Chapter 4

Ms Carlisle was a tasty, sexy, shapely fitness instructor. She was also an out and out bitch with a capital B which stands for BASTARD! She was mean to the fat girls, mean to the skinny girls, horrible to the sporty girls, nasty to the normal girls, suspicious of even genuine ‘time of the month’ letters. Just generally one of those women who should have considered prison guard before teacher as a career option.

She would punish people for any infraction – running in the corridor, being late for lessons (“But Miss, that was why I was running!”), talking back to a teacher (“So, that’s three detentions Micky, want to try for more?”). She enjoyed ruining people’s weekends with Saturday sit-ins. This was a punishment the school had for pupils who annoyed teachers enough. You turned up, sat in the library and did nothing for the Saturday morning. Breakfast Club had a lot to answer for. Even Jerry agreed that she needed taking down.

She was also, as I said, very sexy. Her large DD bust was tamed with a powerful sports bra, her shapely, walnut cracking butt was covered with robust panties, but it swayed in a tantalizing way as she walked. Her waist had not an ounce of fat, not a hint of a tyre there. Her hair was dark and shiny; always tied up in sports, but shoulder length otherwise. And her bright red lipstick emphasised a mouth that plenty of boys wanked their imaginative dreams too (and a few girls too I believe).

Pupils had long planned elaborate and complex revenge, involving destroyed cars, or burnt out apartments. This was extravagant and never going to happen. Even Michael O’Dwyer – whose Dad was rumoured to have fled Belfast – wouldn’t do that, and he was a psychotic crazy guy in a fight! We agreed there should be easier ways.

Step 1. I was walking down the corridor just in front of Ms Carlisle, I dropped a book and bent to pick it up; she fell tit over arse over me. Her little gym skirt did nothing to hide her pink knickers. I made sure she saw me looking and waited. “Mr, you have a detention for being stupid.”

Step 2. I didn’t go to the detention. “Why didn’t you turn up for your detention? I waited half an hour?” “Sorry Ms Carlisle, I thought you were joking.” No-one ever thought she was joking. “Saturday sit-in for you! This Saturday!” “Can we make it next Saturday? I’m busy this weekend.” She told me that any more lip and she’d have me every Saturday for the rest of the term. But she was on duty next Saturday, and she was sadistic enough to look forward to that opportunity, so she moved it to the following Saturday when she could happily relish ruining some nonentity from England’s weekend.

Step 3. The Saturday sit-in. Aunty Jean was horrified that I was in that punishment, she hoped I wasn’t going to the bad. I made up a story about refusing to tell on a colleague. She respected that. She suggested she could ring the school and plead for me. I said I should take the punishment like a man. She respected that even more (hell, it wasn’t like I was going to the scaffold - ‘It’s a far far better thing I have done... ‘ blah blah blah). I was half afraid she would ring; then she’d hear how I exposed a teacher’s underwear and stared at it. She’d know I was up to something since I was way, way past the stage of upskirt. She didn’t ring.

That Saturday came; Jerry had been primed to come with a camera. He wanted to see the effect, first hand; and really there was no-one else to be trusted. You can hardly say “Why not come along on Saturday to film me and Ms Carlisle, in case we get jiggy.” And you certainly can’t say “I guarantee we’ll get it on.” Everybody knew she was a man (and woman) hating bitch.

I arrived at the library, Jerry was in there. People were happy to believe he might have some work to do, he was that sort of guy. Two other people were down to attend. I had hoped it would be just me; if not, I hoped it would be boys. No such luck. Actually boys would have been harder to square. They’d have seen the dragon lady suddenly want to shag me and would want to know why.

Lucy was in the year below. She was hot, really hot. She spent hours just painting her nails. Even to this morning detention, she was wearing a bust hugging tight sweater and a pair of leggings that showed every attractive curve on her legs. I would swear she had no knickers on, if I didn’t now know the secrets of skimpy panties that showed no lines (learnt from Jackie). Her legs were a little thin really, but still not the bony matchsticks of some of the slimmers on the school. The other girl was in our year; Angelina Fire-Thomson put the black into black magic – so some guy once said. She was ebony black with a bootilicious bum. Again, that’s what I heard someone say, I wouldn’t say bootilicious out loud, with my accent it would be laughed right out of this state! She was large, rounded and as sexy in a well-stacked way as Lucy was in a thin way. Oh well, I guess I’d have to cope.

Apparently one of them had taken exception to the other’s look, something like that. Girls care about other girls’ opinions I think. It had escalated until a cat-fight had erupted. Hair pulling, clothes ripping, half-boob revealing. This was the most excitement most of the boys had had for weeks. Nobody tried to stop it until Ms Carlisle stepped in. I was on her side in that. It would be awful to see such pretty faces get scratched.

I know what half of you are thinking. Here we are with the most amazing discovery of our age, and I’m misusing it to get back at one of my teachers and there are a couple of female students that are collateral damage. I never suggested I was an angel in disguise did I? I’m pretty normal in the male teenage hormone stakes – I’ve just told you I was regularly fucking my seriously overweight aunt after all, that doesn’t suggest a purity of scientific purpose now does it? – yes, I’d probably fuck anything that had two tits, two legs and a cunt. Actually, two legs was probably optional.

Anyway, I’m telling you what happened, not how wonderful I am. You want that, go read the ghosted autobiographies of your last fifty presidents (or Archbishops of Canterbury – though these days they tend to be more candid) I sat down in a vacant table and pulled out a book. Ms Carlisle didn’t arrive until fifteen minutes later; emphasising the contempt she had for us. She came in, saw Jerry and was about to tell him to get lost when she got the whiff of the pheromone. I had sprayed the chair at the front. It had soaked in and the heat from her bottom started evaporating it. Just to be sure, I applied a little to my neck, arms, and groin. I went over the top, I knew that. Silly, but then I am young and stupid.