Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Art Teacher on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

This is the story of an art teacher who develops an unfortunate addiction to sadistic pornography. James had been teaching at St Leonards' Academy for about a decade. He was an enthusiastic, affable sort of fellow. Well liked amongst pupils and staff. No-one could have guessed his terrible secret.
His terrible secret was this: he was sexually enthused by internet pornography that was, to put it bluntly, borderline gruesome.
He arrived home on an overcast afternoon. His wife was just leaving the house to walk the dog as he parked on the driveway. This was good. This meant he could watch the videos with the volume turned up. A feint drizzle was just beginning to descend.
'Infinite Humiliation.' 'Gratuitous Cruelty.' 'Epic Bukkake.' These were the search terms he ran at pussyperverts.com. I won't delve into the sick content of the filth he enjoyed. I am opposed to describing such vile depravity on principle. What's more, I fear I may become aroused during the process of description and develop what is known as 'a boner.' And that would unsettle me.
After finding and settling on a particularly nasty clip he began engaging in the time honoured form of self-abuse. He quickly climaxed, rendering his plaid shirt sodden with semen. He hurriedly unbuttoned it and bundled it into the washing machine.
Then he went and sat on the sofa in the living room and gazed at the blank switched off TV screen. He felt dejected, a worn-out husk of a man. His life felt like some kind of meaningless farce. He wanted to inflict severe burns on a shy teen.

His pupils began to notice his affable, enthusiastic demeanour deteriorate. It happened gradually but his pupils were the first to observe it, before the other staff.
They sensed his agitation, his extreme mood swings. They sensed something was awry without being able to articulate what exactly it was. Somehow they gleaned the festering sickness that was devouring him.
James began disappearing to the toilets up to nine times a day to masturbate. These sessions were short, frenzied, and increasingly without sensation. He would splatter his spunk on the cubicle door, clinging to monstrous thoughts of the pretty, popular 15 year old girls he taught. Often after the deed, he would gnaw his knuckle, stifling anguished sobs.
Part of him wanted to be a good man, it really did. What had triggered this senseless unpleasantness? Was he inherently bored with the stable plateau his life had reached?

His wife was concerned to hear him sobbing quietly as he soaked in the bath one night towards the end of summer. She pressed her head against the door to confirm she was hearing what she thought she was.
Owing to denial and a yen for preservation she decided not to bring up the matter with him.
If he needed to, he could come to her for help she reasoned.

As his students painted, James sat at his desk and watched them surreptitiously. He watched the girls.
"Precocious little cocksuckers," he murmured to himself.
He was outwardly mute, sedate. But inside he was screaming with psychosexual rage, his eyes scrunched up, his jaw clenched, his fists clenched.

That winter his turn came up to monitor detention sessions. All teachers took turns with this responsibility. By this stage, James' reputation as an amicable, easy-going teacher had diminished somewhat.
Steven and Emma were parents of Jenny, one of James' pupils. As they drove home from a parents' evening, Emma began attempting to articulate concerns about James' emotional stability. It was a cold night, frost glittered on the dark road and Steven's eyes glittered as he listened to his wife. He remained stoic and dismissed her concerns but deep down he understood she was correct. He refused to acknowledge it though for the situation was outwith his control and he wasn't a man who liked to absorb gratuitous frustration.

The detention sessions were on Wednesday afternoons. The weather was generally chilly with overcast skies and James' glum temperament perfectly matched these conditions.
He sat at his desk, deep in thought. He was mesmerised by a fantasy involving one of his pupils, a coy, pretty, self-conscious 16 year old girl. In his fantasy she was straining to affect a blase demeanour whilst a group of middle-aged, overweight men circled round her and masturbated over her. Her attempts to preserve this unphased demeanour were failing; it was increasingly apparent that she was repulsed and frightened by what was occurring to her.
This was the part of the fantasy that James relished the most: her innocent face shocked into blankness, the tears forming in her doe eyes.

Tears set to mingle with thick, caffeine laced, odious semen. The realisation that this was his favourite part of the fantasy triggered feelings of profound self-loathing within James.

He also felt thrilled and giddy. He would mull over this fantasy for hours without resorting to masturbation and the inevitable post-climax black hole shame.

James began finding increasingly tneous excuses to keep shy, pretty girls behind after class. If they were well behaved it was to discuss their work with them and encourage their talent. If they were poorly behaved James leapt on the slightest excuse to detain them.

He would then indulge in fantasies of fondling these girls, of commanding them to perform unspeakable, humiliating acts upon him.

He managed to resist the impulse to actualise these fantasies until one rainy afternoon towards the beginning of spring. He had detained Rebecca Pullen, a sullen 15 year old, for chewing gum in class.
After the rest of her classmates had filtered out and their echoed shouts had died away from the corridors, James mustered his nerve and placed a perspiring palm on Rebecca's shoulder. She looked up at him with a perplexed expression on her face. He grunted as he moved his hand downward to grasp her nubile breast through her sweater. Rebecca froze up, her arm stiff as James clutched at her hand, endeavouring to place it on his aching crotch.
It was at that moment that Miss Molloy happened into the classroom. Miss Molloy was a substitute art teacher who had come to inquire about lesson plans.
She observed what was happening and froze, her features swept with shock.
James turned and sprinted out the classroom and down the empty corridor, his footsteps resounding noisily. He galloped across the empty grey playground to the car park. He jumped in his car and sped home, gibbering insanely, gnawing at his knuckles.

The police apprehended him that night. It was a damp, blustery evening. James' wife answered the doorbell. Two officers in fluorescent yellow jackets stood on the step. One of them inquired about her husband's whereabouts. Before she could answer, James appeared being her looking washed out and exhausted. He was then formally arrested and charged with attempted child molestation.

James spent the night in a cell. He was subjected to intense interrogation. He was driven home in the morning and informed that he was suspended from the school pending a full investigation. James recieved this news with calmly; he was eerily serene having decided he would take his own life.

He did so at midday. His wife was absent from the house. He was ignorant of her whereabouts. He was merely grateful to be alone in the house to commit suicide.
He drew a bath of hot water and slowly lowered himself in, acclimatizing to the water temperature. The heat felt like a debilitating sickness. He sweated profusely and felt weak. He clasped a razorblade between moist, limp fingers and drew it up the veins on his wrist, opening them up. Then he swapped hands and repeated the procedure on the other wrist. The bathwater clouded red.

Police discovered his body. His wife had absconded to her sister's house where she recieved the news.
A modest Christian funeral was held for him which was well attended. After the funeral there was no wake. Attendees spoke little to each other, choosing to drive briskly home afterwards, gossiping with their families in their respective vehicles.

Rebecca Pullen remained haunted by her teacher's thwarted attempt at abuse. She grew up to become a criminal psychologist, specialising in the rehabilitation of paedophiles and serious sex offenders. Perhaps she sought to comprehend the fevered mindset of her teacher. Perhaps her career choice was a form of prolonged catharsis, engaging face to face with these men in a bid to subconsciously re-enact the encounter with her own would-be perpetrator. I don't know. Whatever the reason she had a succesful career and led a satisfying, mostly turbulent-free life. She died of natural causes at the age of 76.

James' wife fell apart completely following his death. She became increasingly shrill and neurotic, prone to bouts of hysteria. Or else she was unnervingly silent, steeped in profound misery.
In a horrible way, nothing that had happened had surprised her too much, she realised. She had sensed something awful simmering within her husband's psyche for a long time. It was simply unfortunate she lacked the constitution to confront him or even the mental facilities to admit to herself that something was deeply wrong.
She was hospitalised several times and spent the rest of her life on medication for anxiety and depression.

Tabloids nationwide ran sensationalistic headlines regarding the incident. Articles appeared in which James was termed a 'sinister beast' and a 'shameless pederast' amongst other slurs against his character. It seemed his legacy harboured no hope of redemption.
Kids gossiped fiercely in the playground right up until the end of term. In the staff room, teachers were prone to discretion, dancing awkwardly around the subject.
The summer holidays came and by the time the new school year rolled in everyone had more or less forgotten about the incident.

A fresh batch of first year students were inducted into the school. The staff roster was bolstered by the addition of new teachers in mathematics, drama, and physical education.
Jim Deirdre was the name of the new P.E. teacher. A stocky, furtive, balding man who most of the pupils as well as other teachers took an instinctive dislike to.
He stood outside the school on a cool morning at the beginning of autumn, conducting a class of adolescents in a series of stretches and warm-up exercises. One pupil in particular had registered his attention. Shonat Gowans, 13, was attractive, athletic, and popular. Jim brought her to the front of the class with the intention of using her to demonstrate some of the exercises to her classmates. This he did, moving her limbs about in various positions, dreamily observing the flash of her pale skin in the watery autumnal sunlight.
He soon developed a noticeable erection which was observed by Gary Grant, a gaunt, solemn lad. He whispered to his friends and pointed and pretty soon the whole class was aware of the insane, monstrous bulge in their teacher's shorts. Their response was unfortunate, from Jim's position at least. They scampered across the playing field, screaming hysterically. Several pupils pissed their shorts. Jim clutched at his crotch and shouted after them in an ineffectual attempt to passify them. It was too late. He curled into a foetal position on the pitch and wept intently for half an hour until he was observed by a janitor who alerted the headmaster.

A tense atmosphere pervaded the headmaster's office. It was an overcast afternoon, bruised clouds pregnant with thunder sitting in the sky. Miss Molloy, who had since replaced James as a full-time art teacher at the academy, imagined she could taste electricity in the air.
Dick Burroughs, the headmaster, was agitated. He was a man with a tendency towards surliness when agitated.
"We've got a motherfucking scandal on our hands," he fumed. "A motherfucking scandal."
The other teachers were quiet, abashed.

This incident transpired to be the first in a series of scandals that plagued St Leonard's Academy.
These scandals culminated in the death of a pupil at hands of bullies. Tom Elward was 12 years old, a quiet, reserved, dreamy child. He was thin and shy with chapped lips. He wore a balaclava to school, a measure foisted on him by his overbearing mother. The corners of his lips were perpetually encrusted with dried Marmite from his breakfast. One day in German class he pissed himself, by accident.
He was bullied relentlessly by some of his sinister, dim-witted, predatory classmates who had observed his timid, ineffectual character. They kicked his shins and flushed his packed lunch down the toilet. They threw stones at him and denigrated him in the playground. Vicious little shits that they were.
Tom internalised his upset at this malicious treatment. His frustrated rage turned into hopelessness and depression. A few teachers gleaned what was going on but they preferred not to intervene.
The bullies spread cruel gossip around his classmates. As a result of this relentless campaign of bullying Tom hung himself in his bedroom, utilising the cord of a mobile phone charger for the task.
His body was discovered by his father, an effete, fatalistic, melancholy sort of character. Tom's father cried out in startled horror.

St Leonard's Academy was gaining a reputation for all the unfortunate events that seemed to be occurring there.
That summer was unseasonably rainy. During the school holidays the children were largely kept indoors. They were wont to bouts of intense boredom and listlessness.
At the end of July the rain rebated somewhat and there was a dry spell. Johnny Millhouse and his friends, Iain and Andy, drifted around the village on their BMX bikes. It was a humid day. The grinding tedium of the rainy summer had affected them all. They were more boisterous, rebellious, and destructive as a result.
They indulged in a spat of mischief which gathered in momentum. Pornographic magazines were posted though the letterboxes of elderly churchgoers. Greenhouse glass was shattered with rocks. Fires were set in the nearby woodland. Their campaign of delinquency culminated in them setting fire to their school.

Firefighters fought the blaze at St Leonard's Academy for two days at the end of which little remained of the structure other than charcoal and rubble. Eyewitness accounts led police to the door of Johnny Millhouse and his friend Iain. Sensing the gravity of the situation they immediately confessed to the crime. They did not implicate their friend Andy who hadn't been noticed at the scene and had since departed for a family holiday in Portugal. He got away with his part in the arson and developed an acute form of something like survivor's guilt as a result.
Johnny and Iain were handed over to a children's panel who were relatively lenient with them; it was clear that they hadn't intended for their forays into arson to be so successful and destructive.

Groups of kids came out to gaze wistfully at the charred remains of their former school. Some of the boys laughed. Some of the girls teared up. Mostly the kids were quiet and thoughtful, unsure what to feel. James' widow arrived at the scene as well. She had recently ceased taking her medication. She wore a flowery dress and wellington boots. Her hair was chaotic to say the least. She was generally disheveled. She wandered the school grounds mumbling to herself incoherently. Younger pupils pointed at her and laughed. The older ones were more surreptitious in their smirking.
James' widow lifted her dress and exposed herself to a frail, shy, fourteen year old boy. There were many witnesses to this obscene act which occasioned another of the deranged widow's numerous hospitalisations.

Students were divided between other schools in the region whilst a new school was being erected.
The headmaster summoned a meeting of all the heads of department. He talked about the need to instill the new school with a spirit of positivity, ecstasy, serenity, and peace. He advised them to join him in a meditation, a prayer to summon harmonious vibrations that would dispel the clouds of negativity and shit, those lingering clouds. He spoke in such a manner that that it became evident he was disengaged from reality. The assembled teachers exchanged glances signaling incredulity and wariness. The deputy head, a furtively persuasive woman, tried to convince everyone that they should have the headmaster sectioned under the mental health act.
"For the good of the children," she stressed.
Miss Molloy sensed a vested interest at work here, a tactic employed in a power struggle.
"You macabre bitch!" she screamed at the deputy.
Everyone fell silent. Someone cleared their throat. Miss Molloy was flustered and self-conscious. The deputy maintained an aloof, steely facade that was quite unnerving to observe.

This story ends, how else, but with a bukkake. Two 16 year old boys had the idea after viewing a video of such a ritual on a pornographic website. All they needed were some volunteers. Male participants were relatively easy to recruit. But the most important element was lacking: a female recipient for the humiliating come shower. In the end they settled for a papier mache effigy of one of the prettiest and most popular lassies in their class. They set it up in one of the boys' garden and then formed a circle round it. Hesitant at first, they presently began unzipping their jeans and revealing their stiffening cocks. They were careful to avert their gaze from each other, fixing their stares on the ridiculous effigy. They giggled self-consciously at first. But as the bukkake progressed they grew more solemn and purposeful. These kids were so solemn and intent the whole thing began to take on the air of a religious ceremony which, in many respects, it was. One by one they began unloading on the increasingly sodden, mushy effigy. As each boy finished, he left the arena.
Finally there was only one left. Murray Dee was 18, stocky, with a genial manner and a poor complexion. He pumped furiously at his below-average size penis, beads of sweat forming on his temple. His eyes were scrunched up in concentration.
The rest of the boys had converged in the house and were spectating this grotesque spectacle from the kitchen window.
Eventually Murray repaired to the house to join them. Cheeks red from tears, he dolefully informed them that he had been unable to come.
The assembled boys were surprisingly considerate, offering words of consolation. Murray was so grateful for their discretion and sympathy that he began to weep. He wept for hours, he continued crying long after everyone had departed. As he cried his mind was a thunderstorm of jumbled imagery and feelings. Sunlight glinting on train tracks, moments of stifling cruelty, a girl unbuttoning her shirt. These were some of the images that flashed through his mind. He wept for all the schoolchildren, all the ambiguity and awkwardness spread out across the land.
Once he had ceased sobbing he tried to light fire to the sodden effigy in his garden. But it was too damp.
He had no clue how to dispose of it before his parents got home.

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