The 11:42 Tutorial

The 11:42 Cambridge to Liverpool Street. Not your usual morning crush. I'd worn my navy pencil skirt with stockings. The expensive Wolford's that David bought after finding me bent over my desk with young Elliot's handprint still visible on my arse.

David sat opposite, pretending to read about fiscal whatever. His eyes scanned the carriage with that predatory gleam I'd grown to recognise. Fifteen years of marriage and I still can't tell if it's me he likes watching, or himself watching me being watched.

'Three rows back,' he murmured, not looking up. 'Perse School boy, I'd wager. Been watching your legs since Cambridge.'

I shifted slightly, letting my skirt ride up. The whisper of nylon made David's eyes darken like someone had turned down the dimmer switch on his libido.

'Promising?' I asked, my pulse already quickening with the familiar thrill of the hunt. God, we're terrible people. Tenured professors stalking teenagers on trains. If the ethics committee could see us now. They'd have collective apoplexy, especially Helen Palmer with her CrossFit body and her stupid mindfulness workshops. She'd probably report us for 'problematic power dynamics' or whatever woke buzzphrase is trending on campus this term. Last month it was 'decolonising the bedroom'; I nearly choked on my wine when she brought it up at the faculty dinner.

'Very,' David nodded, studying the boy with the same clinical attention he gave departmental budgets. 'Young. Intelligent, rugby boy. Exactly your type.'

'Our type,' I corrected, catching a glimpse in my compact mirror. Christ. Tall, those wire-rimmed glasses, cheekbones sharp enough to cut cheese. Young, yes, but with something in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely innocent. Bit like those choir boys in Renaissance paintings that look like they've just nicked the communion wine and replaced it with Ribena.

He was flicking through TikTok with one hand, the other absently fingering the dog-eared corner of a paperback stuffed in his blazer pocket. I could just make out the red cover of Catcher in the Rye. Every posh boy's favourite manifesto of adolescent rebellion. That bloody book. Got John Lennon killed and inspired that awful Cranberries song. Still, something oddly endearing about a Gen Z kid reading an actual physical book.

The train slowed at Bishop's Stortford. I dropped my phone deliberately as we pulled away.

'Think you dropped this,' came a voice moments later. Posh, but not wanky-posh. More like BBC Radio 4 than Made in Chelsea.

'How kind,' I took it, letting our fingers brush. His skin was warm, a slight roughness to his fingertips. Piano player, maybe. Or chronic wanker. Could be both. 'Always dropping things. My students say I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached.'

'William Harwick,' he introduced himself, hand lingering on mine a beat too long.

'David Harrison,' my husband replied, assessing William like a particularly promising investment. 'Economics, Trinity. And my wife, Catherine.'

'Literature department,' I added. 'Post-colonial feminist narratives.' God, even saying it makes me sound like a twat. My sister always asks if I get paid actual money to make up long words about books nobody reads.

William's eyes widened with recognition. 'Dr Harrison? I attended your lecture on Victorian literature last term. Your analysis of repressed desire was... illuminating.'

I felt that familiar warmth bloom low in my belly. There's something intoxicating about academic admiration mixed with obvious attraction. Like being told you're both clever and fuckable in the same breath. Rare combination after forty.

'Which school?' I asked, certain he'd confirm David's Perse assessment.

'Bishop's Stortford Boys School,' he replied, voice confident.

My smile faltered slightly. 'Oh. Essex.' Not Cambridge at all. Not Perse. A slight downgrade in my mental ranking, like finding out your Waitrose hummus is actually from Tesco.

'Hertfordshire, actually,' David corrected smoothly, ever the pedant for geographical precision. The man once spent forty minutes at a dinner party explaining to our guests why the Cambridgeshire/Essex border was incorrectly marked on their Waves app. 'Excellent cricket team. You play?'

'First eleven,' William replied, his eyes never leaving mine. Looking at me like I was the fucking answer key to his finals.

'Join us?' David offered, his tone casual but intent clear. Same voice he uses when suggesting we invite a colleague for dinner, when what he really means is 'let's see if they're up for a threesome.'

William slid in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine with deliberate pressure. Bold as brass. In my day, you'd have needed at least three pints of snakebite and a dare before trying something so forward.

'How old are you, William?' David asked directly. Subtle as a brick through a stained-glass window, my husband.

'Eighteen last month,' William replied, holding David's gaze with surprising confidence. Christ, eighteen. When I was eighteen I was crying over Kurt Cobain's death and trying to figure out how to use a Tampax (tampon for any USA reader). This one looked like he could negotiate a peace treaty while mixing a perfect martini. James Bond reference, as British people always drink that shite of course said nobody ever! Shaken not stirred... Ha, has anyone ever been to a Wetherspoons and ordered anything but cheap beer? You do it not to get beaten up.

David's mouth did that thing it does when he's about to say something outrageous, a sort of half-smile that starts at one corner and slowly unfurls like a predator uncurling before a strike. My colleagues find it charming; I find it both infuriating and arousing, depending on how much wine I've had.

'My wife and I,' David leaned forward, elbows on the table like he was about to share stock tips rather than open negotiations for a threesome, 'were just lamenting the narrow focus of university curricula these days. All theory, no... hands-on component. Wouldn't you agree, Catherine?'

William's gaze flicked between us, lingering just a beat too long on my décolletage before his voice dropped into a register that had absolutely no business coming from someone his age. 'Gosh, yes,' he murmured, all public school confidence with something darker underneath. 'What's the point of reading about life when you could be...' he paused, wetting his lower lip, '... experiencing it first-hand?'

Little shit knows exactly what he's doing. Probably practised that line in front of his mirror, like did you fuck my wife... you Talkin to me... along with his smouldering glance and that carefully calculated pause. Yet knowing the performance was calculated didn't make it any less effective.

I felt David's foot press against mine under the table. Our signal. Green light for young cock. Like we're bloody spies instead of two middle-aged academics about to corrupt a teenager on public transport. If MI6 recruited from Cambridge faculty, we'd be screwed. Every secret would be out before teatime. Joining Snowden and Assad in Moscow in no time.

A momentary pang tightened in my chest. If caught? Headlines. Disgrace. Prison? But then my brain kicked in. He was eighteen. Legal. Not ethical, but legality trumps ethics, right? Didn't stop Gary Barlow with his tax avoidance. Still got that OBE.

Born Catholic to an Irish mother who thought contraception was sin (six kids later), I'd abandoned that bollocks after biology A level at Hinchingbrooke Secondary. Mrs Patterson and her diagrams sorted that. Science trumps religion. And hard cock is hard cock. Physics.

'Some subjects require hands-on experience,' I said, letting my hand rest lightly on William's thigh. Felt the muscle tense beneath my fingers. Firm. Young. Gosh, what am I doing? I'm old enough to be his mum. Should be giving him career advice, not feeling him up under the table like some desperate housewife in a shit Channel 5 drama. Does anyone actually watch that crap?

His breath hitched, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, allowing better access. Bold. Nobody taught him subtlety, clearly. Probably the same boy who sends unsolicited cock pics with 'u up?' at 2am.

David reached across, fingers moving to William's school tie. 'May I?' he asked, his voice taking on that professorial tone that always made my knickers damp. Same voice he uses in faculty meetings when he's about to utterly demolish some poor sod's research proposal. Makes me want to shag him and slap him in equal measure.

William nodded, watching with dark eyes as David deftly removed the navy and silver striped tie. Proper silk, not the polyester crap they sell in M&S, Next, H&M, that makes you sweat like you're being interrogated.

'Some lessons require focus,' David explained, taking William's wrists with casual authority. 'Less distraction, more sensation.'

I watched as my husband bound this boy's wrists. Same hands that'd graded papers this morning. Reminded me of that film with Banderas and the queer Spanish director. Bonkers premise. Stockholm syndrome as foreplay. David laughed when I said how messed up it was. 'But it works.' True.

With William secured, my hand moved higher on his thigh, finding his hardness beneath his school trousers. He was already hard, straining against the fabric like he was smuggling a baguette.

'Eager student,' I murmured, enjoying the way his eyes darkened behind those intellectual glasses. Probably the same look he gives when someone mentions Five Guys at a dinner party. Intellectual pretension and sexual arousal look remarkably similar on posh boys.

'The best learning happens under pressure,' David observed, his gaze fixed on my hand as it worked William's zip down with practised ease. Same technique I've used since sixth form behind the bike sheds with Danny Mitchell. Some skills you never forget, like riding a bike or giving a hand job under a table.

I freed him from his trousers. Thick, flushed, with a circumcised pink head glistening. Not Elliot-sized; that boy was hung like a police horse, but impressive enough. My husband's six inches does the job. This was more like a BMW. Flash.

'Very promising,' I said, wrapping my hand around him. His skin was like silk over steel, hot and pulsing. Reminded me of those stress balls they gave us at the mindfulness workshop last term. I chucked mine at Professor Wilson when he suggested we all do yoga at lunch breaks.

'Fuck,' he whispered, his bound hands twitching in his lap.

'Language,' David admonished, but his eyes gleamed with approval. 'Though accuracy is important in academic settings.' Always the bloody teacher, even with his hand down someone's trousers.

I glanced around the carriage. Still mostly empty, the few other passengers absorbed in phones or laptops. The woman three rows up was watching something with earbuds, probably Netflix or porn. Hard to tell the difference these days -- both feature questionable acting and unrealistic moaning. David shifted position slightly, creating a better visual barrier.

I lowered my head to William's lap, hidden by the table and David's strategic positioning. The first taste of him was clean, slightly salty. Like a posh Waitrose crisp. Probably eats quinoa and kale smoothies, the type of boy with a gym membership. I took him deep, feeling a surge of power as his bound hands found my hair. Always a power trip, this. Going down on someone half your age who's meant to respect you academically. Slightly grubby, utterly intoxicating.

'She's remarkable, isn't she?' David commented conversationally, like he was discussing my latest publication rather than my oral technique. 'Watch her technique. The way she uses her tongue. Years of dedicated practice.'

I shot him a look that said 'I'll deal with you later' but kept going. Not like I could stop for a marital squabble with a cock in my mouth. That'd be the definition of poor timing.

I felt William's cock twitch against my tongue at David's words. His commentary always added an extra layer of transgression that made everything filthier, better.

The train approached Harlow Mill. I withdrew reluctantly, helping William tuck himself away as David kept vigilant watch. Nothing kills the mood like getting arrested for public indecency. Can you imagine? 'Cambridge Professor Caught Sucking Off Schoolboy on 11:42 to Liverpool Street.' The Dean would have a coronary. Helen Palmer would volunteer to chair the disciplinary committee, the sanctimonious cow.

We sat in composed silence as the doors opened, passengers moving past our table without a glance. An old woman with one of those tartan shopping trolleys tutted at us. Probably thought we were students skipping classes. If only she knew what we'd actually been doing -- she'd have brained us with her M&S Percy Pigs.

When we were moving again, David untied William's wrists. 'Your turn,' he instructed. 'Show us what you've learned so far.'

William flexed his freed hands, then reached for me with newfound boldness. 'May I?' he asked, fingers hovering at the hem of my skirt. Polite, even with his cock out. His mother must be so proud. Good manners before fingering -- the cornerstone of a proper British education.

I nodded, spreading my legs slightly. His hand slid under my skirt, finding bare skin. His eyes widened when he realised I wasn't wearing knickers. Like he'd discovered the Holy Grail between my thighs.

'She comes prepared,' David explained, watching intently. 'Always thinking ahead.' Makes me sound like a bloody Girl Guide. 'Be Prepared' -- for shagging teenagers on public transport. Not quite what Baden-Powell had in mind, I imagine.

William's fingers explored me with surprising skill, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. For someone so young, his touch was remarkably confident. Must have done his research. Probably has a PDF of 'The Female Orgasm' downloaded on his laptop alongside his economics textbooks. Generation Z: solving climate change and the female pleasure gap simultaneously.

'Kiss me,' I demanded suddenly, needing more than just his fingers. Always been an oral fixation with me. David jokes it's why I went into literature -- so I could talk non-stop and call it work.

His mouth captured mine eagerly, his tongue teasing as his fingers continued their perfect rhythm. I could taste his youth, his hunger. Tasted like expensive toothpaste and entitlement.

'She likes it firmer,' David instructed, his voice rougher now. 'Don't be afraid to be demanding.' Teaching someone how to finger your wife. Not exactly covered in the faculty handbook, that. Imagine the workshop: 'Best Practises for Instructing Teenagers in Pleasuring Your Spouse.' We'd need a bigger conference room.

William followed guidance perfectly, pressing harder, slipping two fingers inside me while his thumb continued circling my clit. The combination had me racing toward climax embarrassingly quickly. Like a first-year student rushing to finish an exam they haven't studied for.

The train slowed again for Harlow Town. We separated reluctantly, my body thrumming with frustrated desire as we waited for the stop to end. My clit was practically pulsing, like it had its own heartbeat. That horrible ache when you're close but have to stop -- worse than marking first-year essays after three glasses of wine.

When we resumed, William leaned close to my ear. 'I want to be inside you,' he whispered, the directness of it sending a thrill through me. No flowery bullshit, no academic pretension. Just honest want. Refreshing, really, after years of faculty parties where people talk about 'engaging with the text' when they mean 'reading the bloody book.'

I looked at David, seeking his approval. He nodded, shifting position to better shield us from view. The way he was arranging himself, you'd think he was setting up surveillance for MI5 rather than facilitating a shag on public transport.

I straddled William's lap, facing him, my skirt arranged to maintain the illusion of propriety. Like anyone would be fooled. I probably looked like I was giving him a bloody lap dance. His cock pressed hot and hard against me, making me ache with want. That delicious moment just before penetration, like the pause before diving into cold water. Terrifying and thrilling all at once.

'Slow,' I instructed, guiding him to my entrance. 'Feel everything.' Playing the professor even with his cock about to enter me. Can't help myself. Twenty years of lecturing leaves its mark.

I sank down on him inch by exquisite inch, my body stretching to accommodate him. He filled me perfectly, a small sound of pleasure escaping my throat before I could stop it. Sounded like a cat being stepped on -- never been elegant in bed. David says I sound like I'm being murdered when I come. Had to start putting on Radio 4 when we shag to avoid the neighbours calling the police.

'Christ,' he breathed, his hands finding my hips beneath my skirt. 'You feel incredible.'

I began to rock against him, using the train's movement to disguise our own. The angle was perfect, his cock hitting exactly the right spot with each subtle motion. God bless the Great Eastern Railway and its gentle swaying carriages. Should write them a thank you note. 'Dear Customer Service, your smooth rail experience significantly enhanced my orgasm...'

David watched us intently, his eyes dark with desire. I knew he was committing every detail to memory, to replay later when he had me to himself. He has a mind like a bloody 16K neural recorder when it comes to sex. Can recall every detail of an encounter from fifteen years ago but forgets to pick up a bottle of milk when I text him.

'Kiss me again,' I whispered, needing that connection.

William's mouth found mine, hungry and passionate now. One hand remained on my hip, guiding our rhythm, while the other slipped between us to find my clit. Multi-tasking. Impressive for his age. Most boys his age can barely text and breathe simultaneously.

I broke the kiss, surprised. 'Clever boy,' I breathed against his lips. The double stimulation had me teetering on the edge already. Like someone had hooked me up to a pleasure defibrillator.

'Fast learner,' he replied with unexpected confidence. Cheeky shit. Probably gets straight A's without trying, the type who turns up to exams with a hangover and still tops the class. I'd hate him if his cock wasn't currently doing such magnificent things to my insides.

The dual stimulation of his cock filling me and his fingers circling my clit had me approaching the edge embarrassingly quickly. This was supposed to be about control, about power, but I was the one coming undone. Like a first-year lecturer losing control of a seminar. Mortifying yet inevitable.

'I'm close,' I admitted, my inner muscles beginning to clench around him. Could feel that tell-tale tightening, like an elastic band about to snap.

'Me too,' he gasped, his rhythm faltering. 'You feel too good.'

'Look into my eyes, deep into my soul (James song no less),' I demanded, wanting to see his eyes when he came. Always been fascinated by that moment of vulnerability, when all the pretension and bullshit falls away. Even the poshest, most controlled men look utterly lost when they're coming. It's deliciously levelling.

Had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. He followed moments later, an expression like a retarded small Japanese dog, shit soo something...

We stayed joined for long moments, my forehead resting against his, our breathing gradually slowing. I could feel him softening inside me, our combined wetness making a delicious mess, rather like a Sainsbury's Greek yoghurt spill in aisle five. I knew I'd be soggy for hours. Would have to sit through afternoon meetings feeling him leaking out of me. The thought was disturbingly arousing.

OMG,' he murmured, looking dazed. That proper English understatement. Like he'd just had a slightly surprising can of red bull instead of coming inside his professor on the 11:42 to Liverpool Street.

'Yes my dearest,' I agreed, carefully lifting myself off him. I made no move to clean up, enjoying the feeling of him leaking from me. The knowledge that I'd sit in meetings later, his teenage seed drying on my thighs, was deliciously transgressive. Helen Palmer would have an aneurysm if she knew. Probably keeps antibacterial wipes in her bedside drawer.

As I shifted, a glistening bead of his cum caught on my fingertip. Without thinking, I brought it closer to David. His eyes, already dark with lingering desire, met mine.

'Taste,' I commanded softly, the word barely a whisper, yet firm enough to carry the weight of our shared depravity.

David leaned in, his gaze fixed on my finger, then on my face. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips as he took my offered digit into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the warm, slick residue. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring it, before pulling away with a satisfied sigh.

'Very promising indeed,' he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Just as we were making ourselves decent, the train slowed at Stratford. Doors opened. In stepped the Queen of the WI. Pearls. M&S bag. Sixtyish. Face like she's written fifteen letters to the council about hedges.

Beady eyes landed on our table like heat-seeking missiles. Of course, the only bloody available seat was directly opposite us. As she settled her narrow arse onto the seat with a disapproving little 'humph,' her gaze crawled over William, taking in his flushed face, chaotic hair, and the conspicuous absence of his school tie -- which was currently stuffed in David's pocket like some sort of perverse trophy. Her lips pinched together so tightly they practically disappeared, reminding me of my Year 9 English teacher who caught me reading Lady Chatterley's Lover behind my textbook and made me stand in the corridor for an hour.

'Young man,' she said, voice as cold and crisp as my department's budget cuts, 'your uniform is a disgrace to your school.'

David, ever the smooth operator, smiled with all the bland pleasantness of a BBC presenter not yet caught sending inappropriate pictures to teenagers. 'Been rather a long day, I'm afraid.'

Swivelling toward me, her eyes practically radioactive with judgement. No words needed; the message couldn't have been clearer if skywritten above King's Cross: what kind of utterly hopeless mother allows her son to look like he's just been ravished in the back of a Tesla Model Y?

God, if she knew. Wanted to lean across and tell her. 'Not his mother. Cambridge professor who just fucked him. That's Jo Malone on his skin. His tie's in my husband's pocket. We used it to tie him up. And yes, my husband just sampled his seed from my finger, thank you very much.'

Instead, I swallowed down the truth like a bitter pill and smiled with all the fraudulent warmth of a high street bank manager. 'Boys will be boys,' I offered lamely, which only made her nostrils flare like she'd caught a whiff of something particularly offensive. Given what we'd just been doing, that wasn't entirely impossible.

William, bless his public-school composure, straightened what remained of his dignity along with his collar and mumbled an apology that wouldn't have convinced a partially deaf pensioner. His fingers, I couldn't help but notice, still glistened slightly where they'd been buried inside me moments earlier. A strand of my hair clung rebelliously to his blazer like a marking of territory. The evidence of our encounter was everywhere, a constellation of depravity for those with eyes to see it.

'In my day,' she continued, directing her sermon at me with the practised righteousness of someone who's spent decades perfecting the art of passive-aggressive judgement, 'mothers took pride in their children's appearance. A boy's uniform reflects his upbringing.'

David coughed into his fist, a pathetically transparent attempt to cover a laugh. I dug my nails so deeply into my palm I half expected to draw blood, biting back the fifteen different career-ending responses dancing on the tip of my tongue.

'We're not actually--' William began, with that particular brand of posh-boy honesty that threatened to demolish our paper-thin facade.

I cut him off with a warning look that could've frozen the Thames mid-August. 'So terribly sorry,' I simpered, layering my voice with enough fake contrition to frost a Victoria sponge. 'We'll make absolutely sure he's tidier next time, won't we, darling?'

I reached over and smoothed his hair with a gesture that might have appeared maternal to the casual observer but contained enough lingering intimacy to make William's eyes darken all over again. His pupils were still blown wide from his orgasm, black pools rimmed with blue that made him look properly debauched.

The woman opened her Telegraph. I sat there with a teenager's spunk leaking into my stockings while being told off for bad parenting.

At Liverpool Street we exploded laughing.

'Failed motherhood,' David wheezed.

'Should've said I was his au pair,' I gasped.

William held his thumb and finger millimetres apart. 'Nearly called you Mummy.'

'I'd have killed you,' I spluttered. 'Right on the 11:42.'

As we gathered our belongings to disembark, William pressed a slightly crumpled paper into my hand. 'My number,' he explained, with a smile that walked the perfect line between shy and knowing. 'If you ever want to... continue my education.' Smooth little operator. Probably gives his number to all his professors. Wouldn't be surprised if he's working his way through the entire faculty, like some sort of sexual Duke of Edinburgh award scheme -- bronze for lecturers, silver for department heads, gold for professors with tenure.

'We have a lovely garden shed,' David suggested, voice dropping into that particular register he uses when proposing something wildly inappropriate with the casual air of someone suggesting a cup of Earl Grey. The same tone he used when he whispered that we should corner the Dean's wife in the faculty cloakroom at last year's Christmas party.

The garden shed that's been standing since before Brexit, with that monstrous garden spider that migrated in during the heatwave of 2017 and apparently claimed squatter's rights. I'd christened him Boris after watching him build elaborate webs that trapped unsuspecting creatures before dismantling them with ruthless efficiency. He watches me garden with eight beady, judgemental eyes whenever I deadhead the roses without gloves or forget to water the herbs David insists on growing despite neither of us cooking more than twice a year.

'I'd like that very much,' he replied, with barely contained enthusiasm practically vibrating beneath his public-school composure -- the sort they drill into boys at places like Eton until it becomes reflexive, like saying 'please' or writing thank-you notes to elderly relatives for Christmas socks.

Of course he bloody would. Horny little sod would probably agree to dinner in a sewage treatment plant if it meant getting his end away. Teenagers are gloriously undiscriminating that way -- their libidos haven't yet developed the refined snobbery that comes with middle age, when you start rejecting perfectly decent sexual opportunities because someone's bathroom needs updating or they own those horrible little decorative towels that you're clearly not meant to actually use.

Weaving our way through Liverpool Street's evening crush -- dodging tourists who'd stopped dead in the middle of walkways to consult their phones like they'd never seen Google Maps before, and city workers power-walking with that particular London blend of exhaustion and aggression -- David's hand settled possessively on my hip, fingers digging into the exact spot where I'd have bruises tomorrow, the kind I'd absentmindedly touch during departmental meetings while pretending to pay attention to Helen Palmer's interminable updates on the equality committee.

'Well?' he asked quietly. 'How does he compare?'

'Different,' I replied thoughtfully. 'Not as cocky as Elliot. More... teachable.' Like comparing a Labrador puppy to a fully-grown wolfhound. Both delightful in their own ways.

'Perfect,' David smiled, that particular smile that meant he was already planning our next adventure. 'I've always preferred moulding raw talent to managing established ego.'

I felt him hard against me as we stepped onto the escalator. David Harrison, respected Economics professor, calculating exactly how many hours until he could get me home and reclaim what he'd so generously shared. Like lending out a first edition and being desperate to get it back on your shelf the moment someone else has appreciated it. There's something deeply satisfying about that -- being wanted enough that sharing you only makes you more desirable, like some sort of perverse economic principle of scarcity driving up demand.

As we rode the Underground to our connecting train, dodging tourists and city workers with practised ease, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of my afternoon departmental meeting. I'd be sitting there discussing curriculum reforms with Helen Palmer and her CrossFit body while William's come slowly dried on my thighs beneath my sensible skirt. Her going on about 'holistic pedagogical approaches' while I nodded seriously, secretly enjoying the delicious evidence of my thoroughly unholistic teaching methods.

The perfect metaphor for academia, really -- appearing proper and professional while being absolutely filthy underneath. Rather like our garden shed, with its neat exterior and filthy secrets. Rather like me, if I'm honest. Distinguished Professor Catherine Harrison, respected feminist scholar by day, collector of young men's composure by night. Academia was all about stripping things down to their essence, after all. I was simply taking a more hands-on approach to research.