A/N:
This is a work of fiction; any similarity with real events or individuals is purely coincidence.
*****
"Ok, alright,
wait
," Crystal took the break to sip lightly from her wine, mulling over the recent events of the night, and the boyish smile of the man before her. "Why are you awfully on-board with this?"
The sounds of conversation and silverware reached her ears from all over the restaurant; nearly all tables were being occupied by patrons of all types, while finely dressed waiters walked in between the tables.
"You are beautiful, what can I say?" the man said, opening a wider smile as he did so, his accent painting new colors to the language. "I felt desire for you, ever since we met at class, yet you...played on different teams..."
"I'm a
lesbian
, Marco." Heat crept up through Crystal's neck and into her cheeks, as both the wine and her anxiousness came into full effect.
Her fruity salad was half-eaten on the plate, being set aside once the main topic of her 'date' finally came up in their conversation; Marco had long devoured his medium-rare steak, and only the juices and one or two roasted potatoes had survived his assault.
"Yes, yes," he relented, spreading his hands as he leaned back on his seat. "Though, that's about to change, no?"
Crystal's eyes had shifted from his face towards the beginning of his neck ever since he picked her up at her dorm, as always, in his all-black Ducati his father had made sure to ship all the way from Madrid into Seattle.
He had showed up at her door in that style that was a blend of frat white-boy and euro suaveness: form fitting dress shirt alluding to his sculpted muscles underneath, some slim fitting jeans, avoiding the straight up feminine look of skinny jeans on men, but not looking like some random thug with baggy pants.
The main difference, aside from the well-built figure and motorcycle, was the fact that he felt confident enough to hint at the beginning of a hairy chest by unbuttoning two buttons of his shirt; that euro suaveness creeping in again.
"Don't be so confident," Crystal managed to say, letting his insinuations about 'turning her' slide for the moment. "That remains to be seen, I'm not so sure about it either."
He seemed to see straight through her lie: "Then
why
are you still sitting here, an avowed and public lesbian in what by all means is a date with a man like me?"
Crystal bit her lower lip, slowly twirling the wine in her glass.
She usually wore clothing matching her alternative lifestyle: long hippie-skirts, no or very little makeup, with long blonde hair in braids or with some strands arranged in beads, or sometimes free flowing, and blouses and tops that left her midsection bare, and leather sandals.
But tonight she chose to vary, if only to experiment and just maybe to entice the man she would be meeting.
Her black dress hugged her body tightly, coming down to her mid-tights, an unused gift from a friend, and her red lipstick made her lips stand out, while her makeup gave her eyes a sultry look.
Crystal had always been a lesbian, ever since her first experiences in high school she was set, to the veiled dismay of her family.
Men in turn took to avoiding her in the romantic sense, not even catcalling or flirting with her. She suspected it was either her open relationships on campus, or the fact that she studied liberal arts.
There were two types of men in her course: there were those fully committed ideologically, properly behaved and left-wing, supporting of the minority causes, both racial and sexual, and avowed critics of fascism and right-wing derivatives.
And then there was a small sect of young men whose projects always gravitated to European books and works, whose interests lay in classical music and opera, paintings of the past centuries, specifically non-modernist ones; and who everyone else just
knew
were right-wingers.
Anyone on their course could notice the differences through a short conversation, but the obvious truth was physical, open to all to see: the first group was skinny, deferential to the women and minorities in class, soft spoken, but the second one was made of weight-lifters and only marginally polite men, carrying themselves with barely veiled pride in their forms with an inherent disdain for everyone else.
Marco was part of the second one, and an exchange student on top of that, from one of the nations in Europe where this type of thought and behavior was flourishing in the last years, and sometimes even encouraged by their social circles.
He fell in seamlessly with his American counterparts, as if they could recognize each other on-sight; and he was more open with many of his opinions, as much as the laws of the State of Washington allowed at least.
Soon, he had integrated their little clique, drinking, partying, leering, flirting with every woman on campus as if the world was theirs to the taking; of course, all that outside their classes, and so within the codes of conduct of their university.
She remembered one instance, in which she still shuddered to think about, when she passed by Mrs. Wiesenthal's house to return a book the teacher had loaned from her private library.
He house was in a secluded and high-class neighborhood, the houses being separated by dozens of yards of woods, away from the poorer parts of Seattle.
Still she was nonetheless an 'ally', registered Democrat since she was old enough to vote, and an outspoken critic of toxic masculinity and all its appendixes.
When Crystal had come to her front porch, the sounds of gagging could be immediately heard; curiously, she quietly moved to the left, moving through the wooden deck to the side of her house, and prying into the window that gave open view to the living room inside.
There stood the matronly woman on her knees atop the Persian rug, naked save for black lacy stockings held in place by a garter belt, shoving a fat cock down her throat, her nose buried in a man's crotch.
Her wavy black hair flowed down on her back freely, and her large breasts were freed of any restraint as well, while a large white hand held her head in place.
Said hand belonged to none other than Professor William Manning, avowed right wing apologist and one of the youngest teachers on UW to date, and following the growing trend of musculature like his fellow fascists.
She remembered vividly as Mrs. Wiesenthal's gagging sounds matched the throbbing of the bulge on her throat, with tears streaming down her eyes, ruining her makeup, all the while she ran her hands through the man's thighs, never breaking eye contact with him.
The image of Professor Manning pulling her face back replayed perfectly on her mind, his cock slipping out of her mouth to rest across her face in a clear display of, in her opinion, stupid male urge for dominance.
She chose not to interfere, clutching the book, '
Feminist Rhetoric in the 21
