Sex Major

By Marlin Eller

The question I am most often asked is what you can do with a graduate degree in art history. Well, I tell them I majored in sex at college. As a child I'd always wanted to be a sex fiend when I grew up so I carefully chose my school. I took the classical subjects, intro courses into various perversions, basic psych and all the usual stuff. The teachers graded quite fairly as I expected i.e. if you could successfully get into their pants you'd get an A otherwise you'd flunk. Of course, they cover up what was really going on by calling the course Calculus figuring to scare people off, or at least confuse the unhip. But, I'd worked hard at it in high school, balling everything I could lure into dad's car. I had all the basic come on lines down pat and knew how to approach the subject. Oh, I got through the courses all right. I got pretty good grades except for one old chemistry prof who marked me down for not drawing any blood when I clawed at his buttocks. But boy, did he know his chemicals. We would get so fucked up and then blow each other all night long. I missed a lot of classes sleeping in all morning, but I was really scoring in the homework department which is where all the learning takes place anyway. I did a little grad school which was more of the same except this time you have to do a thesis. I did mine on cunilingus. I went through a couple advisors before I found one that I could really work with and let me tell you, she was great. That is one lady I really do respect. She is intimately familiar with all the current techniques and did her own work on flutter tonguing. Of course to get a publication I had to do something original and with a lot of her help I came up with a trick that really made her eyeballs roll back into her head and her tongue hang out. So I wrote it up, went before the committee and took my orals. I passed them all right. A lot of my old teachers showed up and the grilled me on all the old techniques. I almost blew it when I came on the beat while sucking off my Jazz theory Prof. I was so embarrassed and then he bent me over the table and fucked me up the butt using some obscure African rhythm that I couldn't remember the name of. Part of the whole ordeal is that these old guys and gals on your committee just suck you so dry that you can not go on. You just go limp and they go on and on fucking every orifice and pore on your body. It's a real lesson in humility to get gang banged by a whole roomful of curmudgeons.

Once I had my thesis, I started looking at some jobs. I was overqualified for most of your standard bachelors degree type jobs, traveling salesman, milkman, actor. I was leaning toward a more research oriented job and other than a few privately run cat houses, the best bet was to go for a teaching job. I'd been the route as a TA while I was in grad school. That had been pretty easy. Mostly we held quiz sections where we all got stoned and I helped 'em prepare for the tests. I'd tell them, "Now, when he asks you for an essay on the relationship between the monks and the merchant class in the early 1600's you've got to crank out some really good porno working in the contrasting elements of asceticism and total self indulgence. The period clue gives you a rough idea of the garments to be shucked." The trouble is that so many of them just parroted back the same dry bullshit that the prof has made up in class. So few of them could really think creatively and would have the balls to write a good midterm essay explaining how they'd love to wrap their lips around his stiff rod and suck him till he shot an ungodly load down their hot moist throats. Oh, there were always a few A students who has the professor pegged from the very start. They were the ones who wrote a quick little note giving a place and time and a concise description of what exactly they were going to do to his body, then they'd drop off their test papers and saunter out with a smile before most of the students had even gotten to the second question. Most of the students listened to a whole semester tracing the lineage of the English Royal family before they caught on to what form of master/slave/bondage trip the prof was into. Some never did figure it out.

Anyway, you find out that teaching is a lot harder. You've got to pick your courses and prepare classes. And you hold an awful lot of office hours and you spend your evenings balling the really good students. You're so drug out from that pace that you hardly have anything left for the faculty meetings but you have to go to those, rough and sore as it may be because if you can't give the department head you probably won't get tenure. Oh, the junior faculty are usually nice folks. You can be good friends and just get in some good plain old country fucking and caressing, but there's always some old coot that just can't get it up unless you let him do it to you his way and believe me for some of these old guys that can really take a lot of time and effort. But you have to get the tenured faculty off and pretty regularly or your chances for tenure are nil. But the students are young and tight and so naive and it's such a trip to watch them awaken to debauchery like that young blond that sits in the front row showing off her cleavage and fanning her legs slowly trying to get you to strip off your shorts, spread her over the desk and take her right now in front of the whole class, bellowing and screaming as you pump loads of hot cum up into her. And you're showing your resistance as you stand behind the podium with the biggest fucking erection of your life trying to keep your voice from breaking as you read your lecture notes and slowly knead your throbbing cock with the hand you have so nonchalantly thrust into your pocket. You can tell that she knows the agony you're in when you ask her a question and she slowly draws her pencil from her mouth pausing to roll her tongue around the pink little eraser tip before she answers. And while she talks you run your fingers over the knob and down the shaft and you and she both know that her answers will be worth an A if she can say something to make you cum all over the insides of the podium. And then again you never really learn something until you've had to teach it. Believe it. It's true! I can't believe the first sodomy class I taught. If you can take on a class of 40 undergrads and walk away from the final exam the same way you walked into it, believe me, you know something about sodomy. And on top of all this you're supposed to be doing research and publication. Publish or perish. Well, that's the name of the game. Fortunately you've got lots of student contact giving you lots of material that you can write up for the lightweight monthly journals. Here is where style really counts. Of course you sign it name and address withheld by request but when you describe how this red head that you met who works in the library of a small mid-western college, followed you into the Xerox room one night, you start giving clues to let those in the real academic community know where you are. And by the time you've described how she straddled the Xerox machine and dropped quarters into the slot while you fucked her from behind and watched the photocopies of your massive cock reaming her tight young pussy drop one on top of the other into the basket, all the tightest assed faculty members in your department have fingered themselves to orgasm remembering their own little escapades with that hot red maned cunt. If you really want to show off you make up a fantasy for a particular person and write it so that that person just absolutely goes berserk coupling with animate and inanimate objects alike. The last three months have had an absolutely brilliant exchange between the old Hegel scholar at Princeton and the junior guy they hired on this year. You know that old guy is creaming his drawers over that last letter.

But for the really good research, the stuff for your books, you rely on the honors and the grad students. They're so wonderfully creative. They're not always so smooth on technique which is something you only build with years of experience, but they do have their moments of inspiration. I've got this one student out scoring elementary school kids for me with their little rolled up pants cuffs and cute little lunch pails, fair features, and soft soft skin. Then there's Kim who comes back from his grave yard runs with some of the most incredible bodies. The kid's got a real knack. I'm not sure where he gets them all, but God, you should see some of the cadavers he drags in, Absolutely mouth watering. I've got two books out with Pan and another in the galleys based on some of the scenes we've had with the stiffs. But the fact is, with all the government cutbacks, it's getting harder and harder to get a grant approved and let's face it, paraphernalia isn't cheap. So I've been thinking about industry lately. I figure with my background I ought to be able to blow my way right up the old corporate ladder.

It's like I tell my students when they ask me if there's any future in the major. If they get nothing else out of the major, they should learn that if you want to open the door to opportunity you just reach down, wrap your fingers around that big knob and give it a pull. After all, things could be a lot worse, you could have actually majored in art history.