well slap my ass and call me sally

mrs. howland always said that we deserved it. between lectures on the phallic symbolism in candide and chastizing us for improper use of the thesaurus, she reasoned that if she had to settle in the stirrup chair at least once a year, then men should have to deal with the magic fingers as well.

we always laughed at her. she was always talking to us about such things, which perched on the edge of sexuality without actually taking the leap, and we loved her for it. she was nearing forty and had a five year old son as well as a bespectacled, c.p.a. husband, but to us she was lady godiva. we openly proposed that she leave her husband and shack up with us. she laughed at us before taunting us with yet another explication of the sexual tension in ibsen.

she wasn't kidding about the pain of the magic fingers though. we should have seen the lust for revenge in her eyes. today the doctor had me drop my shorts, lay on the examination table, pull my knees up to my chest and put a quarter in the magic fingers machine. the result wasn't pretty.

damn you mrs. howland! after all that talk all you put out was a cold dish of revenge.