**Hello, this is my first time posting, but I’ve been writing for a while. Feedback is more than welcome. More to come, if you all like it. The more explicit things will be at the end. Is the pace too slow? Thank you for reading!**
*
Human beings have a particular penchant for self-torture–masturbation, as it was termed once upon a time. I was engaged in this peculiarity of the human condition in multiple ways, hand between thighs, searching as if I’d find something entirely new in sensations I’d already mapped, overworked cartographer on long, lonely nights. And he was there, in my hand, on me, as he’d always been, this amorphous, unknown entity that I conjured every time I took my hand to self-flagellation, to the curse of the primal. I never pictured him fully, formed his face, crook of his nose, nape, navel–he was just an idea, intangible and unbuilt, unfinished home in which I’d spent years living, promising myself I’d one day finish painting the walls, hanging my art. And yet he kept coming, in moments on the bus, eyes meeting with a stranger, lips parting, I could feel him there, hand on my own, stroking lightly at my thigh. He had always been a mystery, one I didn’t dare to untangle for fear the fantasy would crumble. He was the one to push me against walls, bend me over tables, desks, counters, savagery and sensuality, he was my fantasy, embodied.
And still nameless, still faceless after all this time. Sometimes I would interpose the bodies of other men on him, imagining them in his place when I found myself wet between the thighs, aching for fantasy to urge me forward. Yet, it was still his heat I felt, imagined so perfectly it blinded out the cheap imitations I created of the men whose tangible touch I sought. A shame, truly, as I’d fallen in love with someone I could never be with outside of my own mind. Panting, recovering myself after his hand brought me the ecstasy I craved, ritual from jaded practitioner, I wondered if I’d conjured someone real, their reality blocking out the other fantasies, creations I made from lust, not from need.
I pulled myself from my bed, comforter crumbled on the empty side, a void so large it seemed to manifest in the space. The mirror awaited me in my bathroom but I ignored it, knowing my hair was a mess, knowing I looked like I’d been out drinking all night–I had–and that the only remedy was a shower. Stepping in, the water hit me, cold at first, then slowly shifting to heat, sending tendrils of warmth across my skin, steam rising to float around me like remnants of the fantasy I’d conjured, created, killed, all in the quiet moments of morning. I didn’t open my eyes as I washed myself, deep breaths bringing relief to my tired lungs. It was the ritual after the ritual, the moments of finishing, of completion, when I had finally drunk my fill and ran into the forest, naked, uncovered, weeping for Dionysus to show me true pleasure. I shut the shower off and toweled myself dry, cursing myself for a reference to work so early in the morning.
Breakfast was found on the streets, at a coffee shop two blocks from the office I was quietly trudging to–bagel, jam, coffee–it filled the next need within me, primal animal slowly being tamed, conceived each morning as I awoke. I made it to my office, although now, thinking on it, one could hardly deem it so, so small were its dimensions and yet so limitless its potential–it was a portal, windowless window into another universe. I put my satchel on the hook near the door and settled at my desk, nestled between two overflowing bookshelves. Perched on them were my classics, the classics of Classics, Greek and Latin–books on philosophy, math, science, romance, love, the human condition, the wills and wants of the bodies long gone, nothing save their words and creations left behind.
I shut the door after putting on music, I could only listen to orchestra music while researching; I wanted to snooze at my own pretentiousness. It was Satie that graced my ears that morning, soft piano, notes littering the air with a confidence I wished I could embody. And as I sat down, opened my laptop, checked my email, I felt him there: strong hand on my shoulder, then hot breath on my neck, tongue on my skin. I had to wave him away for fear I’d never get anything written, but my body responded, all the same, eyes closed, thighs clenching–it was in this state that I heard a knock.
Cursing the animal I was failing to keep tamed, I turned the music down and opened the door. I was greeted by the tall, slightly imposing figure of my thesis advisor and former professor, Dr. Dorst. He had shaved off his beard in the week since I’d last seen him, giving his large face a boyish quality. I smiled at him formally and waited for him to state his business, which he obliged.
“Good morning! Hope you did well in my absence, although I must say we missed you at the conference. Craziest week I’ve had in a long time. Dr. Leon presented on the newest findings regarding the Dead Sea Scrolls and phfew,” he took a deep breath, “it was incredibly boring but the information was fantastic.”
I laughed, “He’s always been a better researcher than speaker. It’s good to have you back. I’m sad I missed it, but someone has to run this department.”
He smiled softly, “I know it was in good hands.” He paused, as if waiting for something, and then seemed to start, as if he had just remembered why he’d come, “Oh yes, speaking of running the department, I met a scholar at the conference that I invited to come do some guest lectures here for a few weeks–Dr. uh,” he fished a small sheet of paper out of his pocket, “Dr. Sean Lake, he’s an expert in classical religious rituals, so I thought he’d make an excellent addition to your current course on cults.” He seemed almost apologetic, “I hope it’s not a burden, I actually thought it might be nice to have some help–not that you aren’t doing well,” he paused, “I just think I’ve asked a lot of you lately and I’d like to return the favor. I remember you mentioned enjoying his book so I took the liberty.”
A myriad of emotions seemed to cross my palette all at once, the first of all being confusion, then anger, then fear, and finally, resolution in acceptance. Dr. Dorst, Kevin, had meant well in the gesture. And it might be nice, as he said, to have some help in the course. It would be good to change things up for the students, most of whom had been drawn to the course by the exciting title of “Blood and Wine: Classical Cults & Deadly Rituals” but had soon realized there were six books as required reading for the course, one of which was actually Dr. Lake’s, although that one was last, as I liked to dangle the more explicit content as a treat for making it to the end. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to move it up in the course, skip the next two texts, give the gratification a little more quickly.
I looked up at him, not realizing how long I’d been silent. He was standing, waiting patiently, a smile still on his face. “Oh,” I almost whispered, “You know, I actually added his book to my course, so that works out wonderfully.” I coughed, regaining my composure, and smiled back at him, “I really appreciate it, Kev.”
He patted my arm in a paternal gesture, “I think your work is stunning, and I’m excited to have other scholars in the field recognize it as such. I think this will be a great opportunity for you. Just dazzle him the same way you did me.”
I blushed–his main method of motivation, flattery, was extremely effective. “Thank you, again, truly. I’ll do my best.” I sighed and then realized I knew no details, “Wait–when does he get here? Is he staying near campus? Do you have his contact information?” The questions came quickly, almost tumbling out of me and I realized, about midway through, I was actually excited.
“Hey, slow down kiddo, I’ve already set up lunch for the three of us today. Think you can make it? I figured he could sit in on the class today after we chat and you two could brainstorm for next week.”
I wish he hadn’t figured out my penchant for male authority figures–he knew the use of “kiddo” made me more compliant. I laughed softly, “I can make it, where’d you set it up?”
“The Austrian bakery downtown, 11 o’clock sharp. Bring your syllabus.”
I nodded and thanked him again, saying I’d be there, ready to dazzle. I sat down after he left and turned my music back up; it was onto Chopin, slower, more methodical. I felt drained after that interaction, and it was only 9 AM. I looked at my copy of the syllabus for the course: scribbled margins in the notes, hastily written reminders about sections to add or take away next year. It was a large undertaking, designing a course, and I had been honored when Kevin had asked me if I wanted to give it a try in place of my usual TA duties for his courses. He said that my work could help to popularize the field as a whole, said I made the whole thing seem dark and sexy. I had laughed–what I studied was dark and sexy, albeit in a very Classical way. And now, I was meeting a kindred spirit, Dr. Sean Lake. I was intimately familiar with his book, “Venus, Indeed: Aphrodite, Her Cults, and Their Ritualized Pleasure,” a foundational text on the subject, pulling from more recent finds and theories than most of the other books on the same subject. His writing style was similar to mine, injecting, or perhaps revealing, the darkness in the cults that appealed to the average non-scholar, the romance in rituals meant for the worship of the gods and the self. I had never met him, but I felt as though I knew him, as one might when reading another’s diary. The type of work we did was at once strictly academic and wholly personal, an odd balance of detachment and interjection. I, almost suddenly, wanted to know this man with a pull I hadn’t felt before.
And in a flash, distracting as always, he materialized again, the ever-present fantasy eclipsing genuine curiosity; he was bending me over my own desk, exposed, growling in my ear as his hand ran over my exposed lips. I opened my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them, and stood up, shaking myself quickly. I really had to figure out how to stop these momentary yet overwhelming glimpses of fantasy, always spurred by the mystery of novelty.
*
The bakery where Kevin and I sat was quaint beyond reason, some part of me wanting to peel away the layers of carefully crafted coziness to reveal the naked mechanics working underneath. Their coffee was exceptional, though, and the lunch menu seemed to offer an abundance of items, not just from Austria, but the traditional deli scene as well. I was lost in it when I heard Kevin get up from his chair. I looked at him and then followed his gaze, a man, tall but seeming small given Kevin’s towering self, a shock of tousled red hair on his head, beige sports coat over blue v-neck, to jeans, and finally, black sneakers. I almost laughed at the comical nature of it, the reality of a stereotype I knew too well. He looked at us nervously, shaking Kevin’s hand, and, after I stood, my own hand.
His nervousness was confirmed: soft yet sweaty hands. I could see the sweat on his forehead as well. It was, and I had checked earlier, not going to get hotter than 60 degrees today so his perspiration came from another source. We all settled into our seats and Kevin launched right into the pleasantries he did so well.
“Well Dr. Lake it’s an absolute pleasure having you here and you know how excited I was to meet you at the conference given Ms. Keer’s appreciation for your work. She told me earlier today that she actually has your book in the course, which I suppose I had forgotten about.” He looked over at me and I swear he winked. I cursed myself for not catching the fact he had helped me design the damned course, he would have known I put Lake in there. I had been taken for a sucker. For what purpose, I couldn’t quite discern.
I had to pull myself away from attempting to parse out my advisor’s plans to look over at Sean, who was watching me, albeit still with a nervous air. I smiled, “I’ve been a fan of your work ever since it was published. I had an advanced copy sent to me by the publisher so I could hopefully drum up some exposure in my own circles. I can’t say whether it worked, but I surely hope it did, I think it’s a fantastic look into the Aphrodite-centered cults throughout history, especially in regards to other scholarly works’ historicity.”
He beamed at me, straight white teeth, soft lips pulled thin, eyes aglow. He obviously didn’t get many admirers, but then again, what classicists do? He said, “I’m happy to hear that. I, really, cannot thank you two enough for allowing me to come here. I’ve been working as an independent researcher since I left MIT. Things are exciting but I miss teaching.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Independent research? In Classics?”
“I work for an older gentleman who has a very specific interest in classical religious structures.”
I took a sip of my orange juice and shot Kevin a look. His face was a perfect picture of contentment, his coffee cup held halfway between the table and his lips. I looked back at Dr. Lake. “Well, that’s,” I laughed softly, quickly, “vague, but I’m sure it’s lucrative.” I put the orange juice back down and motioned to the menu, “I think it’s about time to get some food, yeah?”
The two of them agreed and we set to deciphering what spoke to us in the jumble of words, pictures, lingering smells, sounds of the kitchen. Yet, I could not help but keep Sean in sight, and he only seemed to grow more nervous as we continued, chewing at the inside of his cheek, stroking the menu with his thumb, getting startled by the waitress when she asked if he wanted coffee. He said yes, although I think he should have gone with decaf.
After we had ordered and endured a few moments of awkward silence, Kevin steered us towards the class, “So, Mel, I’ve booked Dr. Lake here for a full month, so use him as you see fit during that time for the class, but we both agreed this was also, in part, his time to do research in our library, as he hasn’t had access to a good university in a year or so.” He nudged at Sean, “Those terms still sound good to you?” His manner was so explicitly suburban-dad that it almost hurt. I felt like he could start calling Sean “sport” at any moment–in fact, I’m sure I’d seen him do that with someone before.
Sean laughed, “I think I can still work with those terms.” He paused as the waitress brought our food, then looked at me, and for the first time his nervousness seemed to ease a bit, “I’d be happy to help Ms. Keer in any way possible.”
The way his eyes fell on me aroused the familiar hand on my shoulder, and lightning-fast I was on the table, hand intertwined in my hair, but the mystery man finally had a shape, the form in front of me and behind me, imagined and all too real, fantasy and reality intermingling. I blushed, turning to my food. The primal animal seemed impossible to tame, at times.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/km2ji2/cult_of_dionysus_part_one_mf_storyrich