But behind him stood his class, and between them stood the world. One moment he was tempted for a piece of Sethe, the other by any beauty that happened to be in sight at the time. It's not that he was a slut, or promiscuous at all. He merely admired beauty, couldn't help but want to touch it, explore it, smell the scent of beauty.
In private he liked to look at peoples photos on myspace. It was the closest he could get to porn without feeling desperate and perverted. Pretty girls would angle the camera in a flattering over head view, showing the curves of their breast. He imagined breathing on their face, being close enough to see the dirty pores of their skin. He often emailed the girls, informing them of how pretty or hot they were, depending on how much he rated them. Blondes were favourite, scoring three points just for the colour of their hair. But three points were lost again, if their face was too flat. He had a fetish for curves, often drawing them in pen on random pieces of paper.
Sethe saw the absence in his eyes and went to join the rest of the class. Noticing that the plump lips were no longer in front of him, he pulled the top of his jeans slightly to re-adjust. The air was sticky, made humid but the glass dome of the university. Sweat seeped through his white shirt onto the surface of his leather jacket. His body hung casually to the left, tipped as though some thought was too heavy for his skull to hold.
Girls, he thought. What was it about them that enticed him. The power of their sex was amazing. How the vision of pale skin and soft hair could encapsulate him for hours, wrapping his entire body in fascination. His mind grew weak at the thought, exhausted from the inability to think of anything else. It was almost possible to feel sorry for him, the amount of sleep he lost over thoughts of girls. To smell their breath, taste their skin. If only he could find one that he could keep. But none seemed to stay, running away a soon as he showed interest. It was a shame, because it meant that he had to find love in other places. In the street, from strangers. He didn�t want to do it but he had no choice. He was desperate.
Sometimes they hurt him, which he hated because it made him feel guilty. Distracted him from the pleasure his penis was feeling. But he kept going, was never distracted by the anger they showed him. In fact the fear made him feel better. It was invigorating to feel a female figure shiver underneath him. Almost as though they were twitching from orgasm. Then hand on mouth he would rape them, ignoring the groans of pain they would make. Thrusting back and forwards, buried in the grass, he would rape for minutes, then leave them to dress as he went home to nap. But he was polite, always made sure he thanked them. After all, they were doing him a favour. If he couldn�t find a women anywhere else where was he meant to go?
As he walked home he would sniff his hands, wanting to bottle to smell of bodily fluids and sweat. The strangers eyes he caught would make him feel proud, as if to say �hey I�ve been laid and you haven�t.� His mates thought he was the champion. They loved his stories of the sluts he would bring home from clubs and fuck on the stairs. They would laugh, in a boyish guffaw, and congratulate him on another grand achievement. Jealous of his pulling power.
� But in this society we breed objects� he would say. � If women are going to protrude themselves around as objects why shouldn�t be use them the way we want?�. In his intellectual voice he would convince the whole pub that it�s ok to have a blas� attitude towards sex, after all it�s the purpose why we were born. And the blokes were stupid enough to agree, not realising that they were supporting the ideologies of a rapist. And home he would go, drunk and sleepy, sexually please by a beautiful stranger. Waking the next day to join his class in chatting to the girls, and moulding to society.