I was ecstatic to learn that my teacher was so impressed with my work, that she kept me after class to discuss

my future as a writer. As she sat next to me, I couldn't help but notice the heady aroma of her perfume and the way her hair swung aside to reveal the delicate contours of her neck. "You know why I kept you in after class, don't you?", she whispered huskily in my ear. "N-No, I stammered, although I had a sneaking suspicion, which made my stomach flutter with an intoxicating mixture of fear and excitement. "Well", she said, "I'm going to teach you the correct way to write an acceptable story. One that avoids obviously planted, impressive looking, or obscure words that add nothing to the plot but are merely intended to fool me, the teacher, and I can tell you I've seen it all. Nothing escapes me. You understand, boy?" "Yes, miss," I stammered, my private parts shriveling to a pathetic shadow of their former existence. "Well, what are you waiting for?", she hissed, use your imagination and write the goddam story, It doesn't have to be "right", just what comes up from your brain. Spice it up later with fancy words if you must, just don't make that the main "thrust" of your effort", she said, winking conspiratorially at me. I took her words to heart, which was (also) still throbbing uncontrollably, and wrote the best assignment I ever produced at that school. I still have fantasies about Miss "X", and often wondered what might have happened that hot summer day, when all the other staff and pupils had left .