Congratulations on Fingerbanging Your Social Studies Teacher!

Every high school student fantasizes about at least one teacher at some point.  It’s a right of passage.  Authority figures are sexy.  No one wants to fuck teenage boys, really, so fantasizing about teachers is no stranger than fantasizing about your classmates, except that you’re throwing in a little layer of forbidden fruit into your sexy thoughts parfait.  That makes the whole slurry that much sweeter.

For you, it’s a little tougher than it is for the average teen.  You’re not fantasizing about the cute young French teacher or the German teacher who only wears long leather overcoats and cocksuckingly red lipstick.  You’re not even fantasizing about the cute math teacher, with his delicate glasses and his overt enthusiasm for the arcana of numbers.  No, you’re fantasizing about the pot bellied, middle aged social studies teacher who treats every student like they’re a fucking brainless retard out of a combination of inherent disdain for mankind and insecurity.

You’ve been nursing this crush, which might more aptly be called a “hate crush,” if you were more in touch with your feelings, for about five months now.  Today you’re going to act on it when you show up to help Mister Fitzgibbons out with some prep for the next class.

“Hey,” you’re going to whisper in his ear while you take the map of Asia out of his hands.  “I think your butt is sexy.”

He’ll give you a puzzled look.

“I’m not gay,” he’ll disdainfully inform you.

“Neither am I,” you’ll reply with a shrug.

Then the two of you will reach into one another’s pants and start jerking each other off.  It’ll be intense: simultaneously revolting and arousing at the same time.  It won’t be until you stick your finger up your teacher’s ass that you’ll really understand what’s going on inside your head.

When he comes, it’ll be a wordless, spastic grunting fit.  He’ll fall, breathless, on top of you and stop moving his hand on your penis, which will quickly grow flaccid in his hand.  He won’t offer to finish you off, or even look you in the eye.  He’ll simply dress himself, walk back to his desk, say “You can leave now,” while looking at some nondescript papers.  He won’t look up at the sound of the door closing.  He’ll never speak of what happened that day to you before, during or after class, nor will he ask you to stay late to help him ever again.  He’ll fade into a taciturn blur in your high school memory, emerging only after you’ve graduated as your “first” of some stripe.

Congratulations on Fingerbanging Your Social Studies Teacher!