"If youll all give me a minute, Ill hand back your last assignments.  Just talk among yourselves."  Kurt walked around the room, matching students to their assignments and placing their graded work face down on their desks.  

A few students used the time to chat with each other, but most were poking at their phones.  Someone in the back was humming.  

What was that tune?  It was so familiar, and yet not.  Kurt continued to walk up and down the aisles, returning assignments, puzzling it out in his mind.  He could almost put some lyrics to the tune, but not quite.    

As he approached Blaines desk, he realized that Blaine was the hummer.  He locked eyes with Kurt as the graduate instructor approached his desk with his assignment (top marks), but he didnt stop humming.  As Kurt placed the assignment on the desk top, he suddenly recognized the song, and his hand froze on top of the page.  

Van Halen.  "Hot for Teacher."  

“Why the long face, Kurt-a-licious?” Rachel had bounced into Kurt's cubicle and was now perched on the edge of his desk, picking up items and putting them back down again. Rachel was a second year doctoral student, and—unlike all of the other sleep-deprived graduate students who walked around like something out of a zombie nightmare—she was always perky. Kurt assumed she lived on a steady diet of espresso, Pixie Stix, and cocaine. There was no other explanation.

Kurt sighed. “I have this student, and I think he's messing with me.”

“Messing with you how?”

“Well, he's this prep school kid, really rich frat boy type, sexy as hell…”

“Ooooh,” squealed Rachel.

“He's my student, Rach. At any rate, he keeps flirting with me. Not overtly; just…enough. It's like he's playing some game to see how often he can throw me off balance.”

“Why are you letting him get to you? He's a kid.”

“He's only, like, two years younger than me—maybe three. But I can't figure him out. Everything he says is just innocent enough to pass, but I feel like he knows exactly what he's doing…what he's doing to me.” Kurt explained some of the things that Blaine had said in class.

“Is it possible that hes really flirting with you? Maybe he likes you. Why not? You're a hotty.”

Kurt blushed at this. “Have you seen the guys who hit on me, Rachel? They are not gorgeous, well groomed boys. They are sweaty, middle aged, overweight truck drivers who apparently think I can't do any better. God, if I didn't like to dance so much, I would give up on the club scene entirely. I'm not sure my ego can take any more of the kind of bridge trolls I attract.”

“Speaking of which,” Rachel interrupted Kurt's bitching, “a bunch of us are going to Club Velveeta Friday night to drink and dance and pick up men. You should come. It's nineties night; they have dollar drafts.” She dragged out the word drafts so that it had two syllables.

Kurt grimaced. He hated beer, but on his meager graduate student stipend his choice was drinking cheap beer or remaining sober, and sober was no way to get through graduate school. He nodded, “OK. Count me in.”

“Kurt, is it possible this guy is flirting with you to get a better grade?”

“I don't think so,” Kurt rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk. He held one up. Scrawled across the top in his handwriting was the message, Excellent job: A+. “He's doing just fine in the class without having to resort to extra credit, as it were.”

“Well, then,” Rachel smiled, “I guess Hottie McFratboy just likes you.”

“What up, bitches?” Noah Puckerman called out as he swaggered toward their table. A barmaid was following behind with a tray on which balanced an obscene number of tequila shots. “I just heard I got that NSF fellowship—big raise; drinks are on me!”

The barmaid set three tequila shots in front of everyone, along with small dishes of lime wedges and a couple of salt shakers. Everyone around the table congratulated Noah on his prestigious fellowship, while Kurt marveled at the fact that Noah was some kind of sociology idiot savant. His presentation of self was such that anyone would believe he was as smart as a crayon with the manners of a horny orangutan, but the reality was that he was a whiz with complicated social theory and even better with advanced statistics. Everyone kind of hated him and secretly wanted to be him. In his lower moments, Kurt even contemplated sleeping with Noah, just to see if some of the smart would rub off, but—just his luck—some diseases would probably rub off, too.

The salt shakers were passed around, and Kurt licked the web between his thumb and forefinger, sprinkling the damp skin with salt before handing the shaker to Santana—another graduate student—one of five sitting around the table. When the salt had gone around to Kurt, Santana, Rachel, Tina, and Noah, Noah nodded, and everyone tongued the salt, clinked their tequila glasses together, and tipped the liquor down. Kurt felt the burn trace all the way to his stomach. With tear-filled eyes he reached blindly for a lime wedge and sucked its sour-bitter juices to put out the Mexican fire. Everyone followed suit, then they downed the second tequila shot, then the third.

As the tequila worked its magic on Kurt's palate (and other things), his cheap beer actually started to taste good, and he was on his second one when he heard Santana let out a low whistle and mutter, “Come to mommy,” under her breath.

He turned in time to see a familiar blonde with a big hair bow stroll into the bar.

“Santana,” Kurt scolded, “She's one of my students.”

“Just so, Hummel. She's one of your students.” With that, Santana slid from her barstool and began moving through the crowd toward the cheerleader.

“I can't watch,” groaned Kurt, burying his face behind his hands.

The song thumping from the speakers changed from “Rhythm is a Dancer” to “Be My Lover,” and Rachel grabbed Kurt's hand and shouted, “Let's dance!” Tina grabbed the other hand, and they were soon all three on the dance floor. Kurt let the lights and music and the inebriation wash over him, and soon he was moving his hips sensually with his hands in the air, eyes closed and head thrown back.

Strong arms gripped his hips, and he felt a decidedly male chest press against his back. His first impulse was to turn around, but it felt so good that Kurt decided not to ruin the fantasy by confirming that the guy groping him on the dance floor was old, ugly, and sweaty. They always were. Instead, Kurt went with it, pushing his hips back to grind. His partner pulled him tighter, and Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he felt the man press hard and hot against his ass. “You are so fucking beautiful when you dance,” a low voice growled in his ear.

As the song switched to “Groove is in the Heart,” Kurt stayed on the dance floor, letting himself fall completely into the music and the strong arms of his mystery lover. He was practically sitting in his lap, thighs touching from knee to hip, and Kurt rolled his head back to the man's shoulder and buried his face in his neck. His partner was sweaty, but his neck also smelled of cloves and cedar and something indefinable that had Kurt's pulse racing. The skin was so enticing that Kurt gave in to the drunken impulse to nip it a little, and the hands on his hips tightened, then one hand moved up to palm Kurt's chest. One of Kurt's hands reached up to stroke the arm, and it was hard and muscled. Kurt reached up his other hand to tangle his fingers in a mass of thick, curly, and slightly damp hair.

Then they were moving. Kurt wasn't sure where, but through his alcoholic fog he finally realized it was toward the men's room. Yes! They were still dancing, but the bathroom was getting inexorably closer. Kurt closed his eyes and just let himself be pushed. He was so happy. So happy, and so drunk, and so turned on. He hadn't felt this good in…well, maybe never.

Suddenly he was through the door of the bathroom and into a stall. There were other people in the men's room—there were bound to be—but Kurt neither saw them nor cared. He was all want—all heat and want and…oh. His hands found the top of the stall wall as his partner crowded in behind him, latching the door. Kurt pressed the side of his face against the cool metal of the wall, eyes still closed, and felt soft lips on his neck as strong hands moved down his ribs and around to his belt buckle. Sober Kurt would never in a million years consider being such a cliché that he was fucking a strange man in a nightclub men's room, but drunk Kurt was in charge tonight, and he was getting some.

However, the tiny part of Kurt that was still Kurt and not just alcohol couldn't stand the anonymity any longer. He needed to taste and to see. He turned in his partner's arms and slanted his mouth across the man's. His partner's lips were warm, salty, and boozy, and Kurt ate them hungrily, dipping his tongue to tangle with the other's. But then the small, traitorous part of his brain that wasn't as drunk as the rest of him pieced together the small glimpse that he had of the man's face as he turned around.

Kurt pushed back, “Blaine?” His voice was a ragged whisper.

“Professor P., you taste amazing,” Blaine smiled goofily, and his voice was thick and slurred.

“Oh, no. No. Nononononono.”

“Come on.” Blaine reached for him again, but Kurt was already fumbling with the door latch. He stumbled out into the sink area, pushed through the crowd, and ran out into the night.