Jillian Spectre and the Dream Weaver. Nic Tatano

we're eighteen and a forty year old has been around the block already. It's the experience factor, and, as you know, we don't have any." I reach across the table and pat her hand. "Look, you've got nothing to worry about. Besides, if by some strange turn of events things didn't work out with you and Jake there'd be a line of hot guys waiting for a shot at a six foot babe with legs up to her neck. It's not a bad lookin' crop on that campus."

      "I suppose. Still, I've got it bad for the little guy and it kinda hurt me a little, ya know?"

      "Aren't you the one who always said men take longer to grow up?"

      "Stop hitting me with my own logic, short stuff."

      "Maybe you need a little of your own logic. Remember when you first started dating him you went out with someone else to keep him in line?"

      "I'm not playing those games anymore."

      "I'm not saying you should actually do it. But just talk about a male teacher and give him a taste of his own medicine."

      "The only male teacher we've got is that eighty year old English professor who died and didn't get the memo."

      "Okay, not my best idea. Tell you what, I'll send my alter ego into that classroom and see what the hell is going on with that teacher."

      After four years of challenging my stomach to a daily culinary smackdown in a high school cafeteria that served dishes which looked suspiciously like lab experiments, there was no way I was gonna eat college food. Roxanne and I had already done reconnaissance during our spring campus visit and were treated to a mystery meat dish she referred to as "cold shoulder" since a: it was cold, and b: she found a bone in it that looked like a shoulder blade she'd seen in her cousin's butcher shop. Besides, with the campus in Manhattan I could throw a stone and hit any number of terrific and reasonably priced places to eat. However, the school does have a subsidized coffee bar, which offers terrific flavored joes at a dollar a cup, so I'm enjoying a mug of almond amaretto while I attempt to navigate through the 1800s literary version of the health care law, Moby Dick. Get this: the book is required reading for my Modern Literature course. Which begs the question, would you have to be living during the Abe Lincoln administration to consider this book modern? Anyway, after thirty pages on the care and feeding of whales I'm ready to impale myself on a harpoon and making a point to hit the college bookstore on the way home to pick up the Cliff Notes. Hey, I can spend fifty hours reading this dated monstrosity or getting the thirty minute recap and spending my time doing noble deeds. Seems like a no-brainer to me. I could even do a testimonial for the Cliff Notes people that they could put on the back cover:

       "The condensed version of Moby Dick gave me the time I needed to save the planet."

       -Jillian Spectre, superheroine

      Anyway, the java bar is packed and I'm sitting alone at a corner table for two when a tight pair of jeans moves into my field of vision. I look up and see a Greek god standing before me with a cup of coffee.

      "Mind if I join you? All the other seats are taken."

      A quick glance around the room tells me this is true. Not that I care with a guy like this, since one does not often encounter mythological figures who look like fashion models, so I gesture toward the chair opposite me. "Sure."

      "Thanks." He places his books and coffee on the table as he sits down and slides his chair closer to the table, then extends his hand. "Trip Logan."

      My hand looks tiny and disappears into his as we shake. "Jillian Spectre."

      His handshake is gentle despite his size. He cocks his head toward my novel. "You're not actually reading that mind-numbing thing, are you?"

      I close the book and slide it off to the side. "I made a valiant attempt, but I started to lose interest at Call me Ishmael."

      "Ah, yes, I remember this school's concept of Modern Literature. When I took it we were reading the Rosetta Stone."

      I laugh and take in this vision as he sips his coffee. The guy's built like a linebacker: incredibly broad shoulders, huge ripped biceps straining to escape from his short sleeved shirt, forearms with bulging veins that belong on a blacksmith. One of those men whose chest looks twice as wide as his waist. He obviously lives in the gym. At least six-foot-four, maybe taller. He looks like he could bench press a Toyota but has a silky smooth voice. Throw in the angles-and-planes face, thick black hair, dark brown eyes and dimples, and my heart is beginning to flutter. I think back to Ryan's favorite phrase when he sees a beautiful woman. "I'm your boyfriend, but I'm not dead."

      I'm not dead either. Besides, with Roxanne's news that Jake has a bit of a wandering eye, I could just be on a scouting mission for her, seeking out young men built like Thor.

      Yeah, let's go with that.

      I look at his stack of books, a collection of history and political science. "Let me guess…pre-law?"

      He nods. "You're very perceptive. I start applying in a couple of months."

      "Oh, so you're a senior."

      "Yep."

      "What kind of law do you want to practice?"

      "Criminal. I'd love to be a prosecutor, put bad guys away."

      "Very noble. So, not going for the big bucks?"

      "Maybe someday, but right now I just want to make the world a better place."

      "Yeah, I know the feeling."

      He locks his spectacular deep-set eyes with me and it's all I can do to remind myself I'm taken. "I realize that's kind of a naive rose colored glasses way to look at things, but it feels good to help people. So, what do you wanna do?"

      "Same deal. Help people. You might say it's in my blood. But right now I don't have a major." I sip my coffee and then it hits me. He's taking political science. "Hey, you ever have a teacher named Ms. Cruise?"

      "The Cruise Missile? Nah, I had someone else for freshman poly sci. But I know who she is. Anyway, she apparently knows her subject matter. Served a couple of terms in Congress. She was known for sleeping around there, too."

      "What do you mean…too?"

      "She, uh…well, she has quite the reputation around here. Let's just say it's possible for male students to get extra credit, if you get my drift."

      "They call her the Cruise Missile?"

      "Legend has it that she zeroes in on one student every semester like a heat seeking missile. Apparently her affairs with freshmen are legendary around here."

      "So why is she still teaching here?"

      "Because legend has it she also had an affair with the college president, and she's holding that little bit of information over his head. Along with some incriminating photos."

      "Wow. I guess I'm not in high school anymore."

      "Nope. Welcome to the real world."

      Ten minutes worth of great conversation later, he looks at his watch. "Well, off to class." He stands up, slugs down the rest of his coffee and tosses the empty cup in a nearby trash can. "It was nice meeting you, Jillian."

      "You too, Trip. See you around the campus."

      He grabs his books. "So, uh…would it be too forward of me to ask for your phone number?"

      "It wouldn't, if I didn't have a boyfriend."

      He playfully puts out his lower lip in a pout. "Figures. The good ones are always taken. Well, see you later."

      "Yeah," I say, as he turns and heads out of the room, leaving in his wake a sea of longing looks from every girl in the place.

      Including me.

      The aforementioned "hot teacher" Rebecca Cruise holds court in a classroom that looks like an amphitheater and has what is commonly known as stadium seating, with the rows sloped downward toward the teacher. I've been in the room for another class, so it's easy to focus on it as I stretch