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		    M A L I N O V   R O M A N C E
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Archive name: A Trashier Diversion
Authors name: Malinov (malinov@mindless.com)




David L said something like . . .

>  trashy = good.

A Poorly Written Essay
(Another Bit of Improvisational Trash)

She shuffled through the stack of papers as she wandered among the desks,
pulling out a particular sheet as she passed each student, careful to
keep a grip on the expanding fan of essays.  Mark caught her eye as she
searched for his and at once felt her disappointment.  She folded the
sheet slightly as she passed his essay to him and continued through the
maze of seats.

Mark turned over the assignment they had completed during the last class
session.  There were two red marks in the title alone, vicious circles
around his apostrophical errors of "A Midsummer's Nights Dream" and two
dozen more cruel strikes in the body of the three paragraphs.  It had
been a simple exercise, so there was no grade, but at the bottom of the
piece were the words, "See me after class!"

After a few comments on the varied use of rhyme in the comedic romance,
Miss Porter turned their attention to Othello.	Mark watched as she
spoke, intrigued by the twinge of color in her cheek as she read Iago's
speech, outlining his malicious scheme.  Her dark blue eyes seemed to
rage as she read, a fierce gaze that stirred Mark's interest.  She closed
the book and dismissed the students. He could feel his heart beat as he
stood and approached the front of the classroom.

Liza dashed to Miss Porter and began pouring out her thoughts on the Moor
and his lily-white mistress.  Mark sat back on one of the front desks and
stifled a yawn.  Miss Porter nodded and nodded until Liza, finally
satisfied that she had proven her knowledge to the English teacher,
picked up her books and left.  Miss Porter rolled her eyes as she looked
at Mark.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked.

"Mark.	Could you drop by my office this afternoon?  I want to discuss
your paper with you."

"Sure.  What time?"

"After two.  Before five."  Miss Porter smiled to show her concern for her
student.  Mark nodded.

He arrived at the tiny office in the belly of Wells Hall just after two.
Miss Porter gestured him in and continued making marks in a ledger, so
Mark quietly sat down amidst the stacked volumes of Tennyson and
Melville.  After a few minutes, she handed him a sheet of paper with
twenty sentences on it.

"Put apostrophes where they belong," she instructed.  Mark pulled out a
pen and began noting possessions in a steady progression.  He handed the
sheet back. Picking up her red pen, Miss Porter began to read through the
expressions.

"These are perfect," she said, confused.  "So you understand apostrophes?"

"Yeah," Mark said.  "They aren't very hard."

"But you consistently used them incorrectly in your paper - twelve
mistakes in a single page of writing."

"I was writing about the lovers," he said with a blush.  "Sitting in
class thinking through so many casual affairs got me excited.  Grammar
kind of goes out the window when I get aroused emotionally."  His heart
beat hard as he spoke.

"I know," she said softly.  "I thought you observations were . . .
interesting, but the bad grammar took me out of it.  You should try to
remember that when you're writing, you're communicating.  I wanted to
hear what you had to say, but it was as if your speech was slurred. 
Remember that you're talking to someone - to me - and speak clearly."

"That was the problem.	I'm sorry, Miss Porter, but it's hard to discuss
the orgies of Midsummer with such a beautiful woman and keep my diction."
 Mark looked at his hands in his lap, wringing nervously.  "I mean,
you're only, what, four years older than I am and . . ."  He felt a hand
on his arm. ". . .so pretty."  His voice trailed.  Mark looked up and
into Miss Porter's eyes.  The dark azure raged with passion.  His breath
halted and she kissed him.

He pulled her easily onto his lap as the touch of their hunger expressed
the whirlwind of unleashed desire.  Miss Porter, Kathy, the pretty young
assistant english professor touched him, lifted his shirt to run her
hands over his strong chest, through his dark curls and in a moment's
abandon let herself go as she kissed him.  Mark kneaded her supple flesh,
exploring the curves and swells of her body anxiously, madly, eagerly.

She paused a moment to lift her soft yellow sweater up over her head, and
Mark at once suckled the dark nipples of a full naked breast.  Kathy
sighed and closed her eyes as she held his head hard against the erotic
tingling.  His hand slipped under her long skirt and held the moist
furrow in the palm of his strength and she wantonly pushed herself
against the probing until he had found his way beneath the satin shroud. 
A finger slipped inside her and she gasped.

An echo of footsteps in the hallway sent a shock of fear through the
young teacher and she paused to listen.  In the moment's hesitation, Mark
pushed his thick cock into the damp pit and Kathy fell back onto her desk
with the thrust, sending Joyce and Johnson crashing to the floor.  Her
hands clutched and crumpled papers as he stroked his prick into her
waterfall.  A staple in her ledger bit into her ass and as the excitement
climbed her precipice, she wondered in a gushing flood of the juice of
their orgasm's release if they would drown good Liza's all-too-good
marks.

She sat up as the wave of heavy breathing left them fading gently.  Mark
smiled shyly and stole a nervous quick kiss.  Kathy held her arms out to
hold him and drew him into her embrace.  The sound of laughter down the
halls interrupted their sweet pause and Mark tucked in his shirt as Kathy
smoothed her skirt and picked Ulysses off the floor.

"Yes," she said in a murmur, "Yes."

As she pulled her sweater on again, a knock came at the office door.  Liza
slowly peered inside.

"I'll do better on the next essay," said Mark, collecting his books.

"Hmmm," said Kathy, "grammar isn't everything, you know."

~~~

Capote said of Kerouac, "That's not writing, that's typing."  Writing is
rewriting.  Trash is the first step in the process.  Improv's a great
exercise.

Malinov

Power belongs to those who dare . . . Sapere Aude.

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Kristen's collection