Emulating Don Draper

By R. Poisson '22

Art by S. Wu '21

I take a long drag of my Lucky Strike cigarette before exhaling an impressive cloud of smoke into the classroom. My classmates look horrified.


“You can’t smoke during class, what are you thinking?” screams my Biology professor, a gorgeous late-40s brunette who could pass for early thirties, or late-twenties who's had a lot of fun. She’s absolutely stunning, and I wish she wasn't wearing clothes that hid those perfect little ankles of hers.


I lean back in my chair with the cigarette in my mouth. I look out the window and watch as the rain throws itself against the window. It reminds me of those cold months I spent fighting the war in Korea. But that’s all I’ll say about that.


My classmate Johnny leans over to me. “Dude, have you been watching Mad Men again?”

I remain absolutely quiet to maintain my alpha male dominance, keeping my gaze focused out the window.


“Get out of my class!” screams the professor, sexually.


I still say nothing as I stand up and button my grey suit jacket. I take another long drag of my Lucky before putting it out in the ashtray I brought with me to class. Then I walk over to the minibar I had installed last night, take out two glasses, and pour a double of whiskey. Hell, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.


“I’m calling campus security.” The professor picks up the phone with her dainty hands, caresses the digits as she dials, and pushes her hair aside to place it to her ear. God, she’s a fox.


“No, ” I say, then pause to drink some of the whiskey, “don’t.”


She finishes her call anyway but is clearly aroused by my authoritative tone. I walk to the front of the class and hand her the other glass of whiskey. She takes it; her hands are trembling with anticipation. I sit down on the desk in the front row. A girl in glasses gets upset because I’m “sitting on her notebook,” but I just stare into the eyes of the professor for an entire minute before asking her, “What kind of woman are you?”


“Excuse me, what?” she says, looking at me with enough sexual frustration to burn two eye-shaped holes in my Jos. A. Bank blazer.


“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” I say in the deepest, most seductive tone I can muster. Then I grab her from the waist and kiss her. We embrace in front of the entire class. Everyone gasps but I couldn’t give a damn.


“Holy fuck, someone stop him!” shouts a whiny Pete Campbell type in the back row. I ignore him and light up two more Lucky Strikes — one for me, one for the lady.


“Let’s get out of here,” I say, while lighting my cigarette. She’s speechless, obviously overwhelmed with sexual energy. I exhale another cloud of smoke.


“Thank god, campus security is here!”


“There he is, in the front with the cigarette.”


“Yeah, beat him up! Kick his ass, campus security!”


“Why is he still smoking a cigarette?”


“Hey what about the final exam we were supposed to have today?”


Hey, what about shutting the fuck up?”

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