Chapter Text
Elio*********************
A good looking professor teaching The Politics of Desire; Sex and Gender in Antiquity, if that’s not a powder keg ready to explode I don’t know what is. Damn.
I only took this class because the course title intrigued me and I needed an upper level elective to fulfill a requirement.
I also heard the professor was fuck hot and that makes me somewhat shallow. The rumors were spot on. He is perfection, a veritable God among slovenly Ivy League misfits. Tall, jaw of death, perfectly preppie, and his New England patrician accent a welcome relief in a sea of New York nasal twang.
My unaccented English is a result of my European upbringing; an American father and an Italian mother. I have been told that I speak “non-regional English.” My dad is also a professor, teaching Ancient Greek and Linguistics at a University in Milan.
I applied to a few schools here in the States; Brown, Dartmouth, landing at Columbia was a fluke really. (They must have really liked my essay.)
I’m not a Classical Studies major, actually my declared major is Semiotics, the study of signs and symbols and their interpretation. It’s what they tell precocious intelligent kids to major in when they don’t know what the fuck they want to do.
Semiotics is “trans-disciplinary,” anthropology, sociology, visual culture, art history, all applicable, all a problem when I actually have to make a living.
I guess I could mortgage my soul on Madison Avenue and use my exemplary communication skills to sell toaster waffles and condoms. Well, I can put it off for another 3 years, more if I go the grad school route.
I have to admit, I’ve been directionless since I decided I didn’t want to major in music. Watching the joy leave my friend Paolo when he decided to make a career out of guitar playing cinched the deal. It stopped being fun for him. I love playing the piano. I just don’t want to have to play the piano.
I am now a rudderless boat, going whichever the wind blows strongest. Maybe I’ll change my major if I really like this class. (See what I mean?)
I am kind of like that with my relationships right now too. Until freshman year, here at Columbia, I had always been with girls.
Last year, I met someone on my floor in the dorm and we had a pretty casual thing going for a good part of the first semester. Boys were a totally new thing for me, not for David. He had attended English boarding school his whole life and this was his preference.
He showed me the ropes as it were, and we had a lot of fun. I love his taste in music and his cynical observations. He is strikingly handsome - tall, super slim, long legs, rock star presence and a really posh accent. Although we were safe, he was not monogamous, and now he is actually with someone he met at a club. We are still close. In fact, I would venture to say that he is my best friend here.
Shit. This class is not a gut.* It may have a sexy title and all, but there are three exams, one midterm paper, and a final paper. Fuuuuuck. What have I gotten myself into?
Oliver****************
I’d like to think that this class weeds out the serious students from the dilettantes. I’ve only been a full professor for a year now, but even as an instructor and PhD candidate I resented the students who took an upper level classics class when what they really needed was an intro level basic class to see whether or not this is their thing. Well, once I go over the requirements, I bet the transfer slips start showing up.
This morning was a rough. Tina was looking to pick a fight and she got one. She knew I had a lot on my mind frantically trying to get stuff together for my two classes. But then again, she has always demanded a lot of attention. Being a principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre, she is not only beautiful but driven and talented. I have been distracted with work and that does not sit well with her. I know there are other things bothering her. Some of the younger dancers are now getting roles that she assumed would go to her. That can’t be easy. She is getting gently steered in the direction of choreography and teaching, much to her chagrin. And I have to admit; my ardent fervor toward her has cooled considerably.
I take full responsibility for pursuing her relentlessly; She was the unobtainable goddess who was a childhood friend of my friend. I was sure she was it for me. Months of wooing, rushed dinners, flowers, gifts, notes, I pulled out all of the stops and finally she relented. The bliss of the first three months was heady; part of it was the reflected glory that someone as beautiful and talented as she was, would deign to bless me with her presence.
(Yes, self esteem has nothing to do with how you look- I know I look ok, it’s just I’ll never be enough so there’s that…thanks Mom and Dad.)
Here’s the thing. Dancers start training at a very young age. Tina was in class by age 3. Her education has always been dance centric. To say that she is not well-rounded would be mean but true. The emphasis of her training has been physical prowess and grace, not intellectual curiosity and learning. How do I put this kindly? I am bored.
After we were dating for two months, she lost the lease she had on her apartment. In New York City that’s a major problem, so I invited her to move in. Now I’m in too deep. I feel trapped, unhappy, and frustrated. What a great way to start a semester.
I look back at the small lecture hall. A few of the faces I recognize, some are advisees, two graduate students slumming it, and the rest seem to be busy taking notes and putting dates in their planners. A boy in the fourth row is looking at me, I have never seen him before. He is singularly stunning, his long white neck in startling contrast to his onyx curls, sloe-eyed and pensive, he draws my attention by his stillness.
After writing my office hours on the board, I start to pack up my papers and the code of conduct I have to sign and drop off at the department, I look up and the beautiful boy is gone.