For an old guy, Professor Chauncy Gregor could be quite agile. Remarkably so, thought Alisha, as she struggled to keep at least one of the old, oddly-stained Edwardian club chairs between herself and her dissertation adviser.

She’d heard the stories, of course. Every incoming female student, undergrad or grad, knew within days of their arrival on campus about Professor Grabber. It was hard to know what to believe, of course, but in Alisha’s experience the stories she’d heard on those first few heady days in the middle of nowhere sheep country in the north of England hadn’t really done justice.

Five foot six, Gregor epitomized Napoleonic. He’d been involved in an ongoing war of nerves, time, and stubbornness with the University for upwards of 20 years. His flagrant disregard for the norms of modern society against his early, but still considered revolutionary scholarship, and his tenure. A veteran of twenty-six and a half “sensitivity seminars” (the half having been lifted into the annals of school lore, and still regarded by some of the most profound example extant of utter and complete disregard for authority, sensibility, and decorum), Gregor’s reputation was well-earned.

Gregor liked his tea almost as much – and perhaps even more than – he liked the idea of nubile acolytes. And so, at ten-thirty sharp, regardless of whatever else was going on, the world – at least his world – stopped for a bit of PG’s best and a biscuit or two. Keeping one eye on her watch and the other on Jack-be-Nimble, Alisha counted down waiting to her the first preliminary notes of the clock at Cork College striking the hour.

<Bong>…<Bong>…

“Right then”, said Gregor, “back in 30. Yes?”

Alisha nodded and slipped out, keeping her back to the door until she cleared it, and then taking off down the hall.

“I swear,” she said, “he doesn’t tire out, and the whole time his prattling on as if he’s in the middle of a perfectly normal tutorial.”

“Love,” answered Katlin, “that man could carry-on like that while being buggered by a sheep.”

Alisha nodded, filing away the Yorkshire-ism for use when she returned home to Atlanta.

“But I’ve got something for you,” said Katlin, “something my grandmother told me about, something she used for two years with my grandfather…before she cracked.

“Not that I expect that’ll be your path!” she added as Alisha blanched a little at the thought.

20 minutes later, standing outside Gregor’s door, Alisha smiled at the feel of the warm package she held at her side.

“Come on my dear,” called Gregor intuiting that her usual promptness would put her exactly where – in fact – she was.

“Professor, I’ve brought a little something to eat if that’s okay,” said Alisha as she closed the door behind her, “I’m awfully hungry this morning.”

“I bet you are…no, no, of course, help yourself. Must keep the energy up. What.”

Alisha sat down at the small table that made up the working side of the room, the desk side being more of an obstacle course of desk and attendant chairs.

Unwrapping the sandwich her eyes watered, and through the tears she could see Gregor beginning his run.

Two quick bites, chew, swallow, a lascivious lick of her lips, and Gregor was upon her. Leaning over her shoulder to point out where they’d left off in Chaucer’s poem, Alisha turned, and breathlessly asked, “Professor, please wait, while I find my place.”

His eyes rolled back in his head, his nose crinkled, and Alisha watched the two base human drives – lust and revulsion – play themselves out across his face. Gregor gasped, staggered back, his hands groping madly for support, before settling heavily against a bookcase, hanging on for dear life.

“Professor, are you okay?” asked Alisha, furrowing her brow in concern.

“Yes, yes…please go on. When you’re ready.”

Somewhat later that week, writing finally to her brother and mother, she titled her letter, “On the power of the stilton and onion sandwich: a tale of two bites.”

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