The words over at Three Word Wednesday are loud, persuasive and riches.
“Scotch bonnet. Persuasive. Trombone. Haberdashery.”
Mason Locke tumbled the words across his tongue, pitched them to the roof of his mouth and chewed on them like chalk, with a distasteful crunch. A nervous habit when stressed.
“Mr. Locke, are you still with us today?”
“Cajole. Risqué. Harlequin. Troubadour.”
“I’m, uh, formulating my response.”
“Ah, yes, I see. Take your time. How about you Ms. Talbot? Perhaps you have some thoughts on the matter at hand?”
“I’m speaking here,” Mason said. “It is my floor to respond.”
The professor bounced a fountain pen across his teeth and waved his hand through the air, both gestures Mason found truly and so typically annoying of the man, his arrogance loud and clear. Blood rose into Mason’s cheeks. His heart pounded in his chest.
“Solitude. Truant. Febrile. Scabbard. Dullard.”
“Well, Mr. Locke?”
“The Germans had it all wrong. I mean art that changes the basic principles of society because they felt it, then painted it? Art is art, something you look at, buy prints of, hang in all the obvious places, then brag to your friends that you know more than they do about grotesque methods of an Otto Mueller or Erich Heckel.”
Mason punctuated the last few words of the statement with extra gusto, knowing the professor had done his doctoral thesis on the very post-war German Expressionist artists he poked. “I have a 2-year-old niece who finger-paints better than Heckel.”
An uneasy laughter when through the classroom, the students sensing that they may have witnessed a distinct dis of a tenured, wool-clad educator at the hands of a bespeckled, scrawny, oily-haired freak.
“Yes, well, an interesting point, Mr. Locke, but one that doesn’t take into account what the horrors of war did to the movement, did to the men – the very artists you mentioned – and to German society as a whole. And I should like to meet this niece of yours one day soon, as she certainly sounds like she’s something of a prodigy.”
“Nuanced. Leveraged. Guano. Jettison.”
Mason Locke was saved by the bell, saved from further ridicule, as the swarm of underclassmen scurried from the room with cockroach haste.
Or so he thought. As he dug for headphones in his backpack, the professor came up behind him, silent, and put his hands across his shoulders.
“A word please, Mr. Locke, after the others have left?”
The words were a soft whisper across the nape of Mason’s neck, the very tip of his now-red-tinted earlobe.
Mason stiffened, waited as the last of the students gave a casual glance back and snickered.
“Mason, why must you openly challenge me in class?” the professor demanded, then ran his tongue lightly across Mason’s ear, plunging the wet tip into the canal. “You know I detest when anyone challenges me. But I admit, with you, it does bring with it the riches of sexual arousal. My God, Mason, I want you this instant.”
The professor squeezed Mason’s ass cheeks with both hands.
Mason’s head swam as he came to the realization that he was embarrassingly – and quite fully aroused.
“Faggot. Queer. Twink. Homosexual.”