I sit in International Marketing 516, allowing the professor's lecture on business opportunities in South America to pass through my head unobstructed. Staring out the classroom bay window, I watch water-painted tangerine clouds lie delicately above the pencil-sketched outline of the Hollywood hills.
But the real distraction is this exotic Middle Eastern woman assigned to the seat next to mine. Ebony hair, in tight wavy curls. Smooth, dark-skinned shoulders. Flawless, impossibly long legs. While the professor drones on about the barriers to entry in the Sao Paolo market, my thoughts begin to drift. . .
I am nestled in her arms like a coddled baby. Words lose their meaning as slight facial responses and glancing touches speak volumes. She outlines my face with a paralyzing caress, sketching my features as if I were the canvas, and she the artist.
She unbuttons her blouse and presses against me, her heartbeat throbs along my forehead. Like a feather floating earthbound, she lowers herself. Our lips join and--
"Mr. Martino!" The professor's gruff voice reverberates through my head. "Can you enlighten the class on what Brazil's import tariffs are for durable goods?"
Huh!?!
He steps up to where I'm sitting, then looms over me. "Brazil. . . Tariffs. . . Durable goods. . ."
"Uh. . ."
"Another articulate answer from Mr. Martino," he says, shaking his head. "Perhaps you'll join us in today's lecture?"
A wave of chuckles rolls across the room, passing over me just as I shrink into the cushion of my seat. Even she is laughing.
God, I love this class.
Alfred C. Martino, Copyright 2013
But the real distraction is this exotic Middle Eastern woman assigned to the seat next to mine. Ebony hair, in tight wavy curls. Smooth, dark-skinned shoulders. Flawless, impossibly long legs. While the professor drones on about the barriers to entry in the Sao Paolo market, my thoughts begin to drift. . .
I am nestled in her arms like a coddled baby. Words lose their meaning as slight facial responses and glancing touches speak volumes. She outlines my face with a paralyzing caress, sketching my features as if I were the canvas, and she the artist.
She unbuttons her blouse and presses against me, her heartbeat throbs along my forehead. Like a feather floating earthbound, she lowers herself. Our lips join and--
"Mr. Martino!" The professor's gruff voice reverberates through my head. "Can you enlighten the class on what Brazil's import tariffs are for durable goods?"
Huh!?!
He steps up to where I'm sitting, then looms over me. "Brazil. . . Tariffs. . . Durable goods. . ."
"Uh. . ."
"Another articulate answer from Mr. Martino," he says, shaking his head. "Perhaps you'll join us in today's lecture?"
A wave of chuckles rolls across the room, passing over me just as I shrink into the cushion of my seat. Even she is laughing.
God, I love this class.
Alfred C. Martino, Copyright 2013
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