Hollyox
For the past five minutes, Quent had sat, slumped back into the weathered brown sofa, whilst his tutor, the Revd Mark Olsen, had droned tonelessly about the Doctrine of Creation. Quent had no interest in the subject - in fact, he had almost totally given up any care or interest in his subject whatsoever. Despite being fairly crucial to his own existence, the creation of the world raised no more interest than the size of Michael Barrymore's swimming pool.
His thoughts had, in fact, wondered onto the topic of women. Not just any woman: the woman, his woman - or more realistically, his soon-to-be woman. Hopefully. Hannah Mayfair - a woman blessed with the femininity of a thousand baby spiders gracefully floating over white lace, spinning their webs all designed to ensnare Quent. He drifted through their candlelit dinner, their post-date kiss, their first sexual encounter.
"You see, Quent, when I'm making love to my wife, I like to think it's social and cultural, not simply biological." The Chaplain's words had snapped Quent from his fantasy, sharper than heroin's triumphant burst into the brain. Edging forward in his seat, Quent desperately strived to lose eye contact, maintain his courteous nodding and keep his thoughts away from such mental images all at once.
The Revd Mark Olsen was a vividly repulsive-looking man, blessed with a God-fearing personality and a steadfast conviction that he had done something to offend God that reaped the reward of a face worthy of Peter Sutcliffe's deeds. His snout was angular, his lips crooked and often caught with saliva edging its way towards the freedom of his jaunty chin; his neck sagged turkey-like with excess skin drooping over his dog-collar onto an enormous mass of lard that formed his middle.
Quent had never met his wife, but would have bet his future children on the fact that she had never graced Playboy with her presence. In fact, chances were he had probably caught more than a glimpse of her on that ironic IT lesson visit to www.myladymature.com. Either way, a mental image of the Chaplain chugging away was enough to cause a stroke in the healthiest of boaties.
Several minutes after 'that comment', the tutorial had settled back into its usual rhythms - Revd Olsen's everlasting speech plodding along methodically, Quent floating in and out of reality and rationalised romance, both wasting a perfectly good hour of their oh-so-busy weeks. But once again - from nowhere - a clanger sliced through Quent's visions of Mayfair: "For me, you see, masturbation isn't a sin." And on the Chaplain carried, leaving a shell-shocked Quent in his wake - another image burning out several thousand brain cells in an instant.
It had been a long tute - an hour merging into seeming eternity, on issues ranging from God's design of the penis ("a thing of such utility, suited so perfectly for a range of uses"), the necessity of the pleasure of an orgasm ("when my wife screams, I cannot help but think of God's infinite wisdom") and the mating habits of the common shrew ("without which, evolution quite probably wouldn't have occurred"); yet somehow all related to the problem of evil. Finally, however, Quent's misery was over. He stood and walked to the door, only to be stopped by the Chaplain's neat and crisp utterance: "Quentin?"
Quent turned, unaccustomed to the use of his full name. "I've just realised who you remind me of; Jude Law." Unsure how to respond, Quent allowed impulse to take its course.
"Are you flirting with me, Chaplain?" he replied with a nervous smile, before purposefully strolling through the door to freedom, and the possibility of a cheeky wank (seeing as it wasn't a sin) over thoughts of Miss Mayfair.
As it happened, flirting with Quent was the exact intention of the Revd Mark Olsen. He had read of the decreased strictness of sentencing tutors for sexual relationships with their students with gleeful anticipation. Quent had long been a target - yet one that still seemed somewhat unobtainable, despite his best attempts to (how do the youngsters put it?) 'big himself up'.
Hearing a knock on the door, Revd Olsen permitted his next tutee to enter - a charmingly looking 19-year-old with enticing green eyes.
"Ah, Smarmington. Do take a seat. Now this week we're looking at sexual ethics. Do you mind if I touch your leg?"
If you're obsessed with your tutees call our free helpline or our extortionately-priced horny students hotline. Whichever you fancy, really.
3rd Feb 2005