On my first day, I stand at the front of the classroom. The room is full of these strong, rough men from my community. They're here to learn English better for their jobs. My English isn't the best, but better than my students.

I wear my work shirt, which is a bit tight around my chest, and a short skirt. As I start the lesson, writing words on the board, I feel their eyes on me. All of them staring. Not in a mean way, but like they're hungry for something. Their gazes slide over my body, from my full lips to down below. My skin is brown and soft, and I know I look good, ripe and tight, just like a fruit ready to be picked.

At first, I try to ignore it. I'm a good devout wife, a professional teacher. But oh, it feels so nice. Their appreciation makes me feel powerful and wanted. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and my skirt rides up a little, showing more. I don't pull it down right away.

Instead, I lean forward to point at the board, straining the buttons. The men murmur softly, and one even whistles low. That sound sends a thrill straight through me.

I like it when they look. No, I love it...