When lust ruins a boy’s life

Bachelor is distracted by hot teacher at a school meeting

In Summary

• It is hard to keep me abreast of son's failing grades when the teacher is so beautiful



Some things are never meant to be mixed. You know, oil and water, milk and Red Bull, lust and buxom teachers, that sort of thing. Why, you ask?

Since my colleague, Dr Watani, was leaving on a week-long trip, could I attend a school meeting with his 10-year-old son? Of course, I would. He’d stood in for me several times, and one good turn deserves another, right?

I picked up the boy, who looked as innocent as a baby lamb, drove him to school, and sat for 15 minutes outside his class teacher’s office.

“Why are we here?” I asked him.

“My grades. Please tell her I’ll work my butt off, okay?”

“I will, though not in those exact words. And not unless you promise to work hard on your grades.”

“I will, I promise.”

The lady who invites us into her office is a ravishing bombshell. I’m talking Vogue magazine cover beautiful, Naomi Campbell tall. But above all, it’s her—

“Are you done staring at my breasts, Mr Watani?”

I shake my head and look up. “Yes! I mean, no. I mean, sorry, Mrs…”

“Miss, Rukiywa.”

Miss? Well, well, well…

“Nice to meet you, Miss Rukiwa.”

“I’m up here, Mr Watani.” She points to her face. “And it’s Ruki-ywa. I know what you’re doing. Don’t get any ideas in your head. Sit down.” She opens a file. “Now, Dr Watani, I hope your son has brought you up to speed on the matter at hand?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s kept me abreast of his failing grades, but he promises to get them up from double Ds—I mean from the Ds to the As. Don’t you, son?”

“Failing? Your son is the best in his class. You’re here because he and some of his friends decided to set the library on fire.”

“He did what?” I turn to the boy. “Is that so?”

“I’ve read all the books,” he says, “and they won’t replace them.”

“You burned library boobs — I mean, library books?”

“Ahem! Dr Watani, are you distracted, by any chance? You don’t seem to be paying attention. Your son also set booby traps that would tilt jugs filled with melons on other kids’ heads.”

I got to my feet. “Concentrate? How can one concentrate when you keep talking about booby traps and jugs and melons?”

She stood up, closed the file. “Well then, I hope the two-week suspension I’m giving your son is enough for both of you to think matters over. Please get out of my office. And, Dr Utani,” she said as we walked out, “next time, you don’t have to wait outside. Use the knockers on the door to alert me to your presence.”

I think I heard her laugh as I closed the door behind us. I hope Dr Watani handles the situation better than I did. Or could it be he was avoiding something? Maybe something distracting?

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