The tender breasted coed cavorts coquettishly with the English professor. He is yellowed like so many pages of so many books sitting on so many shelves in his many-windowed office. He is a rake with a rapier wit. He is a rapist with a statutory pose. He is a million men better then he appears and so full of acerbic, critical, demanding, nearly hallucinatory knowledge that he would scoff maddeningly at the over-use of alliteration in this very opening paragraph, chide my authorship, red-pen correct my article and return to boffing the tender-breasted co-ed that had entered his windowed lair.
The fantasy of the English Professor, complete with dusty, suede-elbowed jacket at some New England prep school, having his way with hordes of beautiful young women who found his mind irresistible has become such an accepted truth that it is almost certainly untrue. Wouldn’t it be wise to assume that those with the power to create works of popular fiction might seek to make themselves the hero of such works? How are we to believe a writer when a writer tells you the get laid? How are we to believe that women, particularly the sexy and beautiful ones that eventually make New York their home would be attracted to such types?