My freshman year went pretty well, I’d lost my virginity, been intro- duced to group sex, and gone to Ft. Lauderdale for an X-rated spring break. I was doing well in my class work, too, having made the dean’s list my first semester and expected to the second. But, I overslept on the morning of my sociology exam and arrived over an hour late for the three hour final. My heart sank because my professor had a reputation of being Mister By-the-Rules. And, the rules were, you turn in your assignments on schedule and you take your exams on schedule or you get an F. No makeups. No excuses. When time expired, I’d only completed about two thirds of the exam.
I went to see my professor to plead my case. He held to his position – getting to the exam on time was my responsibility. I hadn’t so I had to pay the price. I begged and pleaded but didn’t budge him. Realizing I’d probably failed a course I expected an A in, I broke down and began to cry. My professor told me to get a grip on myself but I simple sobbed uncontrol- ably. He put his hand on my shoulder and asked how it would look if he let me retake the exam? I sobbed that I wouldn’t tell anyone if he just gave me an hour to finish it. He insisted I would. I sobbed and he whispered that he knew a way he could give me the extra time and guarantee I wouldn’t tell anyone. He told me if I wanted the extra hour to show up at room 12 of a motel about 4 miles from the campus. I suspected my professor thought I’d remain silent if I had to “put out” for him.
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