The English Headmaster II

      The other day I went to the Studio after class, which I’m trying not to do because it necessitates lying and messes with my mind.  

      I went in order to keep an appointment with the English Headmaster, who wanted to see me one more time before he returned to his homeland.  I felt a little conflicted on whether or not I should see him again, because I knew what it would do to my already black-and-blue hide.  

      The pain was no hindrance and the condition of my skin was no hindrance.  What concerned me was that the Mathematician would see the marks and wonder if there was something wrong with me. You know…in the head. 

     But I ain’t gonna lie: in the end, the money was just too good to pass up.  $500 for an hour of my labor (I did tip the manager for hooking me up…but even still…$460)?  Are you kidding me?  And the Headmaster is a total gent, a very friendly person, not a psycho or a pain in the ass (no pun intended, hardy har har) to be around.  I didn’t feel emotionally drained at the end of the session at all.  

      This time, the Headmaster brought a new prop: A PIPE!  A pipe, to match his tweed jacket!  HILARIOUS! 

      It wasn’t an American pipe, like my father used to smoke.  It was a Sherlock Holmes pipe!  It looked like this:

     Yes, I got the cane.  I got it worse than last time, because it didn’t break right away.  I took it over my bluejeans (while babbling: “I’m sorry!  I’ll never cheat on my exams again!”), but I have welts.  

owie owie owie owie WATCH THE WRAPAROUND, JESUS!

      The Headmaster said that I was one of the best masochists he’d ever met, and he gave me a box of Godiva chocolates.  

      What a sweetheart, and a class act.  Three cheers for you, affable English Headmaster!  If I could drink, I’d share a Guinness with you.  Or sherry.  Port? Whatever it is that English Headmasters at all-girl boarding schools drink.  

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