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My Gay White ProfessorNicholas has always had a crush on his hot professor, but he never thinks it could really happen. All that changes when he asks his sexy white professor if he could change his grade from a D... little does he know, he's getting the D one way or the other right then and there!
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My Gay White Professor
My Gay White Professor
Darrel walked in through the maze of cubicles, his term paper wringing between sweaty palms. The red D atop his paper seemed to burn into his palms. Fucking Sociology. What the fuck does a Computer Science major need with Sociology? He felt like a centuries-lost explorer wandering through the wilds of some unmapped continent. The layout of cubicle walls seemed to have no rhyme or reason other than to ensnare unfortunate co-eds. The whirr and chunk of copy machines, beeping phones and murmured conversations gave the TA offices a jungle-like feeling. This whole floor of the Sociology building, swarming with TAs and Grad Assistants, smelled of stale coffee, sweat and toner.
Darrel flipped overgrown bangs from his face to better read the passing nameplates. The strings of illegible consonants read like a Dr. Seuss nightmare. He was three seconds from saying, fuck it, I’ll just crumple this fucking paper into the pocket of my hoodie and go nap on the quad, when he came to the dark heart of his exploration. A cubicle emerged before him, only two of its modular, carpeted walls visible. A fake brass nameplate hung beside a purple velvet curtain serving as a door, its letters reading “ Robert Q.”
Darrel, feeling stupid but not knowing what else to do, knocked on the wall nearest the curtain door.
“Uh, hello?” He said. “Hello? I’m Darrel Mattersby, I e-mailed—”
“Well don’t just stand out there shouting your problems, Mr. Mattersby,” a strong, thick voice came from inside the cubicle, fluttering the velvet curtain ever so slightly.
Darrel swung the curtain aside with the flat of his forearm and ducked into the cubicle. A smallish aluminum desk sat just ahead of the back wall, its surface cluttered by an outdated computer and some papers. Robert sat smiling behind the desk, the glossy kinks of his brown hair shining in the fluorescent lights. Small modular helves around his head held a number of wood-carved nick-knacks: masks and idols, heads and horses.
Thumbing the last crumb of his lunch from the corner of his plump lips, Robert extended an arm toward the well-worn chair sitting opposite his desk.
“So Nick... do you mind if I call you Nick?”
Darrel sat in the aluminum-frame chair, its threadbare and squahed-batting upholstery giving exactly zero cushion against the hard metal surface. “Actually,” he said, “I prefer Darrel.”
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