In recent times, this column has become a bastion of male homosexual erotica. I’m here to change that.
Cast your minds back to the sultry summer days of Trinity Term 2015. I, a naïve (ok, well not really) young Classicist, arrive at my first meeting with my tutor that term. When I walk in, tutor and students alike are giggling about another, rather eccentric, Keble don, who just happens to be my favourite evil genius around. One undergrad is particularly on point with acerbic quips. I glance across the room at the purveyor of such flawless banter. She is on the cute side, but with that evil glint in her eye that makes me want her there.
And it just so happens that Sarah will be my tute partner this term. The difficulty in achieving my classical fantasy is that I have already spent a steamy night or two with the majority of her best, male, friends. On one of these occasions, my unlucky night-time companion was deaned for noise complaints relating to the proximity of a certain communal bathroom to a junior dean’s bedroom. I assume that to her I seem like the towering pinnacle of heterosexual promiscuity. Little does she know that my interest in ancient history isn’t limited to uprisings; I’ve always had a distinct penchant for Roman and Greek (non-Platonic) caves.
I spend my next few tutorials giggling a little too much at her sardonic back-and-forth with our tutor, each tute moving steadily closer to her side of the sofa. Sadly, it seems she’s more interested in flirting with our professor than she is with getting to know the finer details of my… personality. We do, however, share a number of not-too-fleeting moments of eye contact. Could it be that she knows that I’m yearning to see something more than her tutorial notes?
The next week, following another round of repartee in the don’s room, Sarah casually slips into the conversation that she is in fact very queer. My face, and elsewhere, lights up; is she suggesting that, like me, she’s interested in a more hands-on approach to peer criticism? I decide to take the plunge at the ball we are both attending that night.
My evening becomes devoted to hunting her down. Eventually, I find her in the main stage tent. She’s looking amazing in a black dress that clings to her great body. Her personality and wit aren’t her only huge assets. We dance together for a while, hands finding their way to unknown territories. The sexual tension is mounting, and we finally kiss, hotly and sensuously. We make the excuse of needing to get a tampon and quickly make our escape to the bedroom.
Almost before we’re through the door, our ball gowns are on the floor. She pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top. My intrepid classical adventurer begins to explore my southern hemisphere with fearless pleasure. She’s definitely done this before, and her graceful fingers quickly lead to noise levels that could easily result in another deaning. Sated, we lie in each other’s arms as the sun rises over the post-ball carnage outside.
We continue our dalliance for the remainder of our tutorials together. I wonder if our professor is aware that his two students’ fingers aren’t spending most of their time typing up essays. Our tryst is great, but I inevitably feel the pull of my voyage of sexual discovery, and by the end of term I’m back in the Bridge smoking area with one thing on my mind.
Suffice it to say, though, that Homer isn’t the only thing I’ll remember this term.