doorway to the hall where anyone could leave a question
about sex,
and the following week another special assembly
was called to tackle all those questions in one go.
And because no teacher volunteered, they
all were made to do it – all had to go on stage and pull a
card out of the box and answer best they could.
They sat nervously, our teachers,
and the power drained from them,
flowed down to us –
electric and enormous – we were one
embodied mass.
Our maths teacher was first to pick – a tall man with a
swirly quiff who all the mums were fans of. His voice was
low – a bassiness so silky that it must have been
affected. He used to call us mini guys. As in –
OK, turn to page 18, mini guys.
He pulled a card out of the box, ran a hand
through his thick hair, unfolded it, and speaking with a
seriousness that already had us stifling a giggle,
he said:
OK, settle down – first question:
What is… a double-ended dild– oh.
Yep.
We were gone – mass hysterics. Tears, thigh
slapping, can-barely-catch-your-breath laughing.
Can you imagine, Ava!
They had to end it there. What a golden day!
And all the mystery of sex preserved.
Gum and spit and shame and bicorn beasts – oh my!
That poor maths teacher though…
forever tainted.
Every lesson that he taught thereafter,
haunted by the spectre of that fateful card he’d pulled.
The double-ended dildo at the feast.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Why must I sign via Goodlord, Ava?
Why. Why. Why.
It screws us both – the system – in the end,
and there’s a point when streamlined
