skin had a glowing sheen of health, and I’m glad my shorts were baggier than hers.

She came over to the mat area, sat down, spread and began stretching. I switched positions and began doing crunches, long and slow, pausing to heighten the abdominal tension. I could see her in the mirrors, those legs going farther and farther apart, her body leaning forward until her chin was on the mat. Gymnastic training, very laudable, and no doubt tasty.

I finished and wiped off, sat in the lotus and meditated. That’s always a good way to waste a couple minutes. I looked impressively peaceful, if a little disheveled. Her Chanel smelled intoxicating, filling me with positions of grandeur. When the scent grew stronger I opened my eyes, stretched as if fresh from a nap, and got up.

“You don’t look like an administrator, either.”

“Just a humble professor and department chair, nothing grand. I’m John Hubbard.”

“Lisa,” she said, “Lisa Price.” She extended her hand. We shook briefly; I loved the feeling of her warm, hot skin, moist and laden with feminine strength. “So you’re also a closet republican?”

“Fascist to the core, that’s me.” I watched her wring out her hair and redo the pony. “And while I’m doing the Goebbels’ bit, let me indulge my Gestapo leanings. What were you doing in the admin building today?”

“Security conscious, I like that. Yes, you would make a good fascist,” she said, appraising me slyly. Men rarely take off their wedding rings, and I had no lines on the fourth finger of my left hand. She took it in quickly, then extended her gaze to the mirrors. “You do this a lot?”

“Every chance I get. Is that Shalimar?”

“Chanel,” she said casually. “I like this big room, everything in one place.”

“Except when it gets crowded, like before vacations and during exams.”

“Stress,” she said. “Snack foods and booze and speed and exercise.”

“Don’t forget sex,” I said, heading over to the water fountain.

“With republican lobbyists,” she laughed. She had a water bottle, almost empty, and refilled it while I waited. “I had an interview.”

“And how did it go?”

“Piece of cake. I’m more interested in why you noticed my stockings.”

“I’m writing an article on seamed and colored stockings and their advertising potential. What did you interview for?”

“Alumni affairs is establishing a new trust. They need someone to steer giving campaigns. Do you give to your alma mater, John?”

“If you came into my office in white stockings I’d give it some thought.” I bent and got my drink, took a couple more to fill the belly and stave off dehydration. She had no rings on her left hand, no marks either. Her nails were short but shapely, clear polish. When you’re sweating like a pig no one will ever notice if you drool a bit.

“Prussian blue,” she laughed. “Now I get to shower and put on those dirty clothes.”

“Oh, güvenilir bahis siteleri that’s not so bad. Like to have a cup of coffee?”

“Caffeine, in my pristine temple? For shame, John Hubbard. I prefer cappuccino.”

That grinning giggle again. She looked about 30, probably had an MBA from some state college. Probably had teachers for parents, educational background, and felt more comfortable working in education instead of business, though the two are much closer than commonly believed.

“Well, they must be putting you up at the Sheraton. Why work out here?”

“Getting a feel for the place. I left my car in the admin lot, walked across campus.”

“That’s a nice hike. Didn’t any jocks accost you along the way?”

She smiled, transforming herself from attractive to lovely. She had the bones, the genes, and all the slim goodies I love so much. And she was bright, witty. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Fact, I liked her.

“I carry mace, John.” There’s nothing quite as erotic as a woman who looks you in the eye and might knock you on your ass.

“I figured you for a pepper spray gal.”

“Why, are you also doing a paper on that?”

We signed out and split at the locker rooms. “If you like, I’ll give you a ride back to your wheels.”

“What you really want to know is how long I’ll take to shower and change.” She turned her back and started walking.

“Well?” I said loudly, and she returned only that giggling laugh.

——————————

I waited in the parking lot, standing beside the Saab, far enough from the entrance to get a good look at her walk. I didn’t bother to check my watch. She was, after all, a woman, in charge of time as no man could be.

The suit might not have been fresh, but she certainly was, spring in her step, hair brushed out full, minimal makeup, and oh yes, those white stockings, patent white heels. Even her smile was athletic, a bit of muscular contraction but something in reserve. When a woman who knows she’s being watched steps forward in the fading light of day with her head up, awareness extended in sixth sense, there’s a wonderful communion that takes place, a oneness with the natural world that never happens when men walk. We pretend to be above the plain, masters of our universe in a domain built for manipulation and deceit. I’d never lived my life apart from that illusion, but at least I recognized it. Women necessarily, by default and tradition and myth, maintain a much more complete and grounded view of the natural world, its holistic integrity and our modern social and political dynamics.

I wondered if her mother had read Erica Jong to her at bedtime, saving the zipless fucks for her own bathroom ecstasy.

Bag slung casually over her shoulder, Lisa emanated confident style, hips swaying just so. It wasn’t the hurried professional stroll of a businesswoman on her mark, or the exaggerated swing of a hooker in marketing mode, and eons past the head-down singsong shuffle of students looking to hide as they transferred from place to place. Her head was up and that smile on display, almost a sashay as she clicked and glided halfway across the huge lot. The last twenty steps or so she went into fashion mode and I could almost see her on the haute couture circuit. I laughed and opened the passenger door.

“Your carriage awaits, mademoiselle. But if you’re going to walk the runway in that outfit, you need a hat.”

She twirled and took charge of her own door, tossed her bag in the back, and looked at me while she climbed in. She wanted to see which I watched as she took the seat, her eyes or her thighs. My vision has always been excellent.

We took the scenic route through and around the campus. It was one of the older universities in the New York State system, had been private for many years but in the 1960s had fallen on hard financial times and was taken over by the state. It’s about 60 miles upstate, not far from the Hudson, Headless Horseman territory.

“Full spring,” she said, relaxing into the leather, “I like it much more than the early part, all that late snow and cold gray drizzle. You must be very busy with classes and your department.”

“May is too good to waste on students. I’ll do what they do, collect assignments and wait until the last minute, grade them all at once, do a half-assed job and argue the rest.”

“And your faculty?”

“Deal with the emergencies as they arise, and they always do. I’m a fair teacher, even inspired on occasion, but I can’t allow academics to subsume my life.”

“I’m not challenging you, professor. Just making small talk.” We passed an old power plant, stacks as high as my hopes. “I’ve read one of your books, actually, the postmodern examination of LBJ and the post-Camelot years as a precursor to Revelations. It was…interesting.” She rolled down her window to bask in the gloaming, breathe the air. Her nose was aquiline and almost perfectly straight.

I glanced at her, appreciating the careful praise, and was cautious myself not to blatantly look down at her legs. “And over there,” I pointed, “the dorms start. You can see the stadium lights. If you take the job, perhaps someday there will be a dome on top.”

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