Mom’s Secret Grade

Did you know the average person spends four hours a week thinking about sex? I read it on BuzzFeed.

I’ve tried to curb my raunchy daydreams. Googled “how to stop boning people in your imagination eight hours a day” but there’s no eight-step program that works on the truly demented.

Cursed with a bottomless-pit libido that skipped a generation and landed on me at forty, I’m distracted everywhere I go. Even here, in a college classroom that smells like ham salad, I’m wetter than the pool filter at my friends’ senior center, and all out of rubber gloves.

It probably looks like any other classroom to the virgin eye. Cliché posters, a whiteboard with leftover blue streaks waiting to be buffed out by the overnight janitor. Desk graffiti. But it’s my territory, and I always keep an ear tuned to every tick and bump. I’ve got to, these days, with my… special interests on the line.

Under the desk, my ankles are crossed. Heck. If I get any hotter between the legs, my panties will be deemed a Certified Health Hazard™. They ride up when my thighs are apart, so I keep peeking down the front for radioactive material.

Sometimes I think about what my students could be thinking.

They check out my boobs and butt on the regular, but being genetically blessed with a smoke-show bod and working my squats off to keep it juicy, I may as well work it, right?

Here’s a fun fact. Tell a roomful of college boys the forbidden fruit is up for grabs, and you’ll get a stampede.

I get asked out regularly by everyone, men and women. I’m not into overture-making on the part of my students, but I can’t stop them from checking out my figure. Or indulging in the majestic bounce of my double Ds, which I display in low-cut blouses.

My toes wiggle in my shoes. The sound of pervy heels slapping the floor travels up my legs, stirring latent efficacy in my womanhood as an educator, hot mother…and as a slut.

It’s that sound of high heels that really gets my motor running, if you know what I mean. Just this week, one of my female students complimented me on my body and asked if I have a secret.

I told her, “Don’t take no prisoners and make time for self-satisfaction.” She got embarrassed, but I think I changed her life.

My forty-year-old vag gets more exercise than it did in my twenties. I’m talking lifelong sexual device dependency and orgasms so strong they chisel your bones. A shiver climbs my spine when I think about this afternoon’s depraved, unladylike mission.

Oh, but nothing gets my kitten tingling like being in the presence of… my son.

He’s standing a few feet away, probably with a devil-may-care smile.

My blushing, “unbaptized” son. He’s a good boy, but his face is that of a cherub dipped in honey sauce. Devil’s honey sauce.

I always have to remind myself he is a delicacy.

A forbidden fruit, plump for the plucking.

For a very psychological moment, that description throbs me in dark places.

You see, I’m not just a teacher. I’m a best-in-class educator. The all-around best, most influential, most productive, most consistent, and most mothering individual in a role of unique importance.

Hell, I’ve been working in education longer than most of my colleagues have had pubic hair. Who says mature women don’t get what they want? Who says mothers can’t have dirty, thirsty imaginations and uphold sturdy long-term positive habits? Not me. Or my vagina.

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