And since you mentioned older men, that brings to mind that taboo about the delectable and forbidden older man.
The one that kept you up all night with your heart racing in anticipation.
The one that kept your stomach in knots as you wondered if you were really her favorite.
The one that has affected you on like no other. The one that taught you things that no other person has since matched in skill or enthusiasm.
The one whose every. word. you. committed. to. memory.
You know……THAT HAWT TEACHER….Chile, bye.
Follow me down memory lane.
I pride myself on being unlike other people.
I don’t do what others do.
I don’t get impressed by what impresses others.
I’m difficult, curt, distant and happily content to spend time in my own thoughts.
I pay people no mind.
Pop culture has had an owed to hawt teacher movement since before 1984 when Van Halen’s song Hot for Teacher shot up the Billboard charts making the topic one of public discussion and not bathroom banter in the boys locker room.
I totally didn’t get it. Every teacher I’d ever had was gross. Both male and female.
Nothing personal, I’m all for a good kinky mental fantasy but, um, no.
I almost felt left out.
Young teachers and older students can present a problem in high school since a senior and a recent college grad won’t be so far apart in age and maturity.
In NJ a person can teach with credits from a Jr. College, if the student attends full time, including summers, its possible for them to complete their two years in one and a quarter.
That would make the age of a teacher anywhere near twenty if they graduated and went straight into college.
I’ve seen it, but no.
Alas, I had no recent grad teachers in high school. I looked. There were none.
But there’s nothing like that day you are sitting in your evening university college class zoning out on random objects to pass the time when you realize that this particular teacher is asking you, yes, you, a question.
He has that expectant look on his face, you know, as if he expects an answer.
People are looking at me and I’m looking back at them like a deer in headlights.
My understanding of college was that the Professors ignore you if you ignore them, as long as I hand in work, come to class and rock my test’es….I’m
He gets up close on me, bends forwards, looks me in the eye, and asks my name.
“Tracy…might I know your last name?”
“Jones”……”Tracy Renee Jones”…I blink. At least I think, that’s my name.
“Well, Tracy Renee Jones. With a name like that I expect you to be involved and sharp. I’m going to come after you, and you’re not gonna get caught off guard again. I can tell”….
He turned and left me with my drying eyeballs and agape mouth.
The conversation urged on as it would during each and every class, eventually getting the class riled up to the point where students had pushed back their desks to better debate with each other face to face.
“I hope I didn’t scare you…” says Professor, as I make a break for a cigarette, and some fresh air on that very first day.
“No, Sir. And I hope I don’t scare you…I like to play rough” He smiles and blushes.
During break, Professor D, would follow the students outside to discuss our class topics, or often sub/side topics, since the political science and criminal justice students were sharp, logical and willing to delve deeper and go over points ad nauseum.
Loud and boisterous in response, he defended his points with questions, known as the Socratic method of logical philosophical reasoning, Professor D is an attorney that teaches in the evening.
Born and raised in my home town of Jersey City and from around the way of my grammar school along West Side Avenue. He spoke with the familiar Northern Jersey I-talian accent.
He told stories of his childhood and young adult life about the days when he wasn’t exactly looking like he had the potential to be the guy you see if front of you.
He’s not so different from the folks sitting in the chair, I found his willingness to be so transparent refreshing. It made him so much more interesting than the normal exulted university speaker box.
Arrests. Fights. Mary Jane.
He’s brilliant. Verbose. Arrogant. Aggressive. And Cunning. His lectures made me swoon in a feminine manner.
Most of the class remained throughout the semester, and many of us never missed a class. The guys loved him for being down to Earth, and a regular dude. After voicing my appreciation of Professor D, several women chimed in about how attractive he was.
I wasn’t alone. The women loved him for his suits, his charming mannerism and his sense of humor.
We spent many days and nights together arguing, debating, and processing political systems, Professor D and us.
He encouraged us to go places we ‘weren’t supposed to go’ in order to find truth and understanding. Before class, during class, during breaks, and even occasionally after class and all the way to the man’s car, where we would walk him to the staff parking lot before tucking him into the passenger seat.
Turning to resume our flailing of thoughts and opinions, we continued on, until security would lock the university gates on us. I appreciated his encouragement and his advice while debating on Law School or a teaching career upon graduation.
The last class….the last day….of the last class of my university career bought our relationship to a bittersweet close. As usual, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going, and had not realized that I was done with my semester.
With a hug, and well wishes, he released me to the world, an educated woman whose skill has been worn to a razor sharp edge by the loving hands of a man wiling to allow thinking and learning people the space to be.
He was a little smaller than my usual taste in men but I think it safe to say my Hawt for Teacher moment finally arrived.
As they say about returning back to school, ‘your never too old’, I guess.
We discussed Dirty Old Men, but I think we can agree that there are times in life when the older and more experienced person is an object of affection.
I was Hawt for Teacher late as Hell, but I’m sure I’m not the only one here….spill the tea. I wanna hear all about your May/December crushes.