The essays below are diary entries that a then-56-year-old student made in a writing class at Oakland University that are part of a lawsuit filed Friday in U.S. District Court in Detroit.
Joseph Corlett, whose suit says university officials violated his First Amendment rights, seeks $2 million. His handwritten essays in an old-fashioned composition book discuss his attraction for his teachers, including writing instructor Pamela Mitzelfeld of Rochester, now 51.
The school suspended him for three semesters last year, saying he violated a policy against intimidating people on campus.
The entries are titled “Hot For Teacher,” after a song by the rock band Van Halen.
Corlett, formerly of Oakland County, now lives in Sarasota, Fla. His attorneys are Alari Adams of Detroit and Kyle Bristow of Toledo.
-- Bill McGraw
Click here for a story about the lawsuit in the Detroit Free Press.
Corlett began the entries with a note to his instructor that includes this paragraph:
I'm going to write honestly here with no apology. I hope you like me and aren't offended but I'm paying you to kick my ass into becoming a better writer. As long as we view our student/teacher relationship as patient/doctor I think we'll be fine. Perhaps confessor/priest?
The entries begin here:
I’ve got it bad, bad, bad, and I’m hot for teacher…”
--Van Halen
She is short, height/weight proportionate like my wife of thirty (30) years and introduces herself to her Spanish class as Italian/Argentinian. Omygod. Latin and Italian? Are you kidding me?
Holyshit I should drop right now. There is no way I’ll concentrate in class, especially with that sexy little mole on her upper lip beckoning with every accented word. And that smile . . .
No, I’ve never dropped a class yet, even Computer Assisted Design where I earned my first “E” since resuming my college education in 2008. I’ll tough it out.
It’s tough to be a guy. I remember when riding my bike was suddenly pointless as all I thought about were girls. No money, no car, no social skills and a face full of blemishes and all I want is a girl. My face cleared, I got a job, a car and a girl eventually, but it was rough in between. Ladies, for pure sexual stamina, you’ll do no better than a 15-year-old male, but check your local age-of consent laws before engagement. It sucks to admit that. From age twelve to thirty the make brain is clogged by sex. It’s a wonder we can think at all. About a decade ago twenty years ago, I’ll be 56 in November of 2011, the fog began to lift. It was refreshing to have some space in my brain to think about thoughts other than sex. Like dropping from a hundred times a day to just 20. What a relief, but you don’t get wood at the titty bars anymore. Small tradeoff. (I can’t believe I just wrote that but I did and it’s staying. I don’t give a fuck. It is what it is. I WILL NOT TEAR THIS PAGE.)
My first battle with the hot-for-teacher thing, aside from second grade, was fought in Composition 1 at Oakland Community College. She was blond and attractive in the Meg Ryan kind of way which I usually don’t go for. (Fucking preposition at the end of that sentence. Fuck it.) FOR WHICH I DO NOT GO? YEAH, RIGHT.
I should have taken her for Comp 2 but I couldn’t resist smart and pretty. I aced em both but that only encouraged me. Her shirt came unzipped in Comp 2 one day and her polka-dotted panties were exposed. I was a perfect gentleman and discreetly told her to pull her sweater over. She smiled a thanked me. It is our delicious little secret.
(Intro transition here).
Then there’s Ms. Mitzelfeld., English 380. She walks in and I say to myself “Drop , motherfucker, drop.” Kee-rist, I’ll never learn a thing. Tall, blond, stacked, skirt, heels, fingernails, smart, articulate, smile. I’m toast but I stay. I’ll fuck up my whole Tuesday-Thursday class thing if I drop. I’ll search for something unattractive (Illegible) No luck yet. Shit.
…
I’m in the student lounge an hour before class and slightly caffeinated. I’ve had a few worries lately, the first that Lynn Anne, my wife, would read this. But now I don’t care. I suppose my fear is a good sign that I’m writing honestly.
The second worry was re-reading what I’ve previously written while drinking. It’s not as bad as I’ve thought and I’m determined to keep the no-page-tear-out rule. I swear too much when I drink.
(SPACE FOR YOU TO WRITE STUFF)
HOT FOR TEACHER, CONTINUED
I’m not a maniac for every female although I try to find something attractive about everyone. My Women’s History instructor has the pleasant, no-makeup don’t-give- off-any-flirty-vibe, very similar to (REDACTED) (REDACTED). However, my history professor sets off my gaydar and (REDACTED) does not. I could not have sex with either of these women even if you offered me a million dollars cash. I couldn’t get the necessary cooperation, if you get my drift.
…
Spanish was the first class I’d ever dropped since resuming my college career. With hindsight, it was probably my lack of consistent practice, not the lip-riding mole that did me in.
Note from Mrs. Mitzelfeld: (Apparently part of Corlett's essay; not a note from the teacher.)
Dear Joseph:
While your writing is fair, it is completely inappropriate. I have broken your rule and torn out the offending pages. If this continues, I am obligated to report you to the dean, otherwise I shall consider matter closed.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Mitzelfeld.
9/23/11
Hot for teacher, cont.
Ginger or Maryanne? That’s the eternal male question based on the 60’s situation comedy Gilligan’s Island, where the glamorous actress and the buxom farm girl are marooned. When asked, my friend George chooses Marianne without hesitation, while Tom pauses several seconds before selecting Ginger. I’ve always been a Ginger man myself but I think my Maryanne, Dr. Spearman, my Fiction teacher, may be my Maryanne while Mrs. Mitzelfeld is my Ginger.
Dr. Spearman has dark hair and eyes and occasionally rests her hand across her pregnant belly. However, it is her relentless teaching style I find irresistible. I’ve heard sled dogs will run themselves to an exhaustive death without counteracting from their musher. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Dr. Spearman would teach until she dropped, were it not for the required break and stop times.
She is hot, and not just from baking the bun in her oven. (Too cliché?) When we’re alone after class, I politely told her I love her style. She admits to loving her job and appreciates me noticing.
