Clad in dark jeans and a white button-down, Professor Bramwell stood at the front of the lecture hall, describing chemotactic behavior in Leishmania–a topic I suddenly didn’t care about–not sparing me a single glance. I would’ve been frustrated by that, if he hadn’t rubbed the back of his neck a few times, rubbed his jaw, and even loosened a button on his shirt at some point, which didn’t go unnoticed by the girl sitting in front of me. She snapped a picture of him with the caption, Yes Daddy Death, and had zoomed in on the front of his pants, to the obvious outline of a bulging hard-on.
