Office Hours

Brody Langston stood in the hallway outside Professor Varn's office, clutching his leather messenger bag like a shield. The seminar had only been running for three weeks, and already he felt like he was drowning. Not in the work. He could handle the work. It was the subject matter that made his skin crawl.

Queer theory. Poststructuralist approaches to desire. The assigned readings felt like they were written in a code he couldn't crack, not because the concepts were difficult but because every time he tried to engage with them, something inside him shut down.

A quick rap of knuckles on the wooden door.

"Come in."

Her voice was low and precise, like a scalpel. Brody pushed the door open and found her seated behind a massive oak desk, a single reading lamp casting warm light across her face. She looked up at him and did not smile.

"Mr. Langston. I've been expecting you."

"Thank you for seeing me, Professor." He settled into the chair across from her, perching on the edge of the cushion. "I'm having trouble with some of the concepts in your syllabus."

"Trouble is a vague word." She tilted her head, and the lamplight caught the silver streaks in her dark hair. "Tell me specifically what you're finding difficult."

His mouth opened, then closed again. How could he explain that every time he read about queer desire, he felt a hot flush of something he refused to name? That his eyes skipped over the explicit passages and his hand cramped when he tried to write his response papers?

"I think it's the theoretical framework," he said carefully. "I'm used to more traditional approaches."

Helen's lips curved slightly. "Traditional. That's an interesting word choice." She stood and walked around her desk, settling into the chair beside him. Close enough that he could smell her perfume, something floral with a hint of smoke. "Tell me, Brody. When you read the assigned chapter from Sedgwick, what did you feel?"

"Feel?"

"Emotions. Physical reactions. You're a bright young man. I want to know what your body tells you when you encounter these ideas."

The shift was involuntary, his weight redistribution in the chair betraying his discomfort. His palms had gone clammy. Heat crept up the back of his neck and spread across his cheeks. "I don't think that's relevant to the coursework."

"Everything is relevant." Her voice was soft but absolute. "The body is a text, Mr. Langston. You cannot understand desire without understanding your own responses to it."

Looking down at his hands, he noticed how tightly they gripped the messenger bag strap. His knuckles had gone white. He loosened his grip and tried to breathe.

"I guess I feel uncomfortable," he admitted. "Like I'm reading something I shouldn't be."

"And why shouldn't you read it?"

"Because it's not for me. I'm not..."

"Not what?"

The word wouldn't come. He couldn't even think it clearly. "I'm a straight man," he said, and the words felt heavy and strange in his mouth. "This material doesn't apply to me."

Helen was quiet for a long moment. She studied him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Then she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped together.

"Brody, may I be direct with you?"

A nod, because he didn't trust his voice.

She smiled, and it was not a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who had just found exactly what she was looking for.

"I mean that you flinch every time I mention queer desire. You look away when you say the word straight. You hold your body like you're bracing for a blow." She sat back. "You're not uncomfortable with the theory, Brody. You're uncomfortable with yourself."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she raised a hand.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm making an observation. And I'm offering a solution."

"A solution?"

"An independent study. One on one with me, outside the seminar structure. We'll focus specifically on the areas you're finding most difficult." She let the words hang in the air. "I have a feeling that with the right guidance, you'll find the material more accessible than you think."

His heart was pounding. Every instinct told him to say no, to get up and leave. But his mouth formed the words before his brain could catch up.

"What would that involve?"

Helen's eyes glittered in the lamplight. "Reading. Discussion. Some practical exercises designed to help you connect with the material on a physical level." She tilted her head. "You strike me as someone who learns best through application, Brody. Someone who needs to experience an idea before you can truly understand it."

A hard swallow. The word experience echoed in his mind, dangerous and thrilling.

"I'd need to think about it."

"Of course." She stood, and he realized the meeting was over. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his bag. She walked him to the door and paused with her hand on the handle.

"One more thing, Brody."

"Yes?"

"Your response paper on the Sedgwick chapter. You wrote that you found the arguments unconvincing. But your handwriting told a different story." She looked at him, and her gaze was piercing. "It got messy around the word desire."

Breathing became impossible. She had read his paper, really read it, seen past his careful academic language to the truth he was hiding from himself.

"I'll send you the independent study syllabus," she said, and opened the door. "Think it over. But not for too long. Some questions demand immediate answers."

Out in the hallway, his legs unsteady, his mind reeling. The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

What had just happened?

Something had been stripped away, leaving him raw and exposed. She had seen through him, past every layer of protection he had built. And instead of feeling violated, he felt seen.

That was dangerous. That was the most dangerous thing he had ever felt.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward the stairs. He would go home. Maybe eat something. Try to grade papers. Forget about the strange heat in his chest.

But as he walked through the cold evening air, he could still smell her perfume. And he could still hear her voice, low and precise, asking him to think about desire.

By the time he reached his apartment, he knew he was going to say yes.

He just didn't know why.