I was walking through the university’s gymnasium—a nice shortcut between my office and the library—when I heard what sounded like moaning. It seemed to be coming from just beyond the girls’ locker room door. I pressed my palm against the swinging door, gently extending my fingers to push it open slightly. What I thought could be someone in pain I now recognized as the unmistakable sounds of pleasure. I slipped in.
I turned the initial corner to encounter the rows of slim lockers. If my memory was accurate, the cheer squad wrapped up practice recently. I walked slowly to the second row of lockers and saw her. She was sitting on the long, thin bench between the lockers, her back to me. But, I recognized the voice. It’s so strange to hear a voice you’re so accustomed to in another context—here, moaning, absorbed in pleasure. She was one of the more talkative students in my intro literature class. And here she was, still in her cheerleading uniform, her legs straddling the bench, spread wide so that she could touch herself, her head tilted forward and her long dark hair hanging in a loose pony tail.