Thesis on Pleasure - Chapter 2

The morning sun filtered through the expansive windows of Room 106, casting squares of golden light onto the desks. It was the third lecture of the semester, yet a silent anticipation still hung in the air when he walked through the door. His stride was confident, his gaze intense, and the manner in which he carried his books, as if they were instruments of authority, silenced the whispers the moment his foot touched the cool floor.

A delicate necklace hung between her breasts, subtly accentuated by the fabric. Her legs were crossed, a pen held between her fingers, and her eyes, always her eyes, were locked onto him as if each lecture was a continuation of their last shared glance.

He surveyed the room as he approached the podium. Opening a book, he laid it on the wooden surface, and announced:

Then, he looked up. "Luna Andrade, could you start, please?"

Some students exchanged glances. Her name had become an event. Ever since the essay. Ever since the note. Ever since the excessive stares.

She smiled with her lips, but not with her eyes. She picked up the book slowly, her fingertips grazing the edges as if they were touching something alive.

She turned the page. She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out low.

"Then came the revelation. What had invaded me was a vast identification with the world. My most painful sensation was that I seemed to be a woman with sex. And that's what struck me as a disgrace and as a virtue..." she paused, swallowing hard, "... and as a virtue. As a virtue."

The room was hushed. Even the windows didn't dare to creak. Her voice was the only sound, slightly quavering, growing with each sentence, finding its rhythm.

He watched, unblinking. The tension in his shoulders was subtle, imperceptible to most. But Luna could sense it.

She could feel it in her pores, like a silent electric current passing between them.

She continued.

"It was as if my body had been given to me as something much larger than my soul could handle. My body was bigger than myself."

The sentence hung in the air between them like a confession. Some students shifted restlessly. A cough echoed in the background.

But no one dared to interrupt.

"You can stop now," he said softly, "That's more than enough."

She looked up, her pupils wide with surprise. He stood just a half meter away, studying her as if he were deciphering a secret message.

"You interpret well," his voice was a solid whisper, "But I want to see if you perform with the same dedication."

And she responded with the most audacious silence she had ever mustered.

The class continued, at least for everyone else.

He continued to discuss the concept of the body as a symbolic territory in contemporary Brazilian literature. However, his mind was stuck on the words she had read. The way she had said "my body was larger than me" still sent a shiver down his spine.

Luna had stopped taking notes. She was simply observing, like someone who had just expressed all that they needed to.

As the class came to a close, the students began to stand, gathering their backpacks and shifting chairs. She stayed seated. He gathered his books with a slow meticulousness.

Once most had already departed, she rose. She walked to his desk, never breaking eye contact.

"Professor..."

He glanced up, but offered no response.

That comment you made... regarding execution. Do you often assess... performances?

Nonetheless, he could feel his blood simmering.

"Only those who are worthy," he responded, his voice hushed.

She took another step forward, closing the distance. The books were the only thing standing between them.

— And how does one... prove to be worthy?

He drew a deep breath. His eyes were locked onto hers.

— And then he added: — Knowing when to hold your tongue and when to speak up.

She bit her lower lip, purely out of reflex. The words held weight. And pleasure.

— I understand.

She turned around. Her steps were firm. The sound of her heels echoed through the hallway.

He remained motionless, his hand still resting on the cover of Clarice, as if the book could soak up the warmth she had left lingering in the air.

That evening, the breeze felt unusually warm for the beginning of the term.

He navigated the silent corridors of the university toward the parking lot, his thoughts caught in a relentless whirl. A student. A glance.

A reading. A sentence. A subtle invitation.

His phone buzzed.

An anonymous message. No sender.

His heart pounded. He knew who it was. He had already ventured beyond safe grounds.

Yet, something within him — stronger than fear, deeper than morality — yearned to see how far this tale could ignite.

In the following class, she wasn't late. But he was. Deliberately.

When he walked in, she was already standing, at the front of the blackboard. The other students were seated. And there she was, as though she were an integral part of the room's decor, with a book in her hands.

He paused at the door, intrigued.

"May I begin, professor?" she asked, not sarcastically, but with eyes brimming with defiance.

He gave a nod, both intrigued and thrilled.

She flipped open the book. It was the same one. Clarice.

And then, she began to read:

"All of a sudden, I realized that my true life was the one that seemed the most unlikely. The most undesirable. The most perilous. It was her."

The words stung more than any bareness.

He made his way to the table and took a seat, looking at her as though watching a movie he knows he shouldn't enjoy — but does.

Once she finished reading, she calmly closed the book and took a seat. None of the students noticed what had just transpired. But the two of them were aware.

"The most perilous."

At the conclusion of the class, he gathered the papers, but set one aside. Hers.

On the back, he inscribed with his steady hand:

"Stir less with your words. More with the text."

Or, if you'd rather, prove to me that you can do both.

He folded the paper with discretion and passed it along with the notes.

She accepted it, smiled, but didn't utter a word.

But before she exited the room, she turned around and asked:

"Professor, might I suggest the next reading passage?

He gazed at her, sizing up her audacity with icy eyes — but inside, he was seething.

"You may."

"Story of the Eye, by Bataille", she stated, with the calmest voice in the world.

He held her gaze.

"Approved. But remember... some readings are irreversible."

She blinked.

"I'm counting on it."

And she walked away. Her

skirt swaying on her hips, like a definitive period without any regret.