I didn’t know what I wanted out of college but my family pressured me to go anyway. The one thing I was sure if was that I was hot and I was tired of boys my age. So I said fuck it, and day one I straight up flirted with my professors, wearing short skirts and cock-teasingly tight tops and hinting heavily at the possibilities open to them. I ended up sleeping with over a dozen of them plus a few visiting lecturers and guest speakers, including some I didn’t even have classes with. I didn’t do it for grades because I didn’t care about grades, but that didn’t stop many of them from giving me top marks anyway. And you know what? I probably learned a more from dates and pillow talk than I would’ve if I’d paid attention in their classes (which I usually skipped anyway).
I fucked them in offices, cars, hotels, bedrooms. Some were single, some weren’t. I didn’t give a shit about the ethics of it and I figured their professional and personal risks were their concern. Still, I was surprised how easy it was—turns out a middle-aged man, when presented with a 8.5/10 half his age offering him anal and blowjobs, is basically unable to say no. In their eyes, my tight, willing body was a gift from god, and to me that felt powerful, hot, and fun.