professor who is a few decades older than me. He wants me to send him pictures of myself naked. What should I do?
Confused,
Miss Morrison
I don’t suppose I’d get a very quick answer if I sent my question to a magazine. The next best thing I can do is to ask the cats so I look to Tiny and Little for help. They don’t seem to be saying much more than “feed us tuna.” Those cats, they’ve always got fish on the brain.
I click open the picture I took of myself yesterday and study it closely. My breasts are in full view and perfectly in focus, but only part of my face is visible since my hair had fallen over my eyes and cheeks as I’d reached forward to take the photo. As I weigh my current options, I ogle the picture, like I’m a teenage boy seeing a pair of tits for the first time. It’s not that I’m scrutinizing the picture for flaws. I’m simply having a hard time believing it’s me. This erotic journey I’ve ventured into is taking turns I never imagined.
While I stare at the picture I think about the pros and cons of sending it to Professor Sparling. What do I have to lose if I email it, and what do I have to gain? I conclude that at worst, he could circulate the photo online, but he strikes me as one of those older people who doesn’t even know how to tweet. And if he does know how, who would retweet it? It’s just one of a zillion tit pics out there. I’m not a celebrity. There’s nothing spectacular about my picture. Why would anyone but Professor Sparling care? They wouldn’t. So, I should send the picture. Since I don’t expect Professor Sparling to find me unattractive, the picture will likely pique his interest even more. And that is a definite gain. Decision made.
I open a new message to Professor Sparling and prepare to attach my picture, but instead I do something else. Something that shocks me. It’s as though my fingers have taken over my brain and are typing all on their own.
Dear Professor Sparling,
I have a picture prepared and I was about to send it. But then it dawned on me: why do you want a picture when you could have the real thing?
Hot for you,
Sydney
I receive an immediate reply.
I’m away for the holiday. Send the picture. I’ll consider it your Christmas gift to me. I’m waiting.
The mention of a Christmas gift brings me back to reality for a moment. I need to buy something for the Harts. And I must get something for Henry. But what can I buy the guy who already has everything he wants? Perhaps I’ll just mock up my naked picture with a Santa Claus hat and use it as a Christmas card. That would sort of count as a Christmas gift, I think sarcastically. As if. But I bet Henry would find it hysterical. Henry! I need his advice so badly, but since he’s on a date, I’ll have to go with my gut on this one. I attach my picture to a new email and send it to Professor Sparling with only three words. Me. Naked. Attached. I close my eyes. It’s done and there’s no going back.
If there has ever been a moment in the history of Sydney Morrison that calls for a chocolate chip cookie, this is it. Wishing Henry were here with me, I sit down at the table, bite into the cookie and let the chocolate melt on my tongue. It’s heavenly. When I’m done indulging in the sweetness I go back to my laptop. My insanely arousing professor has replied!
I brace myself for disaster before I read the message. It’s highly possible my picture was of no interest and I have to be ready for that. If Professor Sparling hasn’t written something complimentary, I promise myself I won’t go to pieces. After slowly counting to ten in attempt to calm my racing heart, I fretfully open the email.
Dear Lovely Sydney,
Your precious beauty is overwhelming. And you are so fucking hot. You have that rare combination of natural beauty, sexiness, and a sharp mind to boot. You are every man’s dream, but my privilege only (I hope). I quite admire your photography. Show me more of your
Confused,
Miss Morrison
I don’t suppose I’d get a very quick answer if I sent my question to a magazine. The next best thing I can do is to ask the cats so I look to Tiny and Little for help. They don’t seem to be saying much more than “feed us tuna.” Those cats, they’ve always got fish on the brain.
I click open the picture I took of myself yesterday and study it closely. My breasts are in full view and perfectly in focus, but only part of my face is visible since my hair had fallen over my eyes and cheeks as I’d reached forward to take the photo. As I weigh my current options, I ogle the picture, like I’m a teenage boy seeing a pair of tits for the first time. It’s not that I’m scrutinizing the picture for flaws. I’m simply having a hard time believing it’s me. This erotic journey I’ve ventured into is taking turns I never imagined.
While I stare at the picture I think about the pros and cons of sending it to Professor Sparling. What do I have to lose if I email it, and what do I have to gain? I conclude that at worst, he could circulate the photo online, but he strikes me as one of those older people who doesn’t even know how to tweet. And if he does know how, who would retweet it? It’s just one of a zillion tit pics out there. I’m not a celebrity. There’s nothing spectacular about my picture. Why would anyone but Professor Sparling care? They wouldn’t. So, I should send the picture. Since I don’t expect Professor Sparling to find me unattractive, the picture will likely pique his interest even more. And that is a definite gain. Decision made.
I open a new message to Professor Sparling and prepare to attach my picture, but instead I do something else. Something that shocks me. It’s as though my fingers have taken over my brain and are typing all on their own.
Dear Professor Sparling,
I have a picture prepared and I was about to send it. But then it dawned on me: why do you want a picture when you could have the real thing?
Hot for you,
Sydney
I receive an immediate reply.
I’m away for the holiday. Send the picture. I’ll consider it your Christmas gift to me. I’m waiting.
The mention of a Christmas gift brings me back to reality for a moment. I need to buy something for the Harts. And I must get something for Henry. But what can I buy the guy who already has everything he wants? Perhaps I’ll just mock up my naked picture with a Santa Claus hat and use it as a Christmas card. That would sort of count as a Christmas gift, I think sarcastically. As if. But I bet Henry would find it hysterical. Henry! I need his advice so badly, but since he’s on a date, I’ll have to go with my gut on this one. I attach my picture to a new email and send it to Professor Sparling with only three words. Me. Naked. Attached. I close my eyes. It’s done and there’s no going back.
If there has ever been a moment in the history of Sydney Morrison that calls for a chocolate chip cookie, this is it. Wishing Henry were here with me, I sit down at the table, bite into the cookie and let the chocolate melt on my tongue. It’s heavenly. When I’m done indulging in the sweetness I go back to my laptop. My insanely arousing professor has replied!
I brace myself for disaster before I read the message. It’s highly possible my picture was of no interest and I have to be ready for that. If Professor Sparling hasn’t written something complimentary, I promise myself I won’t go to pieces. After slowly counting to ten in attempt to calm my racing heart, I fretfully open the email.
Dear Lovely Sydney,
Your precious beauty is overwhelming. And you are so fucking hot. You have that rare combination of natural beauty, sexiness, and a sharp mind to boot. You are every man’s dream, but my privilege only (I hope). I quite admire your photography. Show me more of your
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