By and large, college was a pretty dull experience, but things got considerably more exciting when my art history professor wakened something in me.

It all happened on the first day of my Greek Art course. Mr. Anderson stood in front of the class in his paint-splattered pants, torn t-shirt, and flip-flops. His age was indiscernible, but he lurked somewhere between thirty and fifty years old. He leaned back against the wall with an I don't give a damn, but it's all cool attitude, and I fell instantly in love with him.

After a brief introduction, he turned off the lights and flashed a pornographic slide onto the giant screen at the front of the room. There was a loud gasp from the class. "Oh, yeah," he mentioned as if he had just remembered. "I specialize in erotic art. So, I'll be showing you a lot of that."

He flashed another slide of a couple immortalized in marble, doing something I couldn't really make out, but my vagina understood all too well. It woke up.

From then on, I would rush to my art history class. Mr. Anderson would narrate the sensual images in his casual, sultry voice, his well-defined chest pushing against the material of his t-shirt. Occasionally, I would catch myself drooling.

I would have done anything for Mr. Anderson. I let my other classes slide, and I seriously considered changing my major from education to art history. When he assigned the first term paper, I gave it my all. I wrote a masterpiece about Dionysian-inspired art. I gave long, detailed descriptions of the cult of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and general debauchery. It was my love letter to Mr. Anderson, and I was elated when he returned it with a big A+ on the front with a note: "Great paper! Let's talk about it sometime over wine."

I spent days trying to decipher the note. Was this a cute comment, or was he asking me out on a date? I was thinking about this very thing when Mr. Anderson stopped me on campus as I walked to my Spanish class.

"I wanted to tell you how much I loved your paper," he said. I nodded. I noticed with a slight panic that my eyesight had gotten blurry. I sputtered and coughed. It wasn't exactly "hello," but I was proud that I could get that much out. "How about we get together tonight to discuss it? My studio at eight?"

I nodded again, and much to my horror, squeaked.

I prepared for our meeting all afternoon. I washed, exfoliated, shaved, perfumed, and put on way too much mascara and not enough skirt.

His studio was his official office on campus and everything I had imagined. Huge and messy with paintings everywhere and oriental rugs thrown here and there. My eyes were drawn to a large couch in one corner.

"Ah, Abigail. I'm so glad you made it." Mr. Anderson appeared from nowhere. He wore his normal uniform of painter's pants and a stained t-shirt. He clutched my arms and kissed me on my two cheeks. European style.

I felt something melt in my pelvic region. I swayed toward him. I was practically floating. I couldn't believe that he picked me. He could be with any woman he wanted.

"You can call me Abby," I heard myself say.

"Delightful," he said, his face drawn into a wide grin. Magically, I appeared on his couch, his body wedged up against mine. He offered me a glass of wine, and I slugged it down and shakily stuck out my glass for a refill. I was torn between bolting for the door and wrapping my legs around his waist.

After all, he was the sexiest man I had ever met, and he obviously wanted me. And honestly, I was almost a virgin, if I didn't count Jimmy Schaeffer at prom, those two times with Jonas Sinclair from my freshman English class, and the curly-headed guy at the bar at a frat party in the spring. I was basically innocent, and I didn't know how to handle myself.

"You really are a very pretty girl."

Mr. Anderson looked deep into my eyes and caressed my cheek in appreciation. I dropped my glass and smashed my face against him, planting a giant, wet kiss on his lips. After a moment, he pulled back and held my face in his hands.

"Easy," he purred. "We've got all the time in the world."

I didn't care about all the time in the world. I cared about the here and now. He had woken my vagina, and it was being very demanding.

Mr. Anderson put his hand under my blouse and caressed my breast. "Really, really lovely," he commented. I wanted to show him all my other lovely parts, but he was taking his own sweet time. "I liked your paper."

"Thank you," I croaked. His hand moved to my other breast.

"Of course, it really wasn't an A paper. It was a B-, at best."

My body pulled back, and Mr. Anderson's hand popped out of my shirt. I had worked weeks on that paper. "B-?"

"Sometimes I give a better grade when I think the student can provide - how should I put it? - extra credit."

Suddenly, his sexy smile didn't seem so sexy anymore. Suddenly, he looked like a predator, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Don't worry," he said, grabbing me back to him. "I'm sure you're an A student."

"I am?"

He traced my lips with his finger and stared intently into my eyes. I began to melt again. "Oh, yes. Just remember what A stands for."

I was stumped. "A stands for Abby?"

Mr. Anderson laughed. "No, no my sweet. A stands for anal."

I swallowed. He must have been reading a different dictionary. In my dictionary, A absolutely did not stand for anal.

"You mean-" I started, my shock turning to rage. "To get an A in your class, I have to..."

"You're going to love it," he suggested.

He moved to kiss me again, but he was stopped by my fist. His head snapped back on impact, and blood shot out of his nostrils. It was his turn for rage, and he grabbed for me.

I ran out of his studio before he could catch me. On the way out of the door, I heard him shout something about "ungrateful bitches."

The next day, I informed the dean about Mr. Anderson's grading scale. After the news spread, some of his other former students came out of the woodwork. The school paper asked me to write an expose, and just like that, I changed my major to journalism.

Instead of becoming an elementary school teacher, I decided to become a reporter. I guess it was a turning point in my life, and it said a few things about me: I can be manipulated into lots of things; I like men...a lot; and I will always go after the story no matter what my vagina has to say about it.

Although, if A had stood for anything else, who knows where I would have wound up?