By featured writer Jake Christie

Once every few years, the God of College likes to take a break from Jesus’ Heavenly Keg Party and smile down on us. His benevolence can be shown in any number of ways: a cancelled test, an unexpected snow day, a bomb threat that no one is really scared of but we still have to take like totally seriously because of the world we live in and, hey, going to class sucks. Once in a great while, there is also evidenced an act of College God that we like to call, in deeply religious circles, “The Jackpot.”

Sometimes, you get a teacher who is just so damn hot.

There is rarely a time when you get a teacher who is a Perfect Ten. Of course, there are various incarnations of professors who are cute, pretty, or “eh, I guess, if I needed the grade.” Often you will get someone who is attractive enough, but doesn’t really do anything for you. Like a teacher with a fantastic ass, but a voice so irritating that it kind of makes you want to buy a litter of puppies and then drown them so they’ll never have to use their cute, floppy ears to hear it. Other times, a teacher has great abs but a restraining order. Sometimes a teacher is fun to be around, but has the body of a horse, sort of like a Centaur. But the unequivocally hot teacher is a wonder to behold.

“Hey man, I wasn't here last class. Did the professor go over whether we could have sex with her?”

The hot teacher—or “provocative professor,” if you will—has great appeal. This attractive academe not only holds within him or her the vast expanse of knowledge concerning his or her chosen field, but he or she holds it within a body you could bounce a quarter off of. The strange mix of intelligence and sexual magnetism makes the teacher something that borders on mythological; some say that they don’t even exist.

I have seen them with my own eyes.

A few years ago, for example, I had a professor that all the girls in my class seemed to think was the greatest thing since sliced bread—and I use sliced bread, of course, as a metaphor for shoes. Sliced bread, these days, is really overrated. But I know that girls do like shoes, and they liked them almost as much as this professor. While he was talking about symbolic methods in short fiction, I expected random pairs of panties to be thrown onto his desk. I mean, I did it, so I don’t know what all of the girls were waiting for.

This semester I was blessed with a hot teacher in one of my very own classes. It’s definitely an incentive for going to class—kind of like a prize for the best attendance, except, instead of a trophy, your reward is the chance to stare at a perfect pair of cans like it’s your job. In essence, paying attention to the professor is your job, so there’s nothing sketchy about it. Going home and crying in the tub, listening to “Come Undone” by Duran Duran again and again while rocking back and forth is kind of sketchy. But that only happens to about one in twenty people, so you shouldn’t be worried.

Unfortunately, the hot teacher isn’t all tulips and rainbows. When it comes time to do that whole “learning” thing, an alluring professor can be more of a hindrance than a help. There have been a lot of times when I should have been taking notes, but instead found myself distracted, leading to many lectures that went a lot like this:

Professor: …and this is one of many factors leading to the foreign policy decisions made in today’s world.

What I should be thinking: That is a valid and important concept. I should remember that for the final examination.

What I am thinking: Boobies boobies boobies boobies boobies boobies boobies.

The best thing to do, of course, would be to put the teacher out of my head. It’s not like she’s going to stop in the middle of grading twelve dozen papers and think, “My, Jake Christie, that certainly is an arousing name. And what handwriting! I should find out how skilled he is in bed.” Actually being attracted to the attractive teacher is just an exercise in futility. That whole having-sex-with-your-students thing only crops up until about middle school, which is cool, I guess. You always want the younger generation to have more than you had.

But the distraction is a small price to pay, for it’s only once in a rare while that a smoking teacher comes along, and I’m going to savor every moment of it. And if I fail, well, I guess I’ll just have to take the class again. My lawyer said I have at least a few more months before the restraining order goes through.