We live our lives through our bodies.

Mark returned to his office after a busy time dealing with a number of questions from the first year students, the freshlings, the type of questions any academic gets from students new to the institution: questions of clarification, about when assessments are due, how to reference, about extensions of time, timetables, texts, etc etc. Many of the questions were quite petty, in the sense of no great importance or ramification, or of a technical nature; but for the students, Mark knew, they were important, not for the ostensible reasons of clarification or technical correctness, but because students, often unconsciously, often wanted to make contact with someone in "authority"—a notion to which we shall have reason to return often, in derision, in the following pages—to be reassured they were simply human, that they could approach someone. And, for Mark, reciprocally, these interactions gave him an opportunity to show he was approachable, to put faces to names, to fulfill his pastoral role of placation and assurance.

It had been the usual busy day with teaching, admin stuff, student in-quiries, and some thoughts about how he was going to deal with Samantha.

He knew she was there, sitting in his office chair, typing up some notes of her own, or perhaps looking up some web sites. Despite her being in his class for over two months now, and often sitting at the front with her two girlfriends, Lisa and Carrie, Mark had really only come to know her about 15 days ago, and had "gone out with her" for the first time on May 11, his birthday, five days earlier.

Mark had talked to Pristine—his current "girlfriend", who was a student in her second year at the University of No Ideas (UNI)—about what to do with Samantha. It was obvious that Sam, as she quickly came to be known, was very friendly toward Mark. And that was the problem.

What was his and her relationship? Did Samantha want to take it any further than just hanging about Mark and his office, soliciting extra help, and offering, ever so generously, to assist Mark with some of his work?

… he felt sorry for Sam who, a few days earlier, had been crying in his office, telling him that she had no real friends in Melbourne, that her mother was in hospital, and she was having a hard time at Uni. She drew out his fatherly feelings and for the moment he took her under his wing, as he had done on several previous occasions with other students during his almost twenty years of teaching.

Sam could easily make any man sympathetic: she was young, indeed only just past 17 years old. And she was attractive, not in a sexy way, but, good looking, and cute. She had a kind of longish face, but not drawn down, although her photos show her to have a round, plumpish face, at times almost a "moon" face or "pancake" face, as the Chinese often self-refer. But indeed that was in fact part of her attractiveness, that her face and features could change quite dramatically. She could pull a puppy face that would melt any heart.

… She was quite tall for an ABC, an Australian Born Chinese, about 5'5", with typical longish black hair down to her shoulders, straight, with a small fringe at front. She often wore dark clothing, especially a long black coat that reached just to the back of her knees, that set off her whitish face as rather a little pallid. She had black eyes, but not too chinky, and a nose not too broad.

Her winning smile and loud laughter were always accompanied by two dimples, a defining feature, each just aside her mouth, which was perfectly formed by succulent lips gliding over pearl-white teeth. And she had a soft, sweet, very sweet, voice, that could take on dear clear tones of childishness, or anger. At times, when she spoke, her tones would rise and fall or be drawn out, they would have a melody to them, as though she were singing.

In many ways she was enigmatic; both child-like, yet very organized and serious and demanding at times. … her thighs were longer and not so noticeably "thick", and certainly, as Mark was to discover, soft and smooth, as were her breasts, which were neither large nor small. 

As Mark entered his office that night, five days after the club date, he closed and locked the door behind him. Everyone else had gone, as it was about 6pm. But he wanted to make sure that he and Samantha were not interrupted, because he saw the opportunity to speak frankly, but for him, dangerously, to Samantha about her expectations, and about his growing feelings.

"Sam", he began.

She swiveled on the chair to face him, stopping her work at his comput-er, smiling, with her dimples striking his eye as they always did. Pristine had told him to take off his glasses—she said he had nice hazel eyes—and to make eye contact with Sam.

"Sam, I think we need to have a little talk, seriously."

"About what?"

"You and me."

"What about us?"

She was usually straightforward, although Mark would learn later she could be cagey and evasive, and much later he found she could be an outright liar and psychopathic to the point of evil.

"Look, I have to talk frankly, and I don’t want to scare you. In fact, I have to trust you, because this is rather awkward, and I don’t want to get into trouble, because I'm not sure where you stand…."

"Get on with it, Mark", she said with a smile and glimmer of knowing, but also with a hint of impatience.

Mark was half-sitting on his desk, with his leg dangling slightly off the floor, not wanting to tower over her in any kind of menacing way, but also not wanting to sit in a distant chair and present himself as too casual or afar in what was a serious matter. He had always tried to use body lang-uage appropriate for the occasion, and with what he was about to say to Sam he thought a semi-casual but certainly not intimidating stance was called for. Sam sat squarely in Mark's office chair, facing him, with her legs apart. But he still felt awkward, he felt threatening, as he still towered much above her.

"I don't know how to say this…."

"Just say it", she said matter-of-factly.

"It's rather awkward, because I don't want you to get frightened, but you must have noticed you've been spending a lot of time here, in my office, and always seem to be asking me stuff, like helping you, looking at your essays, and you doing things for me…"

She just smiled.

"Well, I want to tell you how I feel about you, I mean, this situation of you coming here, and if you get a little worried, then, let's talk about it, so we understand one another, clearly, and if you want to leave, then that's ok."

"So you don't want me here anymore, is that it?" She looked a bit concerned, and pulled that puppy face. "I come here too much, don't I? I'm clingy, aren't I? I know, …I get clingy. And I'm annoying you? If you don't want me to come here any more, I understand."

Well that was enough to create sympathy if not self-remorse for being so cold and cruel to this forlorn, lonely child. Oh god, Mark, you should be so remorseful as to want to self-flagellate!

Mark knelt down in front of her, putting his hands on the armrests of the chair, careful not to touch her.

"No, no. On the contrary. I enjoy your company", he replied. "That's the problem. I like you being here, your happy smile, doing little things for me, and I don’t mind helping you when I can. But you must have noticed that sometimes I have asked you to stay, and we went out last week, and, I…, well, you must realize, you're young and attractive…But you are my student, and I am your lecturer."

At that point Sam blushed, or winced, but also started to roll the chair closer to Mark, so that within a moment or so he was firmly between her legs.

"This is not upsetting you, is it?" he asked.


As the chair, and Sam's warm body, came closer, and finally in contact, Mark's arms were in an awkward position and naturally fell down besides her thighs…or perhaps Sam put them there, he couldn't remember…beside her thighs, but also where he could still hold onto some of the seat.

"I want to tell you how I feel about you, but I don’t want you to be scared, because I know I'm twenty years older than you, and…well, I just want to know what you are wanting?"

"What do you mean?"

This was now very dangerous ground, for Mark had indicated by now that he perhaps had some tender feelings for her, and this may have been totally unexpected from Sam's point of view; she may have liked Mark, as a person, as a lecturer, but may have seen their relationship as more pragmatic. "What do you mean?" began to ring alarm bells for Mark, that perhaps Sam was a little alarmed at the emotional direction the con-versation was taking. But he had gone thus far, he couldn’t just leave it, but had to clarify the situation, and if she reacted negatively, in a hostile fashion, he would have to placate her, somehow.

"I mean, its obvious I seem to find you attractive, and I like you being here, you brighten up the place, my day, but I don’t know how you feel about me and where you want our relationship, now, as it is, to go."

By this point Sam had started to slip down the chair, her legs now entwined somewhat around his thighs, and Mark's arms had reached around the back of her to support her and prevent himself from being pushed back and over. He felt her bare skin where her blouse had crept up her back, and he felt the top end of her butt. Her crotch was now firmly against his chest.

"Why are your hands on my bum?" she said, with a slight smile and a knowing glimmer in her eyes.

"Sorry. Where do you want me to put them? You're going to slip off the chair in a minute. And I don't see you objecting."

She said nothing, just smiled, allowing as always her two beautiful and enigmatic dimples at the side of her mouth to appear.

He tried to continue the conversation, but Sam's eyes had closed and she had started thrusting her pelvis against his chest, as her breathing became more rapid. Instinctively, as in the sex act, his hands slid down the back of her pants, to support her, to help her with her thrusting motions. With increasing strength she rhythmically rubbed her vagina against his chest, he having to hold on to her arse to stop him from being knocked back. He could feel the full weight of her against his chest.

After a few minutes she stopped, exhausted. She opened her eyes, saying, with a smile and a giggle, "Why are your hands down my butt?"

"We have to talk. Come here to the lounge, and sit down."

They moved to the one lounge chair in his office, a low, beige, broad, soft chair that could almost seat two, that Mark used in those rare moments of leisure where he could relax in comfort and read.

Again she opened her legs; he knelt down to be on an equal level with her; he moved between her legs, and held her hands, then moved his hands to the side of her thighs.

"You're naughty", she said. "You're evil. You're an evil bum"—a phrase she was to use often in forthcoming months.

"Sam, do you know what you just did?"

"I know, but I couldn't help it. I'm sorry."

She pulled him closer and gave him a hug—something that would soon become a source of comfort for both of them.

"Don't be sorry, it's OK."

"Do you want to do it?" she asked.


"I know you've been helping me a lot lately, and I really appreciate it. It's ok, if you want to get inside me. My little girl is still all wet."

"Oh Sam, that's what I wanted to talk to you about tonight. What is it you want, do you want me to make love to you?"

"It's OK", she said happily, with her voice rising in a delightful tone.

"Not here. I respect you too much. If we are going to make love, then I want to do it for the right reasons, in the right place, not here, you deserve better. I don’t want to fuck you, I want to love you, I want to make love to you."

"It's OK."

"I can wait, Sam, until you're sure. And I want to do it nicely, not here in the office, I want to respect you, not like you're some kind of slut."

Slut. A word he never uttered in her presence again, and never thought of her as one, until almost twelve months later.

"So, where do you want our relationship to go?"

"I don't know…I know you've done a lot for me, and I, like…… and stuff…"

"And I like you, as a person, you're so,… so bubbly. And I want to make love to you, but that's up to you."

"That should never have happened", she said, half smiling, waving her no-no finger.

"I know, but it did, and you wanted it to, and I don’t mind, its ok. If you want to make love, let me make love to you properly."

"Later. I better get home now, my father will be wondering. I have to catch the bus."

"I'll drive you."

She packed her things, and they strolled to his car. On the way to her house Mark managed to raise the subject of what had happened. Sam didn’t seem to mind. She admitted that she had, essentially, masturbated on his chest, saying that sometimes it's better with clothes on because it's rougher, more stimulating for her clitoris. She didn’t know why she had done it, it just happened, and she was just in the mood, just horny.

He dropped her off home, making sure she got into her apartment building safely, then drove back to work, where he would, as usual, stay until about 10pm.

He wondered what would happen now, if she would ever speak to him again, if she was disgusted, embarrassed, or if she would report the incident, and he would surely lose his job. And if that were to happen, then perhaps he should have just fucked her there and then, when she gave him the invitation. Or perhaps, would she come to him again, and then he would know that she wanted some kind of close relationship? But how close? Yes, he really did want to make love to her. Sure he could have fucked her there and then, but for some reason he really respected and liked her, and didn't want to treat her like a tramp, as just another student who would screw for a better grade.

… As he re-entered the office the phone rang. It was Sam. They just talked, about assignments, her living arrangements with her father, and "stuff", as she fondly called the various events of the day. After about 30 minutes Mark said he had to get some work done and prepare for tomorrow's classes. She told him her schedule for the next day and when she could pop around to see him. She asked if he would call her on the mobile phone when he got home—something that was quickly to become a routine.

So she wasn’t bothered by what had happened that night, he thought. She did want to continue their relationship, so it seemed, but he was still unsure how far she wanted to take it,….

He had been teaching almost twenty years in various universities, and although he had had the occasional crush on particular students, and once or twice had the pussy that just happened along in a moment of mutual attraction or fun, as a one-off, he felt this was different.

But he was still concerned about what could, or would, happen. It was always incomprehensible to Mark that mad "feminists"—whom he thought were not feminists at all but man-haters, because they were jealous that 40 year old men could get young chicks while the dried up old fat cunts could get nothing—thought that men like him had power, "authority". Mark always knew that it was the chick who had power: the power to squeal, the power to seduce, because it's simply stupid to think that young 18 year olds do not know the power of the clit. Sam knew this only too well. She had used the power of the pussy at age 14; indeed, something she had learnt from her mother. For man, the womb is his tomb.

The invidious thing about women, about pussy, is that they use it as a tool, then later run to the headmistress, that dried up old jealous mama san, and cry foul, again using their pussy as the basis of power, that they are virginic innocents. How far from the truth! Mark wondered just who had the power. It would be funny, if it were not serious, that later Sam would often say how she needed him more than he needed her. But was that just another feminist ploy, to present herself as helpless, as powerless, as a victim, when in fact she had enormous power: the power of her youth, her beauty, femininity, and her sexuality, and the power of those very discourses that many matrons subscribed to? It was men who had always been the victims, and now, with the rise of so-called feminism, men were further disempowered and victimized, victims of another kind, but still rooted in the power of the cunt.

It was strange how a hole, a negative space, a wound, a wound that never heals, a cunt, could have so much power. Is that why women were so often referred to as cunts? Because they are, like cunts, deceptive?

She knew, just as other girls know—for there are many such daemons —that a warm body, a wet pussy, firm breasts, a shapely figure, the feminine smell, the challenge and possibility of being inside her body, the soft buttocks, the taste of sweet lips, the feel of flesh and soft downy hair, a sensuous woman, could lead a man. She was a little deadly daemon among the wholesome children; she stood unrecognized by them, and only half conscious herself of her fantastic power.

She knew men thought with two heads, and often it was his "little boy" who would win out. She knew how to pander to his sense of worth, as a man, as virile, as desiring and desirable, to his ego, to manipulate all that he had been socialized into being. Is that not knowledge? Isn’t this what Catherine Hakim, sociologist and author of Honey Money, refers to as erotic capital, and what Bettina Arndt has been at pains to explore? Is that, there-fore, not power?

The men haters with legs as thick as tree trunks know this, because they have done it, they have used it, they use it now to entrap men, because they are jealous; they have lost the ability to use their empty space, and so they use their other head to destroy, just as young cunts destroy young men, and old.

What would happen if Sam went to the headmistress? They would believe her, because they perpetuate, in a left-over sanitized version of Victorianism, that women are incapable of desire, lust, need, experience, knowledge, power; that they are female and therefore ipso facto victims. Ah, funny that! Feminists want equal power to men, but by the very act of supporting women "victims" they reinscribe the notion that women are victims, powerless. The whole debate about sexual equality is about the body, the power of the body—after all, we live our lives through our bodies. But to claim that women are simply, purely, victims, is to deny the very power they do have, and for which they argue. Men use their bodies in power plays, so what's new? There's nothing stopping a girl from jumping a guy other than the social constraints witch women themselves have created for themselves.

They, with their degrees of Feminist Victimology, Degrees that exclude a reading of Lolita, would believe her, rob her and all women, again, of any power they do have; indeed of greater power than men, over men. If it is power women want, does it matter if it is rested in the body or the mind, or in some socially constructed fabrication of make-believe equality, which, one day, as we write these words, will fall apart like a pack of cards?

Of course, being post-enlightenment "rationalists", they will argue all this away, blur it amidst a morass of pseudo-rationalist feminine rhetoric, and in the very process deny nature, deny the body, and obfuscate the reality, justify their ineptitude of old age, and shift blame, as the Freudians did, onto runaway rampant male lust or the socialized need for a father-figure. (And who socialized them, mother?) And in so doing, they will deny the lust and therefore the power of women, of cunt. Women have got a particular power of their own, if only they knew it, and you can't unravel those two threads, sex and power, so neatly; they're tightly entangled, it doesn’t mean anything to unravel them.*

Of course Mark could deny the incident; it was his word against Samantha's, but who would they believe? Procedurally, judicially, they just might have to find him innocent, but who would they believe…? It would never occur to any of them that a man accused of such an act might be innocent, and that it would result in heartbreak to see ideals distorted into a ghastly punitiveness. Sexual "harassment" has gone off the rails, not so much because charges are trumped up, but because it's damaging, and damaging people.*

He could even argue that he refrained from sex with Samantha, despite her initiative and invitations. Of course they would argue, some-what rhetorically, that he should have stopped it the moment he realized the bodily proximities. Indeed, he should not have had a girl student in his office with the door locked, and certainly not at 6pm—as though sex only occurs after dark. And he was already aware that she may have had a crush on him.

Exactly! That's why he tried to deal with an apparently emotionally "vulnerable" girl in a way that consoled her, not crush her. What—simply report her to the Bitch Brigade, to the Vengeance Squad, and have her bureaucratized, mentally ostracized, and traumatized? This was a sens-itive, sweet Samantha Guimoi who acted on what she had been taught, and felt. We have a cock-eyed view of human relations. We think of relationships in terms of people who fuck—not in terms of their emotional content.*

What would you do?

….And why stop it? Because of Mark's "power"? What power? Who had the power to seduce, and then to squeal? Who had the power to cry Wolf!? And why stop a relationship, even fleeting, if it was consensual? Would they ask why she didn't stop it? Was there a real fear that Mark would give her a high grade in her Course—in that case, another manifestation of her power to demand it? Were they afraid that such favouritism turns an innocent girl into a prostitute? Or is it simply a legitimation of the tree-ladies' own inadequacies—their inadequacy to deal with their own declining sexuality and sexual power, the inability to deal with their unspoken wanton desire?

Why stop it? 

These were questions and issues that clouded Mark's mind as he also began to reflect on his move to this campus—one of several owned by UNI—about 15 months earlier, and for what reason things had changed… to the point of how he met Samantha, of tonight's incident, and of what the future might hold…