The way her mons was stretched tight and outlined by the pale blue silk panties almost ran me into a pillar by the staircase. I don't often become that distracted, and never by a woman in beige stockings.
It was the Prussian blue suit that caught my initial attention, those gold buttons flashing in the sunlight of the glass lobby. The hair looked blond, then passed behind a pillar near the bottom of the stairs, the same one I almost geeked into. It was in my general direction and my gait caught a little giddy up. She was moving at business pace up the stairs, and the sheer white stockings bade me follow.
I had papers in one hand, briefcase in the other, a need to be in three places at once, and as soon as I rounded the second turn in the stairs she was at the top, hesitating for just a second to check her watch. She was one flight up, the suit skirt pushed tight by her leg on the second to top step. Those white stockings, blue garters, soft blue panties. Without effort her rear leg pushed and she resumed her march. The subtle yet sharp striations of her muscles worked in perfect concert, and by the time I hit the top she was gone, disappeared into one of the admin offices.
I cherish such moments, the precision and body knowledge of a woman who knows where she's going, what she's doing. It's all too rare on campus. Students are slobs; maybe one in twenty knows how to dress. Young men don't even know how to tie a half Windsor. If I ever see a short skirt in class or waiting in my office, I can be sure someone has a problem with a grade. Last semester I had a nudist in my Noir Lit class. He got a B. Then there's the kilt, which goes in and out of fashion every couple years, but absolutely has to be worn with underwear. The young rebels who taunt the establishment—and this would include the slob professors who dress like street urchins and couldn't care less, at least until the tenure interviews begin—show up unshaven, in jeans, flip flops and fatty bare midriffs. They show up late. They show up high or drunk. They skip classes with impunity, but come the grades there is always contention.
When I see a creature sheer and precise, wondrously cared for and deliciously feminine, I notice.
The admin building is architecturally enlightening and cost the university 11 million dollars. It was named after a graduate who, during the ribbon cutting, had declared that he'd received no less than 500 letters from his alma mater over the years. Needless to say, alumni relations were housed in the new digs. I hit admin as seldom as possible, hobnob with the president and his wife at social gatherings, perhaps a reading in the new amphitheater, meet with the dean. I was just coming from his office when I glimpsed the blue rapture.
Generally I don't screw my students, or my department faculty, or anyone connected to the university. I'd thrown a couple pokes into the last dean, but she was very ambitious and had gone on to the Ivy League. "It's better to fuck 'up'" was her favorite saying, and she liked to buy shoes at Maud Frizon so it was hard to argue her point. She favored the classic Dior suit and her academic rigidity was pulled right out of her sexual ego. She only liked to do it standing up, skirt hoisted, door locked, condom on, to Yanni. I preferred a brisk Celtic clog, but that was fluid under the fabric, as they say.
The new dean favored Brooks Brother's suits and had wanted as a child to become an astronaut. Now he was merely egotistical and boring. He was a hands-on guy who loved to shake hands and pointed with his cigar at faculty garden parties. "That's a begonia." Actually, it was a lily, but one does have to kiss some ass. Today he wanted to discuss my departmental budget. The English and Communication department was by far the largest on campus, and as the Dean of Arts and Sciences he wanted to make sure I was on the fiscal ball.
"What are you doing over this way, John?"
I turned at the top of the staircase, looked like I knew what I was doing, and checked my watch. Always a good organizational tool, that. "Hey Fred," I greeted the provost. "I'm hiring myself out as a whore to keep my people and programs intact. How's Marta?"
"The lump was benign," he sighed, though the way he usually complained about her at the gym made me wonder which way the sigh was leaning. "She wanted to thank you for the card you sent, it was very considerate."
"Glad she's doing well." I'd have to thank my secretary, Annie, for the thoughtful correspondence. My eyes wandered over the three doors, wondering which, and I was thinking that if I stood there all afternoon I'd find out. "The kids?"
"Expensive, avoid them," he said knowingly. "When's that book coming out?"
As a published novelist and occasionally well known critic, my reputation and social standing were enhanced by the utter mediocrity of higher education, political correctness, and also by my bachelorhood. At every faculty gathering wives hovered and suspicious male eyes counted the herd. Fred just wanted a couple free copies, hardcovers naturally, to spread around his office.
"Should be on Amazon next month. There might be a lecture series in the city, speaking tour. Depends on the conglomerate that gobbles up my publisher next."
"You're pretty cynical for a single guy, John."
"Just realistic, Fred. You going to the gym later?"
"All depends," he said, looking at his watch. "You?"
"I have one class, then a mediation, a meeting I'll probably skip."
We said our goodbyes and Fred went into the door on the left. How tactful of him not to ask what I was doing on this floor. Never ask a question if you don't want to know the answer. That's the secret of success in bureaucracy. The secret of supremacy is knowing without asking.
That tight little mons walked me back to the department and a class on Joyce. To piss the kids off I gave a pop quiz. It didn't do much to neutralize my frustration. I'd have to grade them. Fantasy got me through, and one of the girls wore a short skirt. I wouldn't pop a student, but if I met her sometime after graduation...
The mediation was bullshit, but then they almost always were. The department staff meeting was equally entertaining. A roomful of academics howling for a reduced workload and higher equipment budgets, same old same old. I told them the story of Sisyphus. Never let it be said I wasted an opportunity to condescend.
I made it to the university gym by six, not bad for a Thursday. Changed into sweats and hoped it wouldn't be crowded. Six is past the jock time, and co-eds don't work out like they used to. Only the kid on work-study at the sign in desk, a couple kids rowing, some doing the Nautilus circuit, hard core lifters doing squats over in the corner, the usual assembly of lean machines on the treadmills. There was an opening on one of the EFX elliptical machines so I skipped the stretch and headed right over. I love the EFX, forward and back, light or heavy tension, adjustable height. I used to favor the Stairmasters, but the EFX had won me over, and it was easier and smoother than older stepping machines.
I started light and fast, to get the heart rate up around 150 and keep it there. The co-ed on the next machine started to race me so I took my hands off the arms and straightened up, speeded up. She didn't stand a chance. I do it every day for at least a half hour, and she was starting to sweat. Women pause when they start to sweat in public, as if it's unseemly, and I know they wouldn't mind except someone might see them sweating, come over and sniff their pits. I gave her the thumbs up and a smile, good show. She smiled and gave me the finger. I pretended offence and went tsk tsk. She cleaned her machine and I closed my eyes. For the next twenty minutes or so I luxuriated in clean living and dirty thoughts.
When I opened my eyes at the beep I wasn't alone on the machines. A blond woman with a ponytail and cutoff sweats was next to me, chugging away. She looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place her. I smiled a hello and she nodded politely. I finished, cleaned the machine, and went over to the free-weight area to do curls and flies. I've never understood why academics don't work out more. Yes, we're horribly arrogant concerning athletics and jocks, but inside it's more a thing of being emotionally insecure, of going with the mind instead of the body. I'm only 43, but I've learned that without some kind of balance, there can be neither. The body as holistic unit, that's what I practiced, though I'd learned not to preach.
From the free-weight bench where I was doing bicep curls I watched the blond through the mirrors on the wall. She wasn't speeding along, but I could see she had it on resistance level 7 or 8 at least. The muscles in her legs were moving with a kind of strenuous elegance. I didn't think I'd seen her before, but then thousands of people had access to this place. She straightened up to wipe the sweat off her face with a hand towel and the light bulb went off in my head. White stockings, pale blue panties, and an air of capability. I did an extra set with each arm to ward off the bone in my pants.
The surreptitious watching wasn't enough, and I put my weights away, used my own towel to wipe off, slowing meandering back towards the EFX. Yes, I do love that machine, gives one tight legs, gets a serious sweat going, focuses concentration and sets the endorphins free. It's also a good judge of character. She wasn't burning herself out like a co-ed, had a long, stretching stride, and she was beginning to pick up the pace. I strolled casually over with the towel around my neck, still sweating profusely.
"How far you going?" I asked.
"Not as far as you," she said, her voice a pleasant if strained midrange. "I can't do this with my eyes closed. I start to wander, and I don't know if my pride could take my falling on my ass."
