Tara Manshon
A man appeared on campus not long ago. Unlike the other men whose attendance was expected, if not required, this man was an obvious outsider, stealing the attention of the entire student body. No one saw him step foot on campus. He seemed to manifest out of thin air, next to Judith Butler Hall. He appeared confused, as if he had been going about his day and quite suddenly found himself in the middle of a women’s college. The students waited. Every now and then a lost man showed up, only for his owner to claim him shortly after. Surely someone would claim this man, and when they did, they would confirm he was off-limits. Ten minutes passed, then thirty. Still, no one came for him. The students grew agitated.
“Don’t tell me he’s a stray?” one said, their voice almost a growl. They were pleased with this new lowness, a welcome change thanks to the testosterone, and they repeated the question to feel the rumble in their throat.
There were mutters and then stamping of Chacos against the grey carpet as some students rolled their desks towards the window. Strays weren’t welcome, especially ones like him. Even from across the quad, they could make out his height and his broad shoulders. Simply put, he was a threat.
“Maybe we should call Public Safety?”
“For what?”
Outside, the stray had produced a camera from his person and was snapping photos of the trees and the campus hawk, Ezio. There was an ungodly moan from the straights. The gays turned back to each other, a silent understanding between them.
The sanctity of their paradise was at stake.
He was a fine specimen, or at least that’s what the women in Japanese 202 said. Their class sat right above his spawn point and they’d seen his high cheekbones when he turned to read the building’s name. Even the resident weeb, who was only ever interested in 2-D men, stopped her kanji practice to admire his male lead aura. When a slight breeze picked up, ruffling his hair from its two-block neatness, she couldn’t help sketching him under a cherry blossom tree to use for future reference. The students holed up in bell hooks Library had seen him through the basement windows, and though some had only gotten a close look at his lilac Jordans, they also testified to his beauty. You could tell by how clean they were, they said.
In the forty-sixth minute, the straights couldn’t take it anymore. They spilled from their windows, frothing at the mouth, eyes bloodshot. For many, it had been a dry spell. They were tired of the lack of options and in desperate need of a Y chromosome. They’d gone to nearby coed college parties and stalked bars and coffee shops looking for a free man. Some had even ventured to football games to capture one, but had returned single as ever. This isn’t to say men weren’t interested in them, but the kind they were looking for always seemed nowhere to be found.
The man waved at the sight of people. An invitation. The women rose to their feet in unison, their shoulders arched, their glutes tight. There was a crackle, something like the palpable silence that follows a thunderclap, a rearranging of molecules. And then all at once, they shot towards him, screeching the word “penis.”
Perched in the art building, the bis watched with mild horror while the ace kids, filming for (their friends’) future generations, laughed like madmen. Professors everywhere settled into chairs to listen to books on tape. One adjunct, in his first semester at the school, locked himself in a closet and began to pray.
The women closed in on their target, their shrieks growing louder. They could smell him, his sweat, his shampoo, all of it drove them more insane. The man didn’t move. No doubt all his senses had alerted him to the danger, but in that instant, he stood rooted to the spot, clutching the camera against his chest. At the point of convergence, there was a high-pitched howl, so bloodcurdling, every student felt their skin grow clammy. The mob stopped in their tracks, turning to face the young astronomy professor, the one everyone liked because she was patient when they fumbled their telescope adjustments.
She stood now, nostrils flared, clothes rumpled from sprinting to the main campus. She’d lost track of time, working on calculations for an upcoming meteor shower when a faculty member alerted her to the anarchy unfolding on the quad. Recognizing this new threat, most of the women slunk back, allowing her to pass. Several challengers, who had confidence in their hips and their ability to ensnare a man, stood in her way, only to be swatted aside without a thought. They whimpered at the difference in strength, scurrying off into the bushes to hide their shame. With no one in her path to deter her, she approached the man and slipped her purse over his shoulder; a clear marking of territory. The spell broken, classes resumed and the straights returned to their buildings, their hunt for a man unfulfilled. Later, they would return to their dorms, where they would make OKCupid profiles and hope for the best.
The astronomy professor led the man to the far corner of the campus, away from prying eyes, where she released him back into the wild. She was fiercely protective of pitiful things and saw no difference between this stray and the sparrow she’d nursed back to health as a child. The man didn’t leave immediately, trying to sort through the trauma and find the right words of gratitude. It wasn’t until she threw a rock in his direction that he finally bolted towards freedom. He turned back for one last look at his savior, etching her wild appearance into his memory. She, on the other hand, would forget his face, only remembering his pathetic countenance when he materialized the following week to properly offer his thanks. He would surface several times after that, tentatively keeping his distance, before she finally took pity on him and brought him home.
Originally from Cape Town, South Africa, Tara Manshon has lived in the United States for eighteen years and still looks the wrong way when crossing the street. When she’s not working or writing, she’s thinking about fries. There’s a good chance she’s thinking about fries now. Her work has appeared in 805 Lit+Art and Lighthouse Weekly.
Photo by Max Ilienerwise on Unsplash
