By Philip Lear

In my final year at college, 19th Century French Literature was a real challenge. The challenge wasn’t learning the material because that came easy to me. It was listening to Professor Norton and not falling asleep.

I tried everything. I would pinch and kick myself; bite the insides of my cheeks; shift my weight; and poke myself with a pen. I was no match for the professor's resonant droning and after a few minutes of valiant struggle I would succumb. My head would slump forward like a dead man’s and I would remain in that state until somehow, I’d become aware that I was sleeping and wake myself up. Sometimes the weight of my slumping head would wake me and I'd snap out of it. But staying awake was a constant battle and after two hours of his class I was totally wiped out.

Professor Norton seemed oblivious to everything and everyone in the lecture hall. No disturbance could prevent him from continuing his monotonous drone. He never stopped to call on anyone and just read from his notes.

The Professor had a gray pallor and was rather small in stature. He always wore the same dusty-looking brown tweed jacket with a tan sweater underneath. He had a little twinkle in his eye that reminded me of a kindly grandfather.

But in the world of 19th Century French Literature he was considered a giant. He had authored nineteen books and untold monographs and articles and I wanted to learn everything he had to say. But how could I do this when I was sound asleep?

It was a touchy situation and I didn't know if it was wise to approach him. If I raised the issue he might take it as an insult. And I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or my grade. But French Literature was my major and I wanted to learn what the Professor had to say. After giving it a great deal of thought, I decided to pay him a visit.

His office was located in Snow Hall, one of those brick buildings that sat on the quadrangle. It was hundreds of years old and had small leaded glass windows that reminded me of a French Chateau. Thick ivy covered the front of the building.

As I walked up the stairs to his office I was awed when I thought about all the scholars who had passed here before me. His office was cluttered floor to ceiling with books and piles of manuscripts.

"Professor, I'm Peter Russo from your 19th Century French Lit class," I said.

"Well don’t just stand there. Come in."

I had to zigzag around the piles of books and papers to get to his desk. He motioned for me to sit at the chair next to him.

"I’ve come to see you about the course, Professor."

"What can I do for you?"

"I love 19th Century French Literature and have read everything on your reading list and then some. I believe that for an undergrad I know the subject matter quite well."

"I'm glad you’re enjoying the material," he said. "I’ve spent my life studying it."

"At night I get plenty of sleep and I don't misuse substances."

"That’s also commendable," he said. "But why are you telling me about your personal habits?"

"Please don’t take this personally, but when I come into your class and you start to lecture, I feel an overpowering desire to sleep. It’s embarrassing because I want so much to listen and learn from you. But how can I do that if I’m asleep?"

He looked at me and said, "And how do you feel now Peter sitting here listening to me? Is my voice making you drowsy? Do you want to go to sleep?"

As he spoke those few words I felt myself becoming engulfed in a restful cloud. "Yes professor, I'm feeling sleepy. I want to sleep."

I could feel my head slump forward as I entered a warm trancelike state. There I sat while he continued talking. And with every word I could feel myself going into a deeper sleep. What a fool I was sleeping there in his office when my very reason for going to see him was to confront him about my sleeping problem. Strangely though, I wasn’t in the least embarrassed.

As I sat there in my trance he bent towards me and put his hand on my shoulder, "Rest is God's gift to man," he said. "Don't fight it. Welcome it whenever it comes to you. It will become your old friend. For the next class I want you to let yourself go. Relax and fall asleep and see how much you learn."

In the next class I didn't fight sleep. I let it come upon me and sweep over me like a giant wave. Being in this state felt so wonderful I didn’t want to wake up. And somehow, I heard and understood every word that he uttered on a level of comprehension I had never before experienced.

At the end of the class he asked me to write an analysis of Flaubert’s early writings, the subject of his lecture. The analysis seemed to flow out of me effortlessly and in only a few minutes I was done. And I wasn’t simply regurgitating what he had said in the lecture. I was digesting and critically analyzing Flaubert’s early writing with profound clarity.

I sensed it was good, but when the Professor started to read it I realized out how good it really was. As he read I saw color rising in his cheeks. As he continued to read his expression changed going from one of interest to enthusiasm to excitement. When he had finished he popped out of his chair holding the paper in one hand and pointing to it with his other.

"Look! Look at this!" he said. " This is excellent. Sound Doctoral level analysis."

For a moment he stopped and stared at me. His expression was one of admiration.

"You’ve received a ‘Gift’, Peter. An understanding of the subject matter that will grow as you continue your studies."

"I’m stunned," I said. "There’s no doubt that the work I’ve just finished has gone far beyond anything I’ve ever done. And it was so easy."

"This is just the beginning, Peter. As you continue to sleep through my lectures you will absorb far more."

"What about the other students in class who seem to be nodding off?" I asked.

"Why don't you tell them? They could benefit too."

" I'm not ready to take on the whole class. For now we'll keep this experiment between the two of us."

We continued for the balance of the semester. At each succeeding lecture I was able to go deeper into the trance. And as I did, I understood the material on a more profound level. Sleep had indeed become my old friend.

After his final lecture of the semester I remained asleep and didn't wake. It felt so good I couldn’t let go. When the other students had left the professor came over and tried to wake me, but now even he couldn't.

"Peter, please wake up," he pleaded.. "All that you've learned will be of no value unless you continue your studies. You must wake now," he commanded snapping his fingers.

But his pleading didn't work. In fact, the sound of his voice had the reverse effect and made me go even deeper into my trance.

As I rested peacefully in my chair Professor Norton’s mental state changed from one of uneasiness, to distress and hysteria. The poor professor was in quite a state. Nothing he did could wake me. But I didn’t feel sorry for him. After all it was he who told me not to fight sleep but to welcome it when or wherever it came.

"Let’s go over to my office and have a cup of tea," he suggested as he put his arm under my shoulder trying to lift me. He wanted me to walk with him hoping I’d snap out of it, but I just slumped back down in the chair. He could no longer tell me when to sleep or wake and I was enjoying every minute of it.

When he realized that he couldn’t help me he called the Campus Rescue Squad and I was rushed to the ER where the doctors worked feverishly trying to awaken me. Over the next few days they Neurologists and Psychiatrists examined me. There were adrenalin injections, electro-shocks, MRIs and other drugs, but nothing worked. As the doctors’ frustration increased I felt my power over them growing. Waking up was at this point totally out of the question.

When the doctors gave up I was moved to a different wing of the hospital where there were only nurses and orderlies. I lay there peacefully with my ‘old friend’, Sleep for how long? I wasn’t sure.

My only regular visitor was Nurse, Kathy. Although still in the trance, I could hear her come into my room. ‘Time for your massage,’ she would say in her quiet voice. With her strong hands she would knead the muscles in my neck, back and shoulders and flex my arms and legs.

One day, while massaging my back, she changed from her normal routine and rolled me over and applied lotion to my chest and stomach and began massaging me deeply. Gradually she worked her way down from my chest to my stomach to my groin.

When she ran her hand across the top of my pubic hair I started to become aroused. And as she continued, I could feel warmth radiating through my body as my erection grew. Just like in Professor Norton’s class, while asleep I was able to concentrate and feel her every caress deeply.

"Oh my! What a big boy you are?" She had a playful sense of joy in her voice. She put her hand around my penis and eagerly began stroking it. And with each stroke I could feel my state of ecstasy growing.

"Does this feel good?" She asked as she kissed me on the forehead.

Though I didn’t respond she knew to keep going until I exploded.

"Oh yes. That feels good," she whispered.

Before leaving she kissed my hand tenderly, "We’ll keep this as our little secret."

After she left I felt a warm glow all around me. Waking up now would be out of the question. My sex life was better now than I had when I had been awake.

Kathy continued to visit me every day and graced me with her special tenderness. And with each visit, I became more profoundly aroused.

This routine went on for days or maybe weeks. I’m not quite sure. But one day she didn’t come at her regular afternoon time but much later.

"Tonight I’ve got a special treat for you." she said.

After arousing me with gentle stroking she mounted my erection and started to move up and down slowly. I couldn’t stay in my trance any longer. I so wanted to share this with her. Goodbye trance. Hello Kathy.

I opened my eyes and there she was. I watched her long neck and chiseled features, her gracefully sloping breasts and long curly chestnut hair all moving in splendid rhythm. Was she real? When I reached up and ran my hand across her face and through her hair and across her back there was no doubt.

"You’re real," I said.

"I knew you were still there." She smiled as she gracefully rode me.

"You brought me back," I whispered.

As we continued our frenzied state of passion increased. We kissed frantically. And as each minute passed the memories of French literature became more distant.