Hot House

 

It's decaying. All decaying. I wonder in which of my decades I lost sight of my magnetism. Not in my forties. I spent the first week of my fourth decade in Amsterdam. Sex shows, peep shows, coffee shops and unlimited sex with my then partner. Addicted to each other and addicted to sex, we made the most of our mutual mojo in a long 69 of insatiable gobbling. When I turned fifty, he left me for a younger, blonder version of my forty-year-old self.

 

I wasn't alone for long. Bill arrived, older than I was by ten years with a love of submission and domination games. He nurtured my carnality throughout my fifties with a series of sex-games, voyeurism, orgies and an almost over-indulgence of all things sex-related. He never suffered erectile dysfunction and I took advantage by riding him relentlessly. Just after my sixtieth birthday, we found out about his weak heart when he suffered a massive coronary at the point of orgasm and died during the ride. He left his body to science so he's still an education.

 

And now, for the first time, I don't recognise the woman I see in my room of mirrors. I wonder if I should have a face-lift, as I experimentally smooth the skin under my chin. I pull backwards and upwards with both hands, creating a stretched, not altogether attractive reflection. My lips are still full... All the better to eat you with. I make an appointment with a Harley Street surgeon, and take on a private teaching job to help pay his bill.

 

Simon Conrad is an English Literature 'A' Level resit. His father is rich and has an ego the size of St Paul's Cathedral. I am invisible in his presence. The knowledge that at one time he would have served at my feet annoys me more than it should. But his son is different. I can smell him, he reminds me of my classroom years, when teenage crushes pervaded the atmosphere. The family live in Hertfordshire, Laura Conrad is glamorous and Simon has inherited her good looks. My rules include the caveat that an adult is always in the home at the same time as my student and me; it protects us all from inconvenient issues.

 

The boy needs four 'A' grades to be accepted by his first choice college. I have been hired to hot-house him and make sure he achieves his full potential. That's the easy part. It's my private hot house I'm worried about, it seems to burn in his presence and warms my solitary bed at night.

 

I've never been particularly interested in younger men, but then, I've never been sixty-two before. Everyone seems younger these days. To me anyway. That's how it feels. That's how I feel.

 

I have a two-week period of daily tutorials to fill with teaching and learning, the money will be useful, I'm seriously considering the surgeon's knife. Today, we are studying The God of Small Things. I find the text stimulating but Simon seems bored. A shame. Never mind, I'll teach him to approach literature with passion, teach him to produce the perceptive flash that the examiner is looking for. I will school him to A+. It's my calling. He must not fail me. Or himself.

 

We work in Laura's study, side by side at her desk. Our books are open in front of us in a scattered arc. I walk him through past papers, one question at a time and feel the heat from his thigh close to mine. My perfume sticks in his nostrils. I can tell. In England, our main examination series are set in May/June. It's April, quite cool, but the promise of summer beckons and in reply I open another button of my white blouse, exposing flesh that hasn't been seen in public for a year, or more. He's noticed, I can tell, and I'm impressed by his reserve.

 

"See you tomorrow, Simon. Please prepare an answer to the Section B question we discussed today. We'll go through it together during tutorial."

 

Seeing me out, his mother asks about his progress. I've already refastened the button. She knows nothing about me.