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he’s certainly hot, at least physically.
    His body is stuck in my mind. After all, I got a pretty close up view of it when I helped him up from the ground. I wonder if he was actually hurt, or just wanted me to help him up. If so, that’s completely pathetic, the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard of.
    I close my eyes, and try to think about something else, but his sinewy muscles are practically etched in my mind. He’s just so ripped. It seems like every fiber of his body has been perfectly placed, his muscles perfectly sculpted to fit some ideal idea of a male body. He reminds me of the statue of David, in a way, but an updated, far sexier statue of David.
    I reach for a book on journalism, a thick tomb of a textbook , to try to take my mind off Anchor. After all, I’m going to be seeing plenty of him, if he’s going to be my inside source to swim team activities .
    I come across a passage I must have read a hundred times already. I’ve got it highlighted, with a little footnoted I added myself in my neatest handwriting, which looks practically like it was printed it self. “Sometimes, the adventurous journalist needs to take advantage of an inside source’s more obvious vulnerability , to ensure that the full story is told, and told to the greatest detail possible…”
    That was it!
    I could tell Anchor liked me somewhat. He liked something about my body. Surely, it was only a passing thing. He just wanted to fuck me and add another notch to his bedpost or belt, or whatever those swimming creeps used… they probably notched their goggles for all I know.
    But as this textbook was saying, I could play Anchor’s weakness to my advantage. I can pretend I’ll give him what he w ants, my body, and without ever delivering the goods, I can extract all the juiciest details about the swim team. He doesn’t seem t o o bright, and he’ll surely tell me all the dirt on who everyone’s slept with, and all the details of their most outrageous parties.
    If I can manipulate Anchor as my inside source, I can write not only the best article I’ve ever written, but the best article the campus paper has ever published. And not only wil l I ensure my place at The Journal next year as a regular staffer, I’ll basically destroy the swim team in one fell swoop. Beaumont said he has my back, and there’s nothing the campus administration can do to touch me, no matter how mad they are about their precious little swim team being insulted and raked through the proverbial mud.
    My mind is racing with the possibilities . I’m firing on all mental cylinders .
    But despite my mental excitement, I manage to get distracted again.
    I can’t get that image of Anchor’s body out of my head. Maybe this is understandable . After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I think the last time was a year ago, at one of the campus n ewspaper parties, and he wasn’t half as good looking as Anchor.
    Despite myself, I find my hand sliding down under my belt, reaching the edge of my underwear .
    No!
    I stop myself just in time.
    I don’t want to just be like Anchor and his swim buddies, letting desire of the flesh overtake rational thinking. After all, Anchor disgusts me. Everything about him disgusts me!
    I pull my hand up, and go back to reading my journalism book.
    I take out my journalist pad that I always carry around and begin taking notes. I need to plan out my attack on Anchor and his swim team. I need to do this thing right.
    Suddenly, the phone rings.
    It’s Beaumont .
    “Hey, Allison, just wanted to see how the swimming story is going,” says Beaumont .
    I know I’m one of the very f ew students, perhaps the only o ne, who has regular telephone contact with one of the professors. The rest of the students don’t even visit professors in the ir office hours , at least not the majority of them. And most students limit their contact with professors to sending a couple last minute frantic emails a semester,