Mrs Professor Sexy

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“At first, it looked like an ordinary marble, but it was far from it.”

He looked around the table, that familiar drunken glee in his eyes. I was sick of it.

“Jesus, Ned. Just tell them already.” I had heard this particular gross-out story at least ten times. He always told it after five or six drinks, especially if his audience was female.

“I know,” said the brunette. I bet she sat right up front in his class. One of those who might write him a sonnet that was a barely veiled come-on. One semester I found a poem in his briefcase in a girl’s balloon handwriting about a writhing snake entwining her legs. Jesus.

This brunette put her finger in her mouth in a way she probably thought was sexy, stared at him.

He sipped his whiskey, leering. “Do you now?”

She nodded. She really was very pretty, but much too young. “It was a glass eye. From the motorcyclist. It popped out when the truck hit him.”

He pointed at her, smiled hugely. “A+ for Britt! That’s exactly what it was!”

Britt. I bet it was short for Brittney. Jesus.

I knew I’d have trouble with this one.

 

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