I myself have never had sex in a classroom.
That the classroom holds an erotic charge is indisputable. My first serious crush after the Gary, the first boy I ever had a crush on way back in First Grade, was my Sixth Grade science teacher Mr. Something (I do not slight Mr. Something by not remembering his name; he’s merely a member of the nameless madding horde of men—and women—whose names I can’t recall). I had an intense burning completely erotic-free crush on Mr. Something. I did everything I could do to please him with my scientific aptitude.
He, of course, let me down. It was not that Mr. Something didn’t return my crush, for this concept lay so far outside of my ken that I couldn’t even conceive of it; my twelve year-old self finds conceptualizing a returned crush kind of like a Zen koan, like imagining my face before I was born or the sound of one eraser clapping. Rather than by not requiting my love, Mr. Something let me down by not having my back in an argument, a situation that ended with my uncharacteristically landing in the principal’s office.
I avoided having crushes on my professors in college. One of my best friends, an ethereally pretty girl with the eyelashes of a baby seal, burned with an inexplicable passion for our History professor, a man who was also her choir director. She was racked by her passion, she felt guilt for every moment of pleasure she derived from their platonic company. In the dead of night, she would masturbate furtively and frantically to the image of this paunchy, scrofulous, toad-belly-colored, balding man.
I didn’t get it. But then, I really never got hott for older men. Maybe the burn of Mr. Something was too scorching, but it's more likely that nature and/or nurture made me the kind of woman who likes younger dudes.
So it wasn’t until I returned to college as an adult that I really got a mad phat jones for any of my professors. His name was Dr. Something, a slight, blonde wisp of a man, around my age, who played basketball with Stanley Fish, had lunch with Edward Said in his bullet-proof windowed apartment, hung out with Jacques Derrida. I was, frankly, smitten. I was willing to overlook Dr. Something’s paucity of physical hottness—his flyaway balding blond hair, his pipecleaner biceps, his weight class dwarfed by my own—because he was so freaking smart. And while he’d be in front of the class giving a deconstructionist Marxist environmental reading of Heart of Darkness, I’d imagine myself slow grinding to a yowling crescendo on his undoubtedly well-educated and effete dick.
These days I am the one giving the readings to the college students who are imagining whatever it is they are imagining. Given my predilection for younger men, I too have performed some fantasy feats in my own fecund head, though usually while I’m teaching I’m so focused on whatever is going on in the classroom that sex is banished to some quiet dark closet in the back. Later, though, when I’m walking to the train station, the cosseted fantasy will spring to life, and I’m shocked by some image of myself on my knees, mouth gaping, applying my body of knowledge to the student’s endowed cock.
Not to put too fine a point on it.
I have friends who have fucked in classrooms—some have fucked other students, quick rushed copulations on the tops of seminar tables; others have fucked their lovers in their classrooms; one friend had a boyfriend who was a former student and they fucked in her classroom. Donny spent a year or so teaching after he finished college and before he was sure he wanted to make money for a living. His girlfriend visited him one afternoon, and he had her spread-legged and nose-down on his desk, facing the empty grade-school desks, as if he was giving a bawdy bodied lesson to a room of underage ghosts.
He said it was “hott.”
I have a hard time imagining having sex in a classroom without immediately summoning to mind the scene in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life when John Cleese provides a lesson in sex education by having sex with his wife in an elaborate Murphy bed in front of the class.
“We’ll take foreplay as given, shall we?” He says before introducing his “John Thomas” into his “good lady wife” to his students' apparent horror and discomfiting pleasure.
I feel like as long as I’m teaching I’m missing out on the perks of not fucking in my classroom, if not fucking a former student. Like there is this fantasy that I am obligated to fulfill because I have the means at my disposal, and by refusing to take advantage of all that is offered to me—the ready classroom, its erotic potential, the willing adult youth of a college student—I welsh on the cultural pornotopic contract.
My mom, way back when she was still joyfully raunchy, used to tell a joke that involved a whorehouse staffed with women of different professions on each floor. I forget what these professions were or how the joke goes exactly, but it culminated with the floor of the teachers most popular because, as my mom explained, a big naughty-chastising smile on her face, the teachers would say, “Now, young man, you’re going to do it again and again until you get it right!”
The classroom fantasy positively brims to excess with fantastic components—the public display, the imagined knowledge, the overturned power dynamic. You’d think I’d be drawn to it.
And yet, not so much. But then I really like beds. Maybe I just need John Cleese’s classroom to change my mind.