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A stroll down Memory Lane:
I was a little rusty. It had been a while since I was in the classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads. To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing on my specialty, art, but on literature. You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the semester. The course was “Post-Modernism.” I had jumped in just as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father. Looking out across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself. Were colleges admitting younger students, or was I just growing old? I know what Lo would say.
The lecture hall was designed much like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten feet from the lectern to the last row. And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my eyes.
I must have tickled her fancy because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel. As I was pontificating about the post-modern condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties. I was even able to discern the…