Sexually Charged Literature

I first met "Victoria" when our mutual friends went to a hookah bar. I heard someone else refer to her as something other than Victoria, so I asked for her to clarify her name. "Oh, you can call me whatever you want, really," she said.

"Dirty whore?" I joked.

Whoops, that suggestion wasn't appreciated. Not a good way to acquaint myself. Victoria seemed cool, and she actually is, as I would ultimately find out, but it was way too soon for me to be able to make an unfunny quip to a near-stranger - or ever, really. I now regret it not only on principle, but because it made her uncomfortable. Fortunately, I did not make her as uncomfortable as her parents would about six months later.

At Parents' Weekend at my college, families are invited to stay through Monday so that they may attend classes with the college students and see precisely what they were paying so much money for. My parents didn't come this particular year, which was fine since they attended the year before and it was strange enough. They were on their best behavior, actually, but my sociology professor was less than stellar. He spent the entire hour sharing personal anecdotes tangentially related to the reading, meaning he delivered nothing of significant educational value. To make light of the situation, I showed my parents my "notes," which consisted of the names of the professor's childhood friends and former roommates, no-names in the world of academia, and they laughed.

At least this year's crop of parents was attending a better class. Granted, my literature professor was kooky, but he knew his stuff and facilitated some interesting discussions. The parents were encouraged to jump right in; I couldn't help but notice that feeling unashamed to comment on literature one has never read seems to be a hereditary trait.

I was in this class with Dirty Whore Victoria, who had brought her parents. Victoria's parents spoke a few times throughout class, mostly in order to hear themselves speak, I reckon. They were the type that got a kick out of feeling twenty-years-old again by spending their afternoon sounding intellectual and discussing fictional relationships and sex.

The text we discussed that day was D.H. Lawrence's "The Horse Dealer's Daughter," a short story with two protagonists who are put into a romantic situation. As it turns out, they both realize separately that they are not in love, but do not discuss these thoughts; feeling trapped by their circumstances, they agree to marry anyway. It is a tragic "love" story, leaving the reader feeling pretty depressed and just as hopeless as the characters. I thought the despair was palpable, but a couple students had some differing opinions. No opinions were as radically different as Victoria's parents, however. Toward the end of class, Victoria's mom admitted she was trying to catch up with the reading on the spot, but said she had a vastly different take on the end of the story.

Respectfully, the professor invited Victoria's mom to present her case. Victoria's mother felt that the main characters are genuinely in love, and the tension we sense is not contempt, but raw sexual energy. Intrigued, the professor asked Victoria's mother to elaborate and give some lines to support her position. She responded by reading a few lines, but the professor wasn't satisfied. "But what's sexual about that?" he asked. "Show me it's sexual."

This prompted Victoria's mom to try to read the dialogue in a sexy manner. It was awkward. In my opinion, the words aren't remotely "hot," but she kept trying anyway. Sensing her struggling, her husband finally attempted to assist her by simultaneously reading it sexually. While her parents made about 50 students and their families grow increasingly uncomfortable, Victoria put her head on her desk in embarrassment.

When another student interjected by reading one of the lines back at them sadly to show the despair rather than sexual tension, the parents took it as a cue to read the dialogue stronger and with even more passion. Victoria continued to avoid eye contact with everyone. Finally, the professor looked at his clock, still five minutes short of the class' scheduled end, and declared, "Well, I guess that's all we have time for, see you next Monday."

I think we all felt a little icky walking out of class that day.