“No, but nice try.” Andrea responded condescendingly. “You.”

She pointed to a different student.

“A Russian writer from the late 1800’s to the early 1900’s.”

Andrea smiled.

”Very good. Now, who can tell me what he means by this quote?”

Jenny raised her hand, and Andrea called on her.

“He means if you tell the reader what’s going on, then they know, but they don’t really know. It’s like, if you know there was a war, but you don’t know what happened during it. Who won, who lost, how many people died, how long it lasted. Then, you don’t really know anything about the war at all.”

Andrea looked at her skeptically, mulling over the words in her brain. A small smile spread across her face.

“I like it.” She walked over to the chalkboard and wrote on it ‘Writing is like war’. “Who can explain this?” She looked around, seeing no hands. “Not even Mr. Spock over here? Interesting.” There was a pause. “What did you mean by that, um…”

“Jenny.” The brunette replied, grinning.

“Jenny.”

“Well, I didn’t actually mean anything by it…”

Andrea cut her off.

“That’s not true. We don’t just make similes. There was something you thought of that made you compare writing to war.” Andrea walked over to her desk in the 3^rd row. “So I know you think there’s something in common. Even if it’s subconscious. Tell me what it is.” There was a pause as Jenny shifted in her seat, her mind racing a mile a minute.

“Well… I guess it’s like… War tears at you. It can wound, maim, hurt, kill. It can change someone’s life forever. And writing… To truly be a good writer you have to tear the emotions out of yourself. You have to rip out your stomach and observe the way the butterflies flutter around inside it. You have to rip out your heart and study the way it skips a beat when your love is near. And, unfortunately, you have to rip it out to study it when it’s broken, eviscerated, gone.”

There was a long silence, and Andrea smiled.

“That was exactly what I was looking for, Jenny. Thank you. Now, getting started, appositives.”

Jenny let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding as she tried to calm herself down. She refused to have another crush on her writing teacher.

Alice groaned, trying to focus on the notepad in front of her. She had to come up with a concept for tonight’s show, but was having a hard time focusing. The lack of sex was really catching up with her. What good is a girlfriend if you can’t have sex with her? There was a knock on the door, and Alice got up, opening it, just glad to have a distraction.

”He…” She was cut off by Dana’s mouth on hers. “Whoa! What’s with the Casablanca outfit?” Alice, asked, pulling back and looking at Dana’s clothes, which consisted of a hat that was pulled down low over her face and a trench coat.

Dana simply stepped into the house, shutting the door behind her and pressing her girlfriend against the wall with her hips, and answering her question at the same time. Alice moaned, grabbing the rubber member pressing against the coat.

“Oh, fuck, Dana.” She whispered, positioning it and feeling her girlfriend push it into her.

Dana pulled Alice’s legs up around her waist and started to thrust, slowly at first, but faster with every passing second. “Oh, yeah, Dana. Oh, baby, right there.” With her hands incapacitated from holding Alice up, Dana used her mouth to attack her lover’s neck. Alice let out another loud moan, whispering “Oh, god, Dana, I’m coming…” She let out a scream as she was pushed over the edge. They paused, their chests heaving, but otherwise unmoving as they caught their breath.

“That still doesn’t justify that outfit.” Alice whispered.

“I know.” Dana replied, kissing her neck gently.