The biting Ithaca wind tugs my long brown hair from the protective coyote fur lined cave of my hood. My heels clack against the stones of Ho Plaza as I make my way to campus, manila folder gripped in my acrylic-clawed hand. As chair of the Panhellenic committee, it is my duty to periodically update the administration about our enigmatic, mysterious, womanly pursuits.

I swing open the door to Day Hall and warmth stings my cheeks. I shrug off my coat, revealing my favorite outfit – baggy leather pants paired with a puce tube top. I march my tight little fox body around a corner of cubicles and my stiletto catches on a hole in the carpet. I fall spectacularly, and my 40 bracelets slide off my delicate birdlike wrist and bounce down the hallway. Facedown on the floor, I grunt like a bull elephant.

From my vantage point, nose pressed into the carpet, I see a pair of leather loafers coming my way. A voice as deep as the mighty Mississippi falls from an unseen mouth and drips into my ears.

“Little lady, do you require assistance?”

I flop my arms and legs around like a beached dolphin. A big meaty hand grasps my wrist and tugs, and I find myself standing face to face with the provost.

I blush in a very attractive and womanly way.

“I’m sorry,” I say, giggling like a baby, “I’m just so clumsy and stupid.”

“I know,” he says.

He smiles, showing me all three rows of his teeth. He is several inches shorter than me, so I slouch to make him feel better about himself. He has a beautiful smooth bald head, glistening slightly like a peeled hard-boiled egg. I count eleven fingers. I’ve always liked that in a man. His eyebrows are snow white and the hairs so long that they cascade down his face and intermix with his eyelashes.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asks in that magnificent voice. It sounds like boulders rubbing together.

“No.” I hiss, and I bite my lower lip.

He frowns, so I bite down harder. He is still unimpressed. I bite my top lip with my bottom teeth and chew a little bit. He looks mollified.

“Why don’t you step into my office?” He takes my hand. It’s like grasping a bunch of bananas. I toss my big brown hair and follow him down the dungeon steps festooned with torches and chains.

The temperature descends with us as we follow the long stone steps deep underground. His hand is very clammy in mine. We reach a polished oak door fitted with metal pegs and my skin ripples in anticipation. He stops about three cubits from the door and turns to me. He leans in, as though to whisper something. I turn my ear towards him, and the recycling smelter’s worth of metal and bits of colorful glass threaded through my cartilage jangles and clinks. To my bemusement he only sniffs delicately, nods, and turns quickly back towards the door. He raises the latch and slams his meaty shoulder violently into the door. It barely budges. He tries again, the impact makes a sound like a cantaloupe being dropped off a balcony. In a high-pitched voice he squeals “drat!”

Desperate to help, I hurry to align my body near his and push with all the might contained in my thin, delicate frame. He catches me by the waist.

“Don’t you dare hurt yourself. I would never forgive you.” He grabs my hand and lightly runs his dry grey tongue over my forefinger. My stomach lurches like I’m careening down a waterslide.

“Gotta pull out the big guns.” He says with a nervous titter.

He positions himsellf at the threshold, his toes touching the wooden base of the door. He swings his pelvis backwards and with an almighty thrust pops the door off its hinges. The heavy oak slams to the floor with a resounding crash, and bits of splintered wood fly like shrapnel into the room beyond.

I reach for his hand again, very impressed. A small sticky pool of sweat has collected in his curled fingers. He is winded, and dabs at his face with a brocade handkerchief. I can see my distended reflection on the back of his smooth pate.

I enter his office. It is sumptuously decorated with dark wood paneling. An electric fire roars under an ornately carved marble mantlepiece, atop which a taxidermy leopard is frozen in a silent scream. It has purple marbles for eyes. Two thick-bodied guards stand sentry on either side of the door, wearing shiny top hats and black latex bodysuits.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” says the Provost as he waves me into the room. He turns to me.

“My dear, would you care for refreshment? I have some celery, or some laxatives,” he waves at each option perched on a bronze bar cart, “perhaps some communion wafers?”

I purse my lips.

“Gerard!” calls the provost suddenly. The latex-suited man on the right jumps to attention.

“SIR, YES SIR!” he bellows.

“Calm down,” says the provost, “and give the lady your tapioca pudding.”

Gerard looks aghast.

“But boss…” he whines in a high-pitched, wheedling tone, “the wife packed it for me.”

“Now!” barks the Provost.

Scowling, Gerard walks to a Star Trek lunchbox in the corner. On the front is a spangled image of Kirk and Spock locked in an embrace, kissing passionately. Gerard pulls out a small Tupperware of white goo. He shoves it at me. A pink sticky note on the lid says “have fun at work, hubby,” in curly, flowery script.

While the Provost’s back is turned, Gerard leans toward me.

“I hope you choke on it, bitch.”

I gasp and look around, but Gerard has straightened up and is all smiles by the time the provost has turned back to us.

The provost smiles at me in a very fatherly fashion and indicates that I should recline on a chaise longue opposite his desk. I sit down, sinking into red velvet, and a cloud of dust rises around me. I sneeze in a very cute way, and the provost sighs.

He smiles expectantly at me and raises his eyebrows at the tapioca pudding. I take the Tupperware lid off. I don’t have a spoon, so I look around nervously and then begin to lick it out of the tub like a cat. It is quite disgusting. I think Gerard’s wife added garlic. When the provost looks away, I empty the tub under the chaise. It slaps wetly against the Tunisian rug, and I hope no one will notice.

“So, my dear, what is your name?” he asks sultrily.

“I don’t have one.” I say,

The provost smiles his triple-decker smile. “How adorable.”