'Sacmis' (formerly 'Alien Abduction')

Chapter 3: The Teacher

Gemma looked round the classroom of teenage boys (Year 12. Age 16-17. Fuelled on testosterone, hard porn and cheese 'n onion crisps) and wondered, not for the first time, how she came to be doing this.

Unconscious of her dilemma, those of the class that were paying any attention stared back at her. For a long time now, she’d been able to divide them into three easily recognisable groups.

Group 1 were the cocky ones who lolled back in their chairs, legs wide, groin prominent, who looked at her with their ‘bet you’re just gagging for me’ expressions. What was alarming was that their attitude wasn’t just a front, but am unshakeable belief.

Then – even scarier – there was Group 2, who just stared, not so much at her as a person, but as a collection of female parts, their eyes roving systematically over legs, bum and breasts (and very, very rarely, face) in a relentless cycle, with the kind of application she wished they could apply to their studies.

At one level, she could forgive them their objectifying since she was confident enough in her looks to know that what they saw was a pretty nice object. Curly shoulder-length brown hair, framing a face with hugely inquisitive eyes and a mouth that should have looked too big, but didn’t. She also had a full figure that went in and out in all the prescribed proportions – a look that worked well on the teen boys whose taste in women had yet to include other possibilities (assuming it ever would.)

And lastly there was the nicest group: the ones who – plainly – were in love with her. Eyes locked on hers, well-behaved, desperate to please, desperate to be noticed. The tragedy was, of course, that none of these were fanciable even for one of those brief ‘don’t-even-go-there’ teacher fantasies. Whereas, Group 1 seemed packed with hot lookers.

When she first started teaching, fresh out of University at 23, the job had seemed full of possibilities, both educationally and romantically. Now, seven years later both aspects had the feeling of dead-ends.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something seemed to happen to male teachers. And just a little spookily, they seemed to fall neatly into the teenage groups she identified in her classes. Regrettably, over the years, she had sampled briefly from Group 1 and – very, very regrettably – from Group 2,  and was now enmeshed with Brian, from Group 3.

The name should have warned her - as should his constant harping about the excellent pension they could look forward to as teachers. As if they only had to make it through the next 40 years to start living. He also – being from a very Christian background – tended to look on sex as something of a holy sacrament: tender, gentle, reverential but – it had to be said – a little dull. He entirely missed the point that most women would swap a missionary for a Viking, even if only on Saturday nights. When she thought of Brian, she was reminded of a quotation (she forgot by who) that ‘there are those who love – and those who consent to be loved.’  For some time now, she had realised she was the ‘consenter’, but one who now doubted her willingness to continue.

Class dismissed and the schooldays over, she was thinking seriously about when and how to act on her conclusion as she walked towards her car. At first she thought it was on fire (something she wouldn’t put past any of her class) but then realised it was not so much burning as glowing. Wondering whether she had just left the lights on, she reached out for the door handle and felt what could only be described as an electric shot run up her arm and through her body, not painful but definitely not described in the manual for her Fiat Cinquecento. A moment later she fainted, dimly aware of being caught before her body hit the ground.

© Adriana Nicolas 2014