By Elizabeth Joyce
I liked sports, the competition and the athleticism of my body. But it had never been enough. It satisfied, in some way, my visceral teenage needs – narcissistic, hedonistic, masochistic urges – but it didn’t engage the sentient needs in my core, in my Venus de Milo self-image. My adolescent flowering needed more. At sixteen, even earlier, I was well aware of both my sexual curiosity. Intellectually, I was a straight ‘A’ student and devoured books and was set on studying Greek history and philosophy, or maybe biology. Physically and sexually I was ahead of most girls my age and my athletic body soaked up the physical affirmation of sports. I was tall, in great shape, not an ounce of fat – a little too slim and flat-chested for a boy’s boob fetish but I heard the boy-talk that my long legs ‘were to die for.’ I could outrun most boys in most races and was determined to stay ahead of them in life’s race. I wasn’t going to be dominated by any man. Ever. My father’s patriarchal, narrow-mindedness drove me to adopt my mom’s, and Simone de Beauvoir’s, feminist stand, believing that a woman’s problems were rooted in men’s problems. MeToo was for me and I could sing every word of Helen Reddy’s old hit, I am woman … invincible. And after reading Sheryl Sandberg’s book, Lean In, I threw it in the trash can – too superficial, faux feminist.
That day at the small, nondescript university, when dad insisted we take a look at the gym, my first impression was, wow, it’s huge. Our high school gym would’ve fit in one corner. My second impression was, wow, who’s that?
He was across the floor. On the rings. Doing the iron cross. In a Nike top and long pants, the athletic-fitting, manhood-revealing kind. Double-wow! The sexiness was there in every muscle as his taut body strained to hold this primordial specimen in suspension between two rings, between physical perfection and muscular failure. His physical and sexual energy captured me like Paris must have captured Helen of Troy. He dropped to the floor and walked toward us, wiping his face and arms with a towel. He glistened. I gawked.
He shook my dad’s hand, “Hi, I’m Hudson Medway, athletic director and physical education teacher …”
Fuck … I was gobsmacked. He was standing profile, smiling at my mom and dad, a living, breathing Greek god. The muscles … shoulders, biceps, hands … jaw, mouth, smile … thick … gorgeous. He turned to me. I shook his hand but couldn’t escape his eyes … clear, mesmerizing … green … or hazel?
Dad jumped in, “Hudson, this is my daughter Brittany, she’ll be a freshman in September and we were just here to blah, blah, blah –”
His eyes owned every conscious thought I had. “Brittany, what a beautiful name.”
I managed, “Nice to meet you,” and squeezed my best imitation of a strong handshake. He was a couple of inches taller than me, I’m five-ten. His eyes collapsed the space between us – the professor-student divide and the age gap were non-existent. Looking back, that was the planting of my seeds of obsession. His too, but I didn’t know that then. I pulled my hand away, leaving behind an indelible moment.
He showed us around the facilities. His congeniality didn’t camouflage his attention on me, or mine on him. But dad was oblivious, yammering on about sport’s shit that no one listened to. My mom sensed my infatuation, driven by my vagina’s life-force and its fixation on his every step, stop, turn, twist, twitch … how can a man’s gluteus maximus be so perfect? I’ll take phys’ ed as a spectator sport.
He said, “As athletic director, I still keep my hand in things, coaching track and field and women’s basketball.”
Dad turned, “Hear that Brittany?”
My mind – actually my hormones – had already signed me up for both sports.
By the time we’d toured the complex my entire sports resume had been covered by my dad – high hurdles state champion, quarter-mile champion and captain of the state champion basketball team. Hudson interrupted several times, urging me to get involved in university athletics. Little did he know that my urges needed no urging. My obsession was fully registered by time we said good-bye at the Whitney Athletic Center with my dad still yakking sports and Hudson still tracing every anatomical inch of my body. Even though I didn’t say much, I wasn’t intimidated by his yummy physical presence or his superior professorial status, he was, for me, a real-life hunk who could be my fantasy. I was all in, ready to major in physical education. It was also when my libido subscribed to a lifetime preference for older men.
That summer before university was filled with the usual eighteen-year-old fun, music, swimming, track training, adolescent boy-talk, sexual fantasies and masturbation. All dominated by gratifyingly, dirty thoughts of my soon-to-be, phys’ ed professor. My virgin sex life remained intact despite one overheated, out-of-control sexual encounter on a camping trip with girlfriends. I met a hot looking guy, Danny, who almost took my virginity. But he was one of those juvenile nice guys that wouldn’t push, wouldn’t assert his testosterone dominance – not my type, ‘no balls’. Instead, his need-to-be-liked kept ‘it’ in his pants and despite the torrent in his groin, he wasted it in his underwear. It worked for him. And for me. Because I was saving myself – for Hudson. What an idiotic thought … that a thirty-something phys’ ed professor would risk sex with an eighteen-year-old.
Buy Physical Education in the Love & Sexcess Bookstore as a 3-in-1 bundle of short stories, Erotic Threesome, all 3 for only $2.99.