Page 71 of Sex Ed

‘I haven’t got to the good bit yet,’ she protests.

‘There’s more?’

‘Well, it’s a feminist piece about a woman who is fed up of the patriarchy. It’s symbolic. You told us last time to think of the undercurrent, the hidden meanings of our work.’

‘It’s filth, that’s what it is,’ Frank mutters.

‘Well, it’s a darned sight more interesting than your shitty poems about birds.’

I close my eyes slowly. And there was me thinking educating teens was all the trouble I was going to face as a teacher. ‘Donna and Frank, enough. This is a safe space for everyone to share their work openly and there is room for both. Even if it’s not your cup of tea, I ask for respect. Please can you say sorry to each other…’

They exchange mumbled apologies from across the desk though I see Donna has her middle finger up subtly which I would call out if I didn’t find it so funny.

‘I like the premise, Donna, but the execution needs to be more subtle. There is no build up, no tension, you’ve gone straight for the jugular.’

She looks annoyed by the criticism. ‘I’m getting people’s attention from the off.’

‘Or putting them off. The shock factor is off the scale. You need to draw them in first,’ I explain.

I see her scribble down notes, not that she will pay attention to any of them. Every month, she comes to these creative writing lessons with pages of porn that make me worry for her husband, Terry, but also make me think I should be pointing her towards Wattpad to help top up her pension.

‘What does teabagging mean?’ Iva asks, reading through Donna’s story in front of her. Iva is Czech and she comes to these lessons to try and improve her English. She writes short stories, murder mysteries that tell me who the killer is in the first paragraph. ‘Is it to do with the drink? Is it like he’s drowning in tea?’ she asks, innocently, and I shove a cookie in my mouth.

‘It’s when a man dunks his balls in your mouth – the balls are the teabags,’ Donna explains, very matter-of-factly.

The colour drains from Iva’s face. Frank gets up and storms out of the room while Yolanda cackles with laughter.

I rub at my temples. ‘Donna, I know Terry got a new hip last year, so no way does he have the balance to do that. Can you tell me where you learn these things?’ I ask.

‘I read. Reddit. I know things.’

Yolanda interjects, ‘It’s like you think we’re old and we haven’t been about. We all read that Fifty Shades stuff, we’ve lived, you know?’

‘Not as much as Esther,’ an older lady interrupts, also giggling.

‘You lot are awful to Esther,’ I say, trying to defend her. ‘She went through hell when her husband passed so let the girl enjoy herself. Stop slut-shaming her.’

‘Mia, you’re allowed to enjoy sex, but you also have to understand it comes with feelings, manners, treating people with a bit of respect,’ Yolanda comes back at me. She leans into the table, looking around for Frank. ‘She slept with Frank. Broke his heart when she moved on to the next person and he takes tablets for palpitations.’

‘Really? Oh man… Is he OK?’

‘He stopped eating. I had to go round with ready meals,’ Donna explains.

I stop for a moment to be put in my place. This I didn’t know about any of them. I literally thought they did old people stuff like crochet, make jam and jump on the free bus to the shops.

The door opens and Frank tentatively returns to the room. ‘Have we moved on yet?’ he asks.

The room goes quiet and I nod, sifting through my notes. I like Frank. His wife died ten years ago, and he comes to the community centre for sanctuary, for friendship, and gives everyone good ex-GP advice. I’m not too ashamed to say that because my mum died so young, I do get paranoid about my breasts and my wonky nipples and on several occasions he’s given me advice and reassurance.

‘Actually, I was hoping to return to your poem, Frank. Is that OK?’

He nods, curiously, taking a seat.

‘Robin, Lost. There’s a lovely line here about how his wings feel clipped, he stands looking out into the snow, wondering how long the winter will last.’ I smile as I repeat it. ‘I like that sense of solitude you’ve created. It’s subtle.’

He glares over at Donna whose face is completely deadpan.

‘The robin does know there are other birds out there though, right? Just because the winter is here and he’s out there in the cold, the summer will come, he will fly again.’

---