We used to have this rugby teacher in school. Blond, chiselled, a bit dull and simple on it; but an easy way and an accessible sense of humour meant he was loved by all. Like a counterfeit Adonis, he was.
I used to tramp through the expansive grounds on the way to the unseen bus stop every Monday and Thursday at half one after lunch. The rugby season started some time round sept’-oct’. I used to love dandering through the windy do-it-yourself paths under the tall trees, kicking crispy dry leaves up on either side of me, like golden wings sprouting from my feet – like Mercurius.
I used to spend the afternoon then hanging out in Castlecourt with my pal Joe Kelly till it was time to go home at half 4. With hindsight it wasn’t the shrewdest of places to go when there was a risk our ma’s could be out buying their poi pourri in Debenham’s. We used to go and hang around outside the Pretty Polly and stare at the mannequins in the window in their Babydolls and suspender belts and long violet silk mesh dressing gowns with fluff on the cuffs. After a week or two Joe took to letting his hard-on show. It used to start growing on the way up the escalator. Sometimes I became afraid it would poke into the back of a woman in front – or worse – knock against the head of some youngster. Then, not long after this phenomenon took hold, he started playing with himself – right there in the gangway – with grannies and precious housewives passing by. His mouth used to fall open and his eyes would glaze over. I started hanging back from then on as he approached the window. As time went on he got closer and closer to the window till his nose was nearly touching the glass. The Bananaman Castlecourt security intervened by then though. There’d been complaints. And the girls working in the place were going to call in the police.
The following Monday I was waiting for him in our hideout expecting that our routine hadn’t changed. That now we’d just go down to Smithfield and find some seedy place to stand outside of and we’d get off on all the sex stuff they had in their front window. I told him, “They’ll have dirtier stuff, better than lingerie. Blue books and descriptions of herbal aphrodisiacs. And they won’t mind us standing there playing with ourselves while we take a look. Knowing the dirty cunts down there they’d encourage us – and maybe pay us for the privilege.” But Joe Kelly didn’t turn up that day and from then on me and him never took the day off again to go wandering through the shitty old Belshaft.
BUT – While I was waiting for him that afternoon he bailed on me I did see through the bedroom window of our counterfeit Adonis, which could be seen from our hideout, him getting down to business with the elderly art teacher (elderly to me then – now maybe 53 – kind of woman were I to meet her now I’d go for – just past 40) and this coming through his trembling singleglazed windows at full volume.
Ironic. A young rugby coach ballin’ an individual a good bit older than him. When the place is now so well known for teachers ballin’ those that much (by legal standards anyway) younger than them. ;x