sometimes one stumbles…for fruit
close to the nose but far from reason
that scent of hair…that’s always in season
that pearl of truth on the tip of the tongue
that begs to remain…unspoken

At the close of my final semester of teaching English at Mudville College, my outlandish instructional methods attracted a devoted, cult-like following. Because of the Governor’s push to build more prisons, budget cuts eliminated my position at Mudville College.

Faced with the prospect of a dreary winter, I was overjoyed when I got a call from Dean Lustic at Honey Springs Academy of Women, known widely in the academic community as Breathless U. The English department was desperate for a replacement teacher.

They don’t last at Breathless U. It's said he elements conspire in Honey Springs, especially at Breathless U.

The water in Honey Springs is sweet as plum blossoms, bubbling freely from the earth. Grapes and pears in Honey Springs are more tender and juicy than anywhere else in the Golden State.

The air never seems to stand still and breezeblown hair is an irksome, everyday condition. Honey Springs Academy of Women is called Breathless U because it is home to many of the most gorgeous females in the West.

The campus is an icon of exquisite rapture, a place where reality is often stranger than fantasy. A Temple, of sorts.

It’s no surprise Dean Lustic hired me. They say the truly afflicted are those who have no afflictions. My affliction is my devotion to Tara Vinson, the Grammy–winning R&B singer who is the most beautiful female in the human population, and the presumed cause of my status as a sort of crippled Holy One.

Dean Lustic assumed my affliction would save me from being distracted by the students while I taught the most electrifying course on campus: Romance Technology: Tara Vinson 101.

At Mudville College I supplied my own chalk. At Breathless U, I had my choice of multimedia computer platforms, my own selection of “learning suites”, and my personal interior designer.

I selected a cozy corner suite looking out on olive and nectarine trees and cool California palms, islands in a verdant pasture where four white horses grazed lazily beside a gurgling creek.

Deep maroon wallpaper complimented the red carpet; scarlet, maroon and white striped silk drapes; red leather sofas with white silk throw pillows and a white Boesendoerfer concert grand piano completed the ensemble.

Pencil colorings of Tara Vinson hung in gleaming brass frames on every wall. Tara Vinson sang daily on our 1500 watt, vaccuum tube, 78-speaker periphonic sound system handbuilt in Osaka.

The women of Breathless U have quite a reputation for being a bit out of hand. They revel in everything they do, and they do just about anything they want at Breathless U.

I recall the fatal morning, as the last Sycamore leaves fluttered past the French doors and Tara Vinson sang and danced on the 70-inch Sony television, which I lovingly rechristened TaraVision.

Verushka Polodonia breakfasted at her workstation, but whined quietly when a big, nasty dollop of lemon-custard splattered much too near her laptop.

Verushka frowned from black-pearl eyes (worth a thousand Pirate lives) then wiped up the mess vigorously, her chowder-headed little puppies gnarling and yapping at each other beneath their tight, cashmere blanket.

Verushka’s pearls (given by her Polish Grandmater) lept and clicked...the class fell silent, all eyes on palpitating Professor. Verushka licked her steamy, leglike fingers, sucking custard from a maroonraisinjubilee nail, flawlessly shaped and polished.

She smiled at me from between sticky, lipsucked fingers.

Scarlett McQueen, in a scrappy red dress and greasy Doc Martens pulled a plate of leftover duck l’orange from the microwave and shared it with her very pregnant sofa-mate, Summer Knights.

Scarlett tried to explain she knew nothing of birthing babies, and shuddered visibly at the very thought of it. She quickly lost her appetite as Summer wolfed the remains of the platter.

Cher and Cheron, the twins, munched on salmon and brie and butterfly cookies, disgusted by Summer’s incessant baby chatter. They shook their permed heads at the quiet, earthshaking terrors of pregnancy and food.

Sedna Waycat sucked slowly on a 44-ounce Big Shot. Savoring the final tablespoons of hot cherry frappe, she drew it slowly up the straw, sloshing and gurgling, her peachy lips extracted the last liquid from the noisy tube.

Sedna let out a deep, throaty laugh, tossed her rambunctious, red curls everywhere, lit a Camel and flipfoned her girlfriend.

I collected the pieces of myself off the floor as Cami approached my desk. She had a shiny bag of Crunchems and offered me some. I stuck my damp hand into Cami’s little bag and we crunched together, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Can you help me, Professor?” Cami cooed. Spent from munching Crunchems, Cami yawned, stretched and flipped her wavy hair.

Terramundi sulked at my desk, glaring down at Cami with hot, sulky eyes. “Professore, Jou promise me Jou meet me for caffe last evenink, Jou ano show up. Ima feel wery bad.”

Terramundi flared her racehorse nostrils. “How I gonna fineesha my Tata Veenson widout Jou helpa me. Mm?” She cocked her hip, threw a handful of ass-length hair over her shoulder and forced a tight smile from her unguent, rubygloss lips.

“Jou mebbe halftime tonite, eh? Helpa me, no?”

Not tonight, hot stuff!” Sugar Gold lept over her table, cartwheeled to my desk. “Gymnastics meet tonight, Prof!” Sugar deftly mounted herself. “You promised the whole squad, Prof! Don’t let us down.”

Cami flushed, fists on her hips, she stood ready to mount.

“Gee. I don’t know, girls. Better work on the ol’ story tonight. I gotta write when I’m hot. You understand.”

Laranda, front left corner, crossed her legs slow. She wore a Dunce cap, but no skivvies again. “Professor. Have you forgotten me?

I took an early lunch with a gallon of Dreyer’s peanut brittle ice cream. In the sauna, I smeared the contents on my skin. Miss Apesbury walked in. Glassless, she’s as blind as a bat. She sniffed the air…her round eyes stared.

“Professor! I see you’re at it again. I have never seen this approach to English.” A crunchy handful slipped down my creamy thighs, I jammed some into my mouth.

“The English language is about feeling, Miss Apesbury. You see, I just feel different.”

Dean Egol Parse sauntered into the sauna. She munched on a crunchy piece of celery. She plopped down next to Miss Apesbury. She paused as she chewed on her stalk.

“Using obsession as a learning tool.” Dean Parse observed, sweating into a puddle. I must say it sounds interesting in its way. But tell me…how’s it working for you?”

I smeared two big handfuls of ice cream through my black, steaming hair. I filled both armpits and mashed it between my toes and into both eyes.

“Developing language is growing, learning how to ascend.’

I thought for a moment if there were some place without ice cream. Some place without joy or promise of ascention. Some dreary, dreamwracked place in desperate need of love’s attention.

Melting ice cream spread upon my hips, flowed down in sweet declension. Dean Santana, towel wrapped around immense cascades of chestnut hair, slipped into the sauna, gazed at me...lips parted...nostrils flared..her eyes electric.

“In my Department, we need all the stimulation we can get.”
Dean Santana gulped, snaked over to where I melted slowly.

“Do you mind if I have some?” I dug my hands deep into the box and smeared it all over Dean Santana. She choked and shook slightly. Her eyes danced like candles in a breeze.

“Oh.” She murmured. I dug both hands down deep.

“My.”

“Um. Does this have anything to do with Tara Vinson?”
I turned her about and smeared her backside.

I pulled her towel off and smeared more ice cream through her massive, silky locks. We all showered, lept in the pool, did eleven laps around the indoor track and then dressed.

“You know.” Miss Apesbury whispered hesitantly to me in the locker room, “I have this thing for Barry White.”

Fiddling with a welk on her chin, she checked her teeth in the mirror and did lipstick.

“I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but I put on Victoria’s Secret and listen to Barry White.” She fiddled with a locket the placed it carefully between her breasts.

“How can you know what it’s like to be a woman without a man to dream about?” She yanked on her pants, laced up her boots and slid into her lacy tank top.

I regretted the short lunches at Breathless U. When I returned to class, students were playing the new Tara Vinson video “Taj,” written, directed and produced by Her friend Shoestring, the enigmatic, love-mad scientist who is driving the world crazy with best love songs ever.

Students left their workstations to gather about the TaraVision, munching popcorn and sipping sodas. Tara Vinson bellydanced inside the Taj Mahal in nothing more than seven thin veils.

Snakes writhed at Her feet. Doves fluttered about golden-hued marble columns.

Phelandra tossed two cornpops at Donprakarnen, who pulled them from her hair, a few errant strands of which caught in her lips. She pulled them away slowly and gazed at Phelandra, grinning with her hands on her knees.

Donprakarnen picked up her plate of pate and crawled over to Phelandra. She scooped up pate with her little finger and stuck it in Phelandra’s ear, then removed it with her tongue. Donprakarnen finished. They wrestled.

Triplets Akira, Aprika and Aria screamed at the rowdy students.

“Will you porkers get out of the way so we can watch Tara!”

“She’s down to four veils! Get out of the way!”

Chesney Maidenshire grabbed Donprakarnen’s leg and dragged her across the carpet. Phelandra grabbed Donprakarnen’s bangled, tattooed wrist and dragged back. Donprakarnen scooped up a wad of pate and splattered Chesney in the face.

The fight was on.

QP Thunders stuffed her dirty rice, mango and swordfish-guacamole, tomato-spinach wrap into Sara Palada’s big, naked face. Sara howled, and dumped her Tupperware overnighter full of Colorado con Queso Tomatilla Fajita verde all over QP’s new hemp bustier.

“Dammit! You guys!” Glee Chumley hollered.

“She’s down to three veils!”

Verushka Polodonia yanked Glee Chumley’s collar and poured Sedna Waycat’s frappe down her back, staining her snowy linen Tee a bright scarlet. Sugar Gold stood spreadeagle in her Cheerleader’s uniform, blocking everyone’s TaraVision.

Sugar Gold mounted Terramundi and wrestled her to the floor. Running shoes and argyle socks, water bottles and orange peels, baguettes, parfaits, bon-bons, Caesar’s salad, Boston Baked Beans, dry Oodles ‘o Noodles and croutons garlique flew through the air.

Cami yanked handfuls of Pica’s curly mop, Akira and Shoshone took each other in half-nelsons, Ginger Polodny threw Sakamatokatuni Watanabe in handcuffs, pinned her to the floor.

Vesuvia spewed Krispy Kritters and Virginia Hurtzowell got a fresh-from-the-oven pizza Alfredo con latte piled on her lace bodice.

Snuffy Krankenheimer Gatoraded the mob.

“Cool it, you cows!! Two veils left!” The writhing, slimy females froze in tableau.

“Quiet, you guys. One veil!” Verushka wiped, snarled. You could have heard a slice of pepperoni hit the carpet.

Chancellor Frugalhorn strode into the middle of the room. The last veil began to give way, a tantalizingly slow avalanche of gossamer satin down Tara Vinson’s generous, swellingdeweysilkebony all-consuming breast. Every eye strained saved one.

Chancellor Frugalhorn unplugged TaraVision, adjusted her eye patch and spun around to face the class. “I don’t want to be rude. I fail to see how this, she shook her arms hopelessly, relates to the process of teaching English.”

Collective groans and tsunamis of sighs swept the squishy, lumpy, juicy wet mobsters. “Isn’t this whole Tara Vinson…affair… a bit like climbing Mount Everest barefoot? Seems like it would be easier for all of us…and a bit tidier if you considered her Tara Incognita.”

Chancellor Frugalhorn stepped cautiously around the messy, naked scholars
Wouldn't you prefer to teach Shakespeare or perhaps some Alice Walker
You like call it a learning tool, but it’s the only way you have to cope
Some folks will hang themselves with just a skinny inch of rope
Continue to want what you want, you’ll surely earn your due
I guess that’s what makes teaching hard at Breathless U
The vibrant air’s ideal there, all the element’s conspire
The sum of which dynamize a language of desire
It soars free of the landlocked moral vista
Language liberates your average sista
Liberated me from Breathless U.