College Dreams
He had a nasal voice that somehow retained its deep timbre, which produced in me a flurry of sensations. He had broad hands, with tapering fingers that were neither elegant or artisan, but very nimble. He had a way with words that made up for his eclectic arrangement of features- a too big smile with extremely straight, pearly white, surgically perfected-looking teeth on ebony skin. He was not too much taller than 5'7 or 5'8 at most, with broad shoulders and a narrowing streamlined torso. I was deeply attracted to him, and his callous manner, well-oiled like the future politician he would become.
There was a sense that he was constantly waiting for something to argue with, to expend his charming sleaziness on, his plateau of well-worn platitudes that he had carefully chosen. There was one he was particularly proud of, his controversial opinion on civil war statues.
"I mean," he said, lubriciously, palms on the table then clasped together, "I always think of the- what's the word I want? War of Northern Aggression, you know, in the South. The statues, they're a reminder of our history.
I remember being disappointed, but not particularly shocked. He thought America was Big Brother.
"You're wrong," I wanted to say, wanted to reach out and touch his leg and whisper it into his ear that I had kissed the night before. I was interested in him beyond his face and enamored with more than his body, had unintentionally and against my will, found his deliberate contrarian nature fanciful, and to my liking.
He did not look at me as he spoke the entire class.
There was a sense that he was constantly waiting for something to argue with, to expend his charming sleaziness on, his plateau of well-worn platitudes that he had carefully chosen. There was one he was particularly proud of, his controversial opinion on civil war statues.
"I mean," he said, lubriciously, palms on the table then clasped together, "I always think of the- what's the word I want? War of Northern Aggression, you know, in the South. The statues, they're a reminder of our history.
I remember being disappointed, but not particularly shocked. He thought America was Big Brother.
"You're wrong," I wanted to say, wanted to reach out and touch his leg and whisper it into his ear that I had kissed the night before. I was interested in him beyond his face and enamored with more than his body, had unintentionally and against my will, found his deliberate contrarian nature fanciful, and to my liking.
He did not look at me as he spoke the entire class.
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