"This project will determine your final grade in the class. The assignment is to market a common product in a new, and hopefully, original manner. The product will be sold at the school swap meet on the last Saturday of this month. In other words, you have two weeks from this Saturday.
"You will work in teams of three, and I've already chosen the teams. The team is responsible for everything. Your grade will be based on the amount of net income you derive from your marketing effort. All teams making a profit over $500 receive an automatic "A."
God what a fucking asshole. I felt as if I had finally descended to the lowest level of adult education hell. THREE FUCKING UNITS. That's all I needed to complete my degree requirements - 3 units.
Thirty-five years ago I left college early. I was offered a position in a growing company, the money was more then I could believe, so I took it. That job, and many others, came and went. Companies came and went. My marriage came and went. And then the economy came and went and I was officially unemployed for the first time in my life.
I was okay financially, years of stock options, cashed in before the "pop" insured that. It's just that I am not a sit on the couch kind of guy. I enjoy working with people in a company. Only now, in a very tight labor market, I was competing against people with Masters and Doctorates. It was suggested (more then once) that completing my degree might not be a bad idea. I returned to school full-time. Two semesters later and I was three units short of my Bachelors. I decided on a class over the summer to wrap it all up.
They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I intended on taking a simple Art Appreciation class - 20th Century American Impressionists. That class was cancelled at the last minute. Fortunately, I was able to get into a Art in Advertising" class.
Half way through the term, the instructor was in an auto accident (she's fine.) I decided to transfer to another class rather then bail on the term. The administration offered me a number of possibilities. I ended up in "The Art of Marketing." Silly me, it had nothing to do with art. It was more like the Art of Manipulation or Art of the Con. I think my negative attitude had more to do with the instructor then the subject.
I called him "The Bastard." If you were to take every hackneyed cliché about used car salesmen, telemarketers, lawyers, traveling salesmen, aluminum siding salesmen - I think you get the idea. How the hell this guy ended up teaching a college class was beyond me.
It probably didn't help that I took every opportunity to piss "The Bastard" off. For instance, the first assignment was to create a political slogan bumper sticker. The slogan was supposed to incite people to action.
My solution certainly incited people to action. It had two blocks of text on either side of a graphic. The graphic was an outline of the state of Texas. Inside the outline of texas with a simple line representation of an affable idiot, a shallow smile and two eyebrows sloping downwards,. The text on the left side said, "There's a village in Texas missing it's idiot." The text on the right side said, "Send his Bush-league ass back to Crawford."
When I unveiled my creation, a number of classmates applauded. Some squirmed, and some frowned. The Bastard went ballistic. Turned out he was a big Bush supporter. Things went downhill from there to the point that I needed an "A" on the Final project or my summer would have been in vain.
"Now, who to team up with our very entertaining and creative Mr. Stephen Williamson (me)? I believe the proper response is, Rachel and Kimberly."
Oh fuck! It there were two more obsequious students in the class, I hadn't met them. Rachel and Kimberly? - Those two hung on every pronouncement of "The Bastard" as if it came from Mount Olympus. What was worse was that their in-class projects were dull and insipid. No need to mention that they always graded my stuff poorly. I glumly accepted that I had wasted a summer of evenings.
The girls approached me after class and I could see from their expressions and body language that they seemed no happier then I was. They invited me to coffee at a local hang-out; I went, not that I expected anything positive to come out of this. No. As a certified old guy on the far side of 50, the best I was hoping for a look or two down their blouses or a flash of panty.
My opinion of the girls wasn't improved when they admitted that their act in class was for the benefit of "The Bastard." The asshole had told them from the beginning of the term that they would do just fine if they backed him up. Last week he sprung his trap. He told the girls they would likely fail the class due to lack of assignments completed. He told them that their only hope of passing was getting an "A" on the final project or, having sex with him before the end of the term.
I didn't exactly sympathize with the girls. Never-the-less, I offered to reconvene our meeting this Sunday afternoon, at my house. I told them I'd make lunch, they could bring the wine, and that they could use my pool if they wanted.
Sunday dawned cloudless and was well on the way to being the hottest day of the year. They arrived at 1 PM, and went straight to the pool. Well at least my perving desires were rewarded. The girls peeled down to a pair of thong bikinis. I thanked my realtor for convincing me that buying a house with a pool was a good move. Amen to that.
I chose to avoid joining them; I just sat in the shade and enjoyed the view. I will say one thing; both girls were world-class teasers. I think the girls dove underwater more times then Jacques Costeau. Their tanned butts flashed repeatedly as they frolicked about. After about 30 minutes, I went inside to prepare lunch. I made a grilled salmon salad.
I set the patio table and called the girls got out of the pool. The wine they brought was good. Their company was better. I opened a second bottle to their protests. I suggested that it would help get our creative juices flowing. For some reason, that statement teased a giggle out of the girls.
After lunch we started brainstorming. The girls dropped their towels, which became very distracting, for me, while they finger combed their hair. One hour later, the only progress we had made was that their hair was dry and I had a raging hard on. Thank God we were sitting at a table.
I called a break and asked if they were interested in dessert. They declined at first until I told them what dessert was. French Vanilla ice cream, with Chocolate Peanut Butter cups melted into a high-calorie slurry, to be poured over the top of the ice cream. They changed their votes.
I pivoted the chair and stood. The girls laughed, "Are you having your own wardrobe malfunction?" I stopped, looked down at my tented shorts, turned and stuck my tongue out at them. Which was a mistake because they immediately commented that any guy that had a tongue that long would never lack for dates. I actually blushed.
I was gathering the ingredients when the girls sashayed in and offered to help. I put Rachel on Ice Cream scooping and Kimberly squashing the Peanut Butter Cups. I stood on the other side of the island counter (I still had an erection to hide) and supervised.
Rachel seemed to have trouble scooping the Ice Cream. She would bend over the counter, her full breasts challenging the ability of her top to contain them and try to dig into the cartoon. Her effort caused her upper body to tremble with effort. Causing her breasts to shake; I almost had to leave the kitchen.
"Rachel always gets those looks. Guys and big tits, I think I should be offended." Kimberly laughed as she caught me staring at Rachel. Not that Kimberly had any reason to complain. Her breasts, while noticeably smaller, were perfectly shaped, and seemed to have perpetually hard nipples.
I laughed in embarrassment. "It's not the size, it's the motion." That comment got Rachel blushing and she refused to finish scooping. I egged Kimberly into taking her place. When her own effort caused her small breast to quiver I feigned passing out.
"I think I need to change my shorts." Rachel laughed, and Kimberly just kept scooping and quivering.
Rachel asked if I had any whipped cream and cherries to go on top. She said it with the straightest of faces. I'm sure she meant nothing by it. I answered that as a certified "dirty old man" of course I had whipped cream! As far as cherries, I replied, I didn't even get my wife's.
Rachel went crimson all the way to her bikini top and Kimberly nearly fell over in hysterics. We all enjoyed a good laugh.
I popped the PB cups in the microwave, zapped them for 45 seconds, stirred and poured it over the ice cream. Three spoons attacked the bowl. The feeding frenzy was quick and merciless. Their words of praise were graciously accepted.
"We forgot the whipped cream." Rachel picked up the can, shaking it up and down. I caught Kimberly's eye and arched my eyebrows, feigning alarm.
Kimberly's face lit up. "Better be careful when you do that Rach (Kimberly mimicked her hand wrapped around a cylinder and stroking up and down), or his cream will be all over the place."
Rachel squeaked, put down the can, and blushed. Then her nipples swelled magnificently. I was stunned.
Kimberly picked up the can and pointed it at Rachel's chest. "Pearl necklace Rach? Or would you rather have Stevie do it?"
Rachel looked confused, and that caused both Kimberly and I to fall apart in gales of laughter. I wasn't about to explain the reference. Kimberly didn't hesitate to demonstrate.
"SWOOSH." Kimberly arced a trail of white confection across Rachel's chest.
.... There is more of this story ...