Teach Me Dirty

by Jade West

  I smiled. “Of course, Helen. Be my guest. Your help would be very much appreciated. It always is.”

  I stepped away from her, and I watched her exhale. Releasing a tension I hadn’t registered she was carrying.

  Did I do that to her?

  Had I always done that to her?

  And what did she do to me?

  My mouth was dry. Hands clammy at the thought of crossing some invisible line that hadn’t been in place until yesterday.

  Why was one rainy afternoon in a car such a game changer?

  “Mr Roberts,” she said.

  “Yes, Helen.”

  “Are you ok? You seem a little…”

  “Headache,” I said. “Weekend calling.”

  “Oh.”

  I wondered if she’d thought of me as she lay in bed the night before. Wondered if she’d added to her sketchbook.

  It stared at me from the tabletop, blocked from reach by more pencil cases this time. I fought the urge to push them aside and tear through those pages, the need for more of Helen Palmer’s dirty drawings clawing around my stomach in search of blood.

  She looked around the room at her classmates, but they were busy gossiping, caring a lot less about Monet than they did about their Facebook timelines.

  My mouth flapped as Helen reached for her private drawings, as though she’d infiltrated my mind and sucked the need right out of me, but she didn’t flip to the back of the pad or anywhere near.

  She found a blank piece of paper near the front, and scrawled a note for me in burnt orange pencil.

  Username. ArtyHelenPalmer.

  “Will you watch?”

  I nodded. “I said I would coach you, Helen.” My voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “My offer was sincere.”

  She smiled, and a nervous bloom deepened her cheeks.

  She had the finest dusting of freckles, barely dark enough to make out over the soft hue of her skin. I’d never noticed them before, not so vividly before my eyes.

  “Good,” she whispered, and her breath caught my cheek. “There’s a video waiting for you.”

  There was no meandering along country roads for me that evening. I drove the Jag straight as a bird, straight home. I dropped my art case and went straight on through to my bedroom, powering up my tablet.

  Helen’s scrawled note was in my pocket.

  I carefully put in her username, and the screen changed. Helen’s smile greeted me.

  Profile private. Click to follow.

  I clicked to follow and then registered a profile of my own. ArtGuy365. No picture. Full anonymity.

  ArtyHelenPalmer has 1 new video. Click to play.

  I clicked to play.

  I listened to Helen Palmer’s video once through, and then I set it back to the beginning to take in her words all over again. I opened the comments box, typing as I listened.

  No, I don’t believe transference would make any difference to how you felt.

  Yes, emotions and feelings are real. They have life.

  No, you couldn’t be the next Picasso. You don’t need to be.

  You will be the first Helen Palmer.

  I was checking there were no other comments to add before I closed out of the site, when I realised the video was still playing. I checked the length. Forty five minutes.

  Helen’s hand came into view, clicked something and left the screen, but it hadn’t turned off.

  A secret thrill zipped up my spine.

  Forbidden.

  Wrong.

  Totally voyeuristic.

  But she’d made this video for me. I was merely watching what she’d posted.

  I wondered if she’d done this on purpose, but catching sight of her clumsy legs as she pulled off her socks ready for bed negated any suspicions whatsoever. She didn’t know.

  The laptop was moved to another point in the room. It landed with a thunk. The light switched off after five more minutes, and instinctively my palm pressed against the length of my swelling cock.

  Fuck. No. Please, no.

  But yes.

  The rustling of bedcovers. Helen’s little sigh of relaxation.

  And then more, so much more.

  Short breaths. Little hitched moans. Rustling.

  Fuck. God, no. No.

  But I could hear her. I could hear her excitement. Her soft little murmurs as she played with herself.

  My cock twitched and pulsed. My fingers were at my belt.

  I was there, in my head. Watching her, listening to her gasps in the quiet, working my cock as she played with her sweet, sweet little pussy.

  The rustling grew more agitated in line with her breathing, and I worked my cock.

  Close, so close.

  So fucking wrong.

  She came in beautiful little gasps, and I came too. A violent orgasm. I came so hard my ears rang, muffling my grunts with the back of my hand.

  I was splattered with my own spunk, and so was the tablet. In desperation I smeared it with the cuff of my shirt, and the screen turned to standby.

  My own dark reflection stared back at me through the filthy glaze, and I looked filthy, too. A filthy, dirty man who should know better.

  I knew better than this.

  I should be better than this.

  I was losing my fucking mind.

  ***

  Helen

  I dropped my cutlery onto my plate with a clatter. “But I thought Katie was going to School’s Out club over the holidays? She always goes to School’s Out club over the autumn break.”

  Dad stared at me from across the table, expression teetering on the edge of exasperation. I knew the look well. “Yes, she is going to School’s Out club, the same way she goes to School’s Out club every autumn holiday, but I won’t be around to pick her up at two every afternoon. We’ve got a new driver starting, I’ve got to show him the ropes. It’s just a couple of hours, that’s all. Until your mum gets in.”

  My stomach dropped through the floor. “But I’ll be busy until five… We never finish up until five.”

  He put down his fork. “Christ, Helen, you’re a couple of months from your exams, you must have a million more useful things to be doing than flouncing around painting some silly panto set.”

  “It’s not flouncing, I’m helping out… I like helping out.” I met his eyes. “I like painting the set, Dad, it’s important to me.”

  “Work is important, Helen. Actual work. What do you expect me to do? Shirk my responsibilities and book time off so you can go paint Aladdin’s bloody Cave in the holidays?”

  Mum placed a hand on Dad’s arm. “Don’t worry, George, I’m sure I can arrange something with Claire. Brittainy’s in School’s Out, too, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having Katie for a few hours afterwards.”

  “Yay! Brittainy’s!” Katie shrieked.

  Thank God for that. Everyone’s a winner.

  But no.

  Dad shook Mum off. “That’s not the point. We all know what this is really about.”

  Now it was Mum’s turn to drop her cutlery. “George!” She shook her head. “Don’t start.”

  “Well, someone’s got to say it.” His eyes fixed straight back on mine. “It’s about that bloody teacher again, isn’t it? Every year the same, every single holiday. Set painting, open days, art juniors club, it’s always something, some excuse. It’s got to stop, Helen. You’re at uni in a few months, you have to get your feet on the bloody ground and start preparing.”

  As if I needed reminding. “I am preparing. And it’s not about Mr Roberts. It’s about art.”

  “Then you won’t mind missing it this time, will you? You can do your pretty pictures at home, I’m sure there are plenty of other people to help with the panto.”

  My heart pounded. “No, there aren’t. I’m one of the main painters! And it’s only next week! They won’t have time to replace me!”

  He scowled at me. “Well, they’re going to have to cope one way or another, aren’t they? You aren’t even goin
g to be here next panto. You’ve done more than your fair share.”

  “But Dad…” I struggled for the words. “… it’s my last time…”

  “George,” Mum said. “I can ask Claire, at least let me ask her.”

  He shook his head. “No, Angela, we’ve asked Helen to do one thing and help out in the holidays. She’s got all morning to do her art, it’s not unreasonable.”

  I looked at Mum. “But I already told Mr Roberts I was helping…”

  She looked sad, but Dad didn’t. “Well, you’ll just have to untell him you’ll be helping, won’t you? I’m sure he’ll understand.” He picked up his cutlery, resumed shovelling mashed potato into his mouth. “He’ll probably be grateful of the break.”

  My eyes flew wide. “What did you say?”

  “I said he’ll probably be glad of the break from his little shadow. Following him around all the bloody time like a little stalker. He’ll probably be relieved when this year’s bloody done.”

  “George!” Mum snapped. “Stop it!”

  “It’s not like that…” I began, but what was the point? His words cut deep. Knocked me right in the gut.

  Katie laughed. “Helen and Mr Roberts sitting in a tree… K. I. S. S. I. N. G.”

  “It’s probably embarrassing for him,” Dad sniped. “He’s a grown man, he doesn’t need to be fending off silly crushes from teenage girls left, right, and centre.”

  “It’s not a crush…” I said. “I really, really like him. As a person. I respect him. We’re… close. As artists. As friends…”

  And Dad laughed. He laughed at me. “Artists? Friends? He’s your bloody teacher, Helen, and next year he won’t be. Pass me the salt, Angela.” Mum passed him the salt. “I’ll be glad when you meet someone your own age and stop it with all this nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense!”

  “It’s nonsense!” He slammed the salt shaker on the table, and Katie slapped her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing. “You’ve got to let this craziness go, for your own sake. It’s not… healthy. Understand?”

  But I didn’t understand, and even if I had, his question was rhetorical. He turned his attention to sweet little Katie and her tales of primary school and how she came top at the spelling test, and then gabbled onto Mum about the new driver he’d had starting.

  And me? I was invisible. An invisible weirdo with a stupid unhealthy crush.

  But he was wrong, about Mr Roberts and me. We were friends now. Real friends.

  He’d watched my video, just like he said he would. He’d watched, and he’d commented. He’d commented on it, coaching, just like he said.

  And I’d told him I loved him. I’d told him that. He knew, and he was still my friend, still wanted to be my friend. Still wanted to know me. I felt that. I felt him.

  How could that be anywhere near unhealthy?

  I excused myself from the table.

  ***

  Mark

  A glass of wine and a pile of marking, classic Stones playing loud from the dining room, and my first real autumn fire crackling in the grate. I was enjoying the haven, relaxing into my space as an email alert pinged from my tablet. I don’t get email alerts on my regular accounts, and the hairs on my arms prickled. I clicked into my inbox. My new inbox.

  ArtyHelenPalmer is recording a message! Click here to View Live. Click here to Save for Later.

  I’d done all the self-talk, put myself through all the self-chastisement I deserved at succumbing to my base urges and knocking one out to my teenage student’s sweet rapture, but in spite of all this, and in spite of my better judgement, I put Jagger on pause and clicked to View Live.

  Helen was lying on her bed, the laptop screen at the side of her, angled towards her head. I admired her face in profile, the sweet little point of her nose, her soft lips. She looked sad, contemplative… more than sad. She looked as though her world was breaking. It hit me unexpectedly, the sorrow, right in the gut. I pushed my marking aside, all sensibility obliterated.

  “This is supposed to be honest, right? I guess it is, I mean, what point is there otherwise?” She took a breath and so did I. “I know this is meant to be about art, that’s what you want, right?” She glanced at the screen for just a second. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Maybe I never do. But tonight… I just want to talk. Not about art… but about me… about life. I feel… I hope… I just think you might get it. What it’s like for me…” She took another breath and I took a healthy swig of wine. “You said creatives are rarely accepted by their peers, and you’re right, except it’s more than that. Creatives are rarely accepted by anyone. That’s how it feels.”

  She rested her head on her arm, eyes fixed towards the ceiling. “Sometimes I feel like I’m invisible. Like nobody sees me. They see a shell of me, a shell that spends her whole time trying to be normal. Trying to say the right thing, and do the right thing, and live up to all the expectations I’m supposed to live up to. It’s easier that way, without all the questions and the judgement, you know? It’s easier to just smile and pretend to be just like everyone else. But I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I never manage to be just like everyone else.”

  My mind zig-zagged through her words, the same words I’d thought myself in years gone by, until life became simpler. Until I met Anna. Until I learned to be alone without her.

  Had I really learned to be alone?

  Helen’s voice had a soft melody; a perfectly reflective lilt that sucked me into the screen.

  “…I don’t want to be like everyone else, and I just want that to be ok. I mean… they don’t even have to understand, I just want them to see me.”

  She rolled onto her side, her pretty face against her palm, her eyes staring sadly towards the camera.

  “Art is everything. Without creativity I’m nothing. Without expression my soul would shrivel and die, and I’d be an empty corpse… drifting through the motions. Without creativity there is no soul, but none of them see that. They think life is about work. They think I should sail my dreams down the river in favour of a real job, a real life, like it’s some silly phase I’ll grow out of, like I’ll realise art is a silly nothing pastime and settle down to an average, boring, mundane existence like everyone else. They think I should give it up. They’d never say that… but it’s true…”

  Her eyes were watery lakes of hazel and earth. God, she was beautiful in her innocence.

  “…they think I should give up on everything I care about. They think I should give up on my art. They think I should give up on you.”

  My throat tightened.

  She smiled at the camera. “Don’t worry, they don’t know about this coaching thing. They just know I like you. They think it’s some other silly pointless dream thing I have going on. I guess it is.” She sighed. “I’m supposed to be a woman, an adult, yet all the world sees is a stupid girl who doesn’t know anything. Who doesn’t know what she wants, or how she feels, or what’s important. I mean, sure, they humour me with the whole university thing, pretending like I’ll do a degree and get it out of my system and find some proper job to do when I leave, but I don’t want their normality. I don’t want to meet some okay guy and settle down to an admin job and knock out a couple of kids in my mid-twenties and forget I ever had a soul. I don’t want any of it.”

  My stomach knotted.

  “I want more than that… I want so much more than that…” She stared at me through the screen. “I have this… darkness… inside me… it’s more than a muse… it compels me, consumes me…” Another breath. “I’m not like other girls.”

  A tumble of thoughts, all at once. Thoughts and memories. Of me, of Anna, of that wistful girl I’d met a lifetime ago, saying those exact same words before my lips pressed against hers and we found each other, truly found each other. I’m not like other girls. Helen’s eyes and her soft breath, wanting the same thing, needing the same thing, some validation, some other lonely ship on the waters. Needing someone, needing me.


  A teacher. She needed a teacher.

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. Focus.

  “…can you see me? Do you see me? Sometimes it feels like you do, when we’re talking in class… or when you look at my work. Sometimes I feel like you see through my pictures and straight inside me. Like you get it. Not just the art, but me, too. That gives me hope, you know that? The hope that I can one day be myself, totally, not beholden to anyone or anyone else’s ideas of normality…”

  She closed her eyes, and I watched her eyelashes flutter with her breath.

  “…other times it feels like I’m all alone. I mean I have Lizzie, I love Lizzie… but…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. It’s just one of those times. I guess I feel alone today.” A long breath and I couldn’t take my eyes off her soft lips. “I feel alone… in a houseful of people, in a world full of people… I still feel alone…”

  And I felt alone, too.

  Teacher and man collided. They knocked heads, and fists, and somehow they drew a truce, a middle ground. I opened the comments window, stared at the flashing cursor for seconds that felt like hours before I tapped out the words.

  You’re not alone.

  I pressed send as a knock on wood sounded through the speakers, and there was a sudden fear in me. As though those simple words had condemned me, doomed me to some terrible retribution I didn’t yet comprehend. I heard the ping of my message being received, but Helen didn’t look, she didn’t see. Her languid body jolted to life, her face disappearing off-screen, body tense at the creak of a door. “Helen, I just wanted to talk to you… about dinner… I’ve spoken to your dad about the panto… he says that…”

  And the screen turned black. Disconnected.

  I logged out and pushed the tablet aside. Professionalism, where the hell was my professionalism? Listening to the ramblings of a teenage identity crisis on webcam, pretending this was normal, that this was coaching, that this was in any way decent. But how could I not? Helen was my student, and she needed a sounding board, she needed a guide, a friend. She needed a teacher.