When you spend the duration of puberty at an all boy’s
school, an attractive teacher feels like a lifebuoy descending from a helicopter
to pluck you from a tumultuous sea of dicks. It would also turn every single
pupil within a twenty foot radius into a blundering idiot. A school comprised
entirely of sexually frustrated teenage males was hardly the ideal environment
to hone romantic ability and, these alluring teachers being our only chance to
practice, attempts to work our magic tended to go altogether poorly.
Sting knows what I'm talking about.
The teacher that engorged our imaginations the most was
unwisely assigned to orchestrate Biology just as the textbook arrived at sexual
education. She was young and in possession of generous mammalian protuberances
that resulted in the frequent hiding of swollen laps. The entire class would engage
in daring flirtatious games such as pushing our pens off the table when she was
nearby and jockeying for view, or calling her over to assist us in our work and
sliding our hands across the desk as she leaned over it, in the hope of making
tantalising contact. It was a true game of chicken, complete with breasts.
The Biology lessons were sometimes mind-bogglingly graphic,
including a video of a grotesquely hairy TV scientist depositing his man batter
in extreme close up. It was almost enough to put us off the idea entirely.
Almost.
‘Miss,’ said a boy who sat behind us, enthusiastically
waving his hand in the air. ‘What does semen taste like?’
He was removed from the class. It seemed to be a tipping
point. A few weeks later, due to what I can only assume was pent up thwarted
desire, we made her cry by throwing balls of paper at her head and then locking
her out of the classroom when she went in search of help. My few break-ups
since have barely been more mature.
Then there was the geography teacher who, rumour had it,
once had her skirt blown up in the playground by an errant gust of wind to
reveal she was without underwear. Whenever she was on lunch duty a small
cluster of boys perpetually lingered nearby, just in case.
An attractive French teacher, no doubt proudly exercising her
English, admonished a boy for chewing gum by loudly insisting that he ‘stop
masticating at the back of the room.’ For a long uproarious moment we all
feared she’d somehow climbed inside our collective mind.
A special shout-out must go to the seemingly plain teacher
who upset our reality by arriving on owns-clothes day in school uniform so mouth-watering
to our teenage selves that we spent the entire day clustered outside her
office, engaged in a game of verbal brinkmanship describing the things we’d do
to her given the chance (the reality of course being shaking with terror and
making a mess of our underpants).
I'd like to say it gets easier when you're older, but...
Attractive teachers were such things as dreams we made on.
Whereas the idea of a male teacher acting on fawning schoolgirls was repugnant,
the reverse seemed the most exquisite fantasy. We imagined how events would
conspire in our favour, where we’d go to commit the deed, how we’d live in
pubescent infamy. It was unflinchingly pathetic and shamefully misogynistic,
and yet, in the dark ages before easily accessed internet pornography, a vital
part of our stymied sexual development.
People are frequently shocked when I reveal I attended an
all boys school, though with some thought I’m sure it makes sense to those who
have ever seen me try to talk to a woman. It is a worthy scapegoat for my many
years since of romantic indecency. Here’s to you, hot teachers.
