I have the biggest crush in the world on my 7th hour Trig teacher, and I think it's going to kill me.
She's really nice and all— like patient and funny and all that. But, also, she's just so totally freaking hot it just about makes your eyes tear up. For real. She has dark eyes and dark brown, almost reddish, hair and this smile that's real low-key and sharp at the edges, just a little upturned at the edges.
And her figure— man! It's just, like . . . it's just too much. She's got these totally perfect boobs that . . . well, like, this one time, she was wearing this loose white blouse, and one of the buttons had come undone and when she leaned down to talk me through this really crazy story problem, I could see like all the way down and she wasn't wearing a bra! No bra at all!
Frankly, GS, she has a rump like two pigs fighting under a blanket over a third pig, and they with some pretty raunchy intentions towards that third pig. Yesterday she bent over to fetch a fumbled chalkboard eraser, and the view— she was wearing a longish, blue satin skirt— made my heart do a sudden, shaky little flip, and the hard-on I got was so sudden and powerful that it made a little thwacka sound as it struck the underside of my desk-chair.
Sometimes, when I think about her in the middle of the day while I'm getting a drink of water or mixing reagents in Chem class, I get so hard so fast that I'm left sorta dizzy, and I forget things like the middle two digits in my Social Security Number and the capitol of Pennsylvania.
I don't know if I "love" her, but every time I start trying to calculate the cosine of an angle, I get this desperate urge to jump up and throw my desk over and tear off my cloths and wrap my arms and legs around her and squeeze and I just don't know what to do.
Randy in Nevada
Dearest Nevada Randy,
So we meet again, and still it is the carnal (or, as they say, "meatly") passions which move, flummox and bear to you immeasurable and incalculably sweet suffering. Ah, Sweet Randy, does not every adolescent male squiddling have that magical time where nought can occupy his brain more fully than the idyll and fantasy of making the humprubtions upon his great and mighty female superior?
Well, son not mine, she shall most assuredly pull back, her flailing arms like razored and tearing monsters each one. Skin and muscle and cartilage all shall be torn and eaten to feed the growing millions of eggs which even now must build in the she-beasts of the world. We are all progressing deathward, Randy, to that great and gaping mother-lover maw that screams and thrashes even in the night.
It is love that you feal. And fear. And that is why it is so sweet.
But what to do, what to do? In this I have difficulty in making the advice. T'were I you— which, blessed be I am not— I might take one of the two bifurcated paths:
Path the First: Take what, for lack of the better nomenclature, we shall call "the squid route" (please see Giant Squid F.A.Q. Part The Third, the penultimate question and answer) and enlist the aid of several of your classhorts, stalk this savage beauty, sacrifice one of your company to her wrath as distraction and then fall upon her, member tumescent, and savagely penetrate until such time as the poison ejaculates forth from your brain.Unfortunately, the Firstly Path is roundly condemned by your species in general and prefecture in particular, and although this Second Path might be a workable solution, I discourage you from taking the full recourse and diving bottomly, as the seas deep embrace would doubtless leave unfortunate after effects, rendering your soft, pink, nobly form both much smaller and generally sub-optimal.
Path the Second: Abscond with myself to some dark, fetid and chill rend in the benthic ooze and masturbate furiously, until either the fancy passes or the mating tentacle is sufficiently raw to effect a complete casting out of humpthinkings from brain pan.
Spanking Ever Towards Freedom from Carnal Want,
Your Giant Squid
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