Never sleep with a student. Shit, I could have told you that. I went to Harvard. I don’t need to go to a damn seminar to know it’s a bad idea to mix with the ones you are teaching.

Nevertheless, on the morning before summer school begins, I pile in with all of the other Blackwell University professors into the auditorium for the mandatory seminar on sexual harassment.

The voices of the crowd are a low rumble as we wait for the Dean to step up to the microphone and address us. As a newcomer to Blackwell University, I ease back in my seat and take in the sight of my brand new colleagues, assessing the situation.

Dean Meryl Allison sits center stage in front of the podium, waiting a few more minutes for the last of the faculty to arrive. I estimate her to be in her early fifties, and she looks good, if I might add.

She smiles out at the crowd, her posture exaggeratedly straight. Her skirt is hiked up to her mid thighs, and her legs are tanned and attractive. I also note that for a seminar on sexual harassment, the cleavage of her breasts is shockingly visible, an irony probably only I find funny.

Hell, she’s a solid two decades older than me, but I’m man enough to admit she is what my buddies and I would refer to collectively as a MILF.

Her husband, also a tenured professor at the school, sits next to her. He is a short, bald man with glasses, wearing khaki shorts, a hawaiian shirt, and gym shoes with white socks.

The contrast between their two appearances is striking. I immediately wonder what this guy has to be married to a woman like this. Is his family rich? Did he used to have a killer head of hair back in the day? Is he secretly packing? I wonder what their sex life is like.

I chuckle softly. I’m only five hours into my two year contract at Blackwell, and I’m already cracking dirty jokes to myself.

Dean Allison gets up off her stool, moves up to the microphone and speaks. “Thank you all for coming. We are here today, as you all know, to talk about how to prevent sexual harassment on campus. Attraction is not okay,” she says, emphasizing the not. “For those of us who have been here for a while, it’s obviously nothing new that it's prohibited to be attracted to students, and it’s also highly discouraged to be attracted to other faculty members.”

“Unless it’s true love!” Some joker shouts out from the front row. The Dean’s expression doesn’t change, but her husband’s face turns red. I shift in my seat.

She tips her chin up and continues, ignoring him. “We are a civil society, and that of course means no relationships between our own kind. Because when there are relationships between us…”

“There is no screen between us,” the crowd chants in unison, and my eyes go wide.

Am I crazy; or do these people sound like a damn cult, repeating what their leader says? Are we in first grade, where all we do is repeat after the teacher?

Dean Allison nods slowly and deliberately, apparently satisfied that the group is repeating her words. I scratch my head as I sit in my chair in the back row. The guy next to me nods a little too vigorously, as if he’s just heard the best gospel sermon of his life. I scrunch my face in confusion. I mean, I get it. Even though I’m on the younger end of the faculty, fucking around with a student isn’t something I’d ever consider. It’s not worth running the risk. There are plenty of fish in the sea, so why not find one of the millions of women in the world who aren’t students at the school where you teach?

Still, I’m teaching a class on sexual psychology this semester, and I know attraction isn’t something you can legislate. Attraction is not a choice, though acting on it is. I can’t control what gets me hard and what doesn’t. But I can choose what to do with that information.

I zone back into the Dean’s talk. She’s been droning on about this shit for several minutes. “So there is absolutely no showing interest in members of the opposite sex unless you know they are interested in you. This goes for professors with professors, students with students, and it should be a rule of thumb for the whole world, really.” The crowd laughs again, but I don’t. I don’t find this funny at all. Am I taking crazy pills, or has this whole room of professors gone completely overboard with their group think? She continues. “If someone shows interest in another person--an inappropriate touch, or a smile for example--and that interest is not wanted, well, that is the definition of sexual harassment. And we don’t want to get fired now, do we?”

“No,” the crowd murmurs back, and I feel even more like I’m in the middle of a George fucking Orwell dystopian novel. The guy next to me has his eyes closed and shakes his head ‘no’ like a scared, wet dog.

Fuck this. Even if I’m not hooking up with a student, I’m not about to let the Dean get off scot free without any intellectual challenge. This is a University. A bastion of intellectual debate. And I intend to exercise my right to free speech.

I raise my hand and clear my throat noisily.

A literal gasp goes up from the crowd as I do. Apparently members of the faculty aren’t used to people questioning Dean Allison’s authority. Her eyes grow wide.

“Uh, this isn’t really time for questions,” she scoffs.

“I’ll be brief,” I say firmly as I stand up. I project my voice and speak clearly, a skill that I’m pretty sure most of these armchair academics have forgotten. The room is so tense I can feel the nervousness emanating from my colleagues. “I get the whole point of this thing. Don’t have affairs with students. Of course. But professors and professors? Look, if we can’t show interest in the other party, how does anyone have romantic success around here? The nature of romance is the occasional failure. You ask a girl out to see if she’s interested. She says no sometimes.” I shrug and smirk. I haven’t had a girl turn me down for a date in ages, but that’s not the point. Logic is the point. “That’s how the game is played. You’re saying that’s sexual harassment? Or did I miss something?”

She coughs. I sit back down, satisfied I got my thoughts off my chest. “Attraction, Mr. ah, what’s your name?”

“Cole Hanks.”

“Ah, Professor Hanks from Harvard.”

“That’s me.” I reply with a toothy grin.

“Well Professor Hanks. It sounds like you need a more in detail explanation of what it is I’m talking about when I refer to sexual harassment.” Her lips curve upward in a smile that radiates evil. “Why don’t you come up to the stage and see me after the seminar?”

That one gets an even better chuckle from the crowd. Satisfied that she’s defeated me, she changes topics.

After the seminar, I’m out in the hallway schmoozing with my department head and new boss when she walks by. She sees me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t stay after inside the auditorium like I asked. You really are the bad boy of Blackwell University, aren’t you?”

I freeze. Did she just call me a bad boy? My ears are deceiving me. I have gone fucking nuts. I need to ask the barista what the hell he put in my coffee this morning.

“Why don’t you come to my place later for the annual school kickoff party at my husband’s and my house this Saturday?” she adds.

I drop my jaw. “Sorry, I have plans this weekend,” I lie.

“Dear, the whole school goes.” She says in a louder voice, her hand still on my shoulder. Her husband is two feet away. The fact that she is essentially hitting on me right after the sexual harassment seminar is not lost on me.

“Though I wouldn’t mind having a drink with just you.” She gives me a once over, making me feel like a piece of damn meat on a platter.

Dean Allison smiles, turns, then struts away.

It’s barely ten in the morning, and this is already the strangest day of my life.