"I don't need this bullshit! We've got tenure, you can't fucking fire us." I yelled violently shoving my chair away from me. The dean jumped back bit, eyes wide.
"Look Jason," he tried to sound sympathetic, "you'd be right if it was just you, but the state budget cuts have forced the university to cut your entire department. Everyone is getting let go."
As the chair of the Anthropology Department, I was powerless against budget decisions and I knew it. So the state wants to cut education, so the state doesn't care about research into the history of human behavior. The governor even publicly called out my discipline. We were screwed and I was pissed.
"Well then let me say what I've always wanted to say: Fuck you and this university. You're an asshole and I've never liked you."
As I slammed his office door behind me I heard him start to say, "I'll forgive that..." What an asshole. I practically stomped back across the quad, seething more with every step. At 45 I was going to have to go back on the academic job market, start over in some new city. In this environment there's no guarantee either. I was a thousand feet deep in thought as I approached my office door and saw her standing against the wall. From my 9:30 class, I tried to remember her name, Madison, I think. I took a deep breath and tried to come back to the present.
"It's Madison, right?" I asked her as I approached. She nodded, a strand of red curls fell over her glasses which she brushed away. She stood only as high as my shoulder and had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. "What can I do for you?" I unlocked my office door.
Now, in 15 years of being a college professor I had never fucked a student. I'd thought about it. I'd thought about it a lot of times. Every professor does. That first day we walk into class and look over the sea of faces, some eager, some bored, and select some fantasy fodder.
I always make up categories. First category is women I'd fuck if given the chance. Not to be too stereotypical, but these tend to be the cheerleader types. Tight bodies gorgeous faces. But I also pick a girl that I think I could fuck, if I tried. I suspect most 20-ish college girls have no interest in an older man. A friend in psychology gave me a kind of profile of the girl with "daddy" issues that would let herself be seduced just to get attention: Mousy, quiet, smart, eager to please. There tends to be a kind of overwhelmed look in their eyes. Lastly I try to guess which ones fantasize about fucking a professor. As a fit middle aged man with thick dark hair, I figure I'm an ideal candidate for those with professor fantasies.
In 15 years though, I never crossed the line. No quick fuck in my office was worth risking my job, even if the young woman could do a perfect split. But also, far from fantasy, college girls rarely make the first move, especially in a situation like a student-professor dynamic, and I am too much of a professional to ever cross that line.
As I motioned her ahead of me into my office I glanced over her body. Petite girl, curly red hair to her shoulders, firm round ass. The glasses made me think she wasn't comfortable with her looks and while she never said a word in class, she always appeared to be taking rigorous notes. If anything, this girl fell into category two. I smiled to myself as the thought crossed my mind that I had no job to lose anymore. Well, there was still a reputation to consider.
"Well Madison, what can I do for you?" I said politely as I slid into the leather chair behind my desk.
She slowly sunk onto another chair and sat on its edge. Instead of speaking she took a paper out of the folder she had been clinging to her chest and handed it to me. It was an assignment I had just passed back that morning.
"Professor, I wanted to talk about my grade." She pulled at the hem of her white skirt which had ridden up over her knees. I flipped to the page where the grade was: C-.
"And what do you want to say about it?" After 15 years of teaching I found it best to let them make the first move. Some kids complain, some beg, and some just apologize. It's almost never what you guess.
"I can't live with a C-. It's just not acceptable." Her eyes caught mine and quickly darted into her lap. Drawn by the movement I noticed she wore a fairly revealing top with plunging neckline. Combined with the skirt, it was a much nicer look than the average student.
I started into my spiel. Every year I had to give it. "Anthropology isn't for everyone, a C- is bad, but not the end of the world. You'll survive; you'll do better next time." Blah. Blah. Blah. It gets tiresome reassuring students.
"No," she said, her eyes suddenly alive, "I can't. My scholarship depends on it." The funny thing about this is that scholarships always seem to depend on my class as if mine was the only one these students took. I wondered if she told that to all of the professors whose classes she was tanking. Today of all days was not the day to fuck with me about grades.
"You want me to change the grade?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," She replied.
"To what?" I asked again.
"Huh?"
"Well," I began, "Since you want the grade changed what do you want it changed to?"
She paused for a moment, trying to figure out if I was serious. Finally she spoke up, "An A, if you would." You have to admire her boldness.
Now on any other day I would have asked her why she thought she deserved it, why she was wrong, and a bunch of stuff that summed up can be stated "If you want A's then do the fucking work." But today I was in a mood.
"And what are you going to do to earn it?" I asked her.
