Hot for Teacher II

Last night considering that the radiator in my apartment isn't working properly, I sought heated refuge in my local Irish bar, F's. I had my work with me, and I set up camp at the bar. A young guy, he claimed to be 21, but looked closer to 18, saw me writing and began to ask me questions about what I was working on. Finally the question came, "So are you a teacher?"

Bunni: Well actually I'm a professor.

Jailbait: That is so hot. I bet your students are all over you. I mean I was a student not so long ago, and if I had you as a teacher, oh man.

Bunni: Please, I'd rather not think that my students think about me that way.

Jailbait: But how can they not? I mean, you're hot to begin with and that you're a teacher, oh my g-d, that makes it even more erotic.

Bunni: Oh lord.

Jailbait: So what are you working on?

Bunni: Well, I am preparing a text for tomorrow. And I'm also preparing a pop quiz in case they haven't done the reading.

Jailbait: A pop quiz? Are you one of those really harsh teachers?

Bunni: Well not REALLY harsh-I'm all about quid pro quo. If they make me miserable, I'll make them more miserable.

Jailbait: I can't tell you how much that turns me on.

Bunni: Please don't.

Jailbait: Alright, but I have to say there is something really sexy about a smart woman in control.

Bunni: You know, I know a professional dominatrix. It sounds to me like you two would get along well together.


How to Woo a Teacher: Mystery Guest Sign In Please

I was preparing a big speech to give my students because I am overwhelmingly disappointed in them, and I come to work and there sitting in my box are two Walt Whitman poems. Whoever left them did not simply copy them from the book, but typed the poems into microsoft word, selected a font, and printed them up. Both poems are from Leaves of Grass ( somewhat tarnished by the fact that Clinton gave a copy to Monica). The poems were carefully selected ( one is "To a Stranger" and the other is "Are You the New person, drawn toard Me?") and almost as arousing as a literate person attempting to woo me is the mystery of who it is.

But what is sad, is that what pleases me most is to know that somebody who has set foot on this floor knows who the hell Whitman is.

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