Friday, November 13
Professor Adam Sampson's home for the past eleven years was a modestly sized ranch that sat left of center in a cul-de-sac in a tree-crowded subdivision called Restive Willows. The neighborhood was the virtual midpoint of the imaginary line connecting Bengate's campus with Downtown Charlotte. The homes were big enough for young, family-oriented professionals, yet small enough for rising seniors who were empty-nesters either by nature or choice and still had an affinity for grass. The solidly priced houses had survived a recent housing bubble and were routinely coveted by families with household incomes running north of six figures, and who didn't mind being lorded over by a homeowners association known for issuing heavy-handed fines to any resident even remotely affronting the neighborhood's ambiance and appearance.
Sampson's home for the most part was exactly how one would imagine a house with a single, meticulous occupant and no children in its past or present to be. The walls and carpet were unblemished. The solid oak furniture and hardwood floors were unmarked and varnished to perfection. The air was garden-fresh and floral-scented. The sweet, flowery air, of course, wasn't exactly due to the lack of young ones on the premises. Sampson, a professed green thumb since adolescence, had squeezed plants and flowers into just about every inch of livable space. Tall ponytail palms lined either side of the foyer, leading to the living room where five-foot desert roses prominently guarded its four corners. There were several geraniums and golden barrel cactuses scattered throughout the place. And he'd placed snake and ghost plants on every windowsill. By his admission and design, his indoors could very easily pass for the outdoors.
He loved his plants and he took great care in nurturing them. Each day, he watered and fed them and talked incessantly to them. Sampson was a confirmed bachelor or, more precisely, a male old maid. And the plants were to him like cats were to some of his female counterparts. He thought his plants were significantly less of a bother than their feline contemporaries and, of course, plants had no need of litter boxes.
Standing over a potted ox tongue, Sampson finally heard the water dripping onto the floor. He looked down and saw that he'd overwatered the plant. Flowing water like a busted dam crept up the plant's pot and streamed down it sides. Dismayed, he put down the watering can and hurried into the kitchen to fetch a dry cloth.
After drying the floor beneath and around the plant, he assessed the damage. The dirt had muddied, but otherwise the plant was no worse for the wear. He added another layer of dirt to the pot, tamping it down with his hands. He placed the ox tongue back amongst the others and stood back. He wiped his hands on his apron and looked around the room at all his plants. Tonight, it was taking him longer than usual to water them. He labored in the act. He lingered for long spells over them, talking more to himself than to them. He overwatered some plants while skipping watering others altogether. His mind was not on them. His mind was on his body. He couldn't figure out what was happening to him. Why his body and mind were all of a sudden betraying him. In particular he thought, as he once again felt a growing erection stirred by the resurfaced mental image of the lovely coed who'd brushed against him earlier today, why now? Why after fifty-three years of life, had he, Adam Sampson, finally discovered girls? He mechanically picked up the watering can and then froze in place, casting a long lustful glare at one of the desert roses.
Growing up, it was widely assumed by everyone who knew him, including his father who himself was a self-proclaimed ladies' man, that Adam Sampson was gay-in-waiting. Wasn't it quite obvious? Any boy with a weird fascination with foliage and no interest whatsoever in girls had to be homosexual. It was probably written in a book somewhere. His father had originally held out hope that young Adam's disinterest in the fairer sex was due to some kind of prepubescent delay. Sometimes, it took boys a little longer to appreciate the opposite sex. Even the self-proclaimed ladies' man had one time preferred playing with dirt and frogs to girls. Yes, the boy's uncanny love of flowers was a bit disturbing. But hey, flowers would eventually help get the chicks. So there was even hope in that. But when Adam's teen years came and went without girls even remotely entering the equation, his father's gaydar began to detect the faint pings of homosexuality. And then when young Adam's college years followed the same course as his high school years, the pings became louder, bleeping off the freaking scanner! It was abundantly clear. Adam Sampson was not ever going to be into girls. It was time to face facts. No interest in girls meant an interest in boys. It was a simple equation.
Except that it wasn't.
A few years after college, Adam Sampson discovered something else on the road to his “outing.” He had no interest in boys either! He had no interest in hanky-panky whatsoever, not with girls, boys, things, not even himself. It was only after graduating college as a twenty-two year old virgin with no plans or desire to rectify the apparently unacceptable social condition had he fully accepted the idea of no sex. But it took a little longer for him to finally put a name to his affliction. The term was asexual. And it wasn't an affliction at all. He wasn't sick. He was perfectly normal in his abnormality. There were others like him. They simply weren't sexually attracted to either males or females. He, like them, was an asexual! Not hetero, or homo, simply, a…sexual.
The first few years after his self-discovery were still quite lonely. He'd had no idea how much sex dominated most people's thought processes. And, of course, no one believed that he wasn't sexually attracted to anyone or anything. Most people still believed he was gay. But with the advent of the internet, he was finally able to chat with and meet others like him. Statistics put their percentage at about one percent of the population. Maybe a small number when compared to the number of straights and gays in the world, but it meant he wasn't alone. He connected with quite a few people who shared his lack of sexual desire and he eventually became part of a support group. They met monthly, discussing everything under the sun. Some had had sex and hadn't liked it. Others hadn't even bothered trying it. Things like the Sexual Revolution and AIDS scare had come and gone, and no one in Adam Sampson's little corner of the world had batted an eye. After talking for months with his newfound friends, he discovered something—none of them missed the joys and ills of sex.
But this past week all of that began to change for Adam Sampson. On Tuesday, he'd felt an awakening in his body that had been dormant since his birth. And since that day, his mind had been all about girls—cleavage, and thighs, and legs, and buttocks. Of short skirts and what lay hidden beneath them. Of what low hanging blouses and tight sweaters concealed. Of what lay nestled within form-fitting jeans and skintight pants. All day his mind rattled off things he'd like to do to this girl or that girl. On Wednesday in class, he'd finally gotten the gist of an old Eddie Murphy joke when he found out that at the ripe old age of fifty-three, he himself had no penis-control. Watching Ruth Coward, who sat at the front of his ten o'clock lecture, his body suddenly decided to acknowledge her taste in clothes. She'd been wearing one of those low-hanging blouses and just the thought of her supple breasts pushing against that silk fabric had brought his member to full attention. It had been an utterly embarrassing situation. He had to do the whole lecture camouflaged behind his desk.
Now, standing in his living room, still holding the watering can, and having a lustful fascination with the desert rose, he arrived at a new fact—something had happened to him. He didn't feel like himself. It felt as if his body had been invaded, putting him at war with himself. His recent thoughts weren't just of a sexual nature. Some of them were downright grotesque. He wanted to maim, mutilate, defile. He felt…unholy…unclean. The desert rose began to mock him, shape-shifting before his very eyes. First, it was Ruth Coward, and then it morphed into a little girl, and then to a little boy, and then ultimately it became a dog. And he wanted to do them all, and afterwards, defile and mutilate the corpses. The watering can dropped to the floor, hitting it with a splashy metallic ting. He stumbled backward, catching the glint of his car keys where he'd thrown them earlier on the coffee table.
He scuttled his dress-shoed feet across the hardwood leading into the dining room, leaving long double scuffed marks in their wake. He ended up against the blinds of the bay window, knocking two snake plants off the sill in the process. The potted plants fell to the floor in weighted thumps, cracking apart and scattering rich black dirt. He grabbed his privates, yanking fiercely; unable to shake the tantalizing image of the ever-changing desert rose from his mind. When relief finally came, spurting down his pant leg, he relaxed against the window, his breathing slowing in quick degrees. Outside, he could hear the shuffling about of fallen leaves on his lawn as if God himself walked across them, a witness to his transgression.