Novid
Note: This was originally posted by a Michael Goodspeed on his blog. But it was one of his best essays i wanted to post it here: (Original Title is called Classroom Sex, The Goddess and Her Devotees)
[i]Authors note: The following essay features frank and adult language. Please do not presume to know my intentions without careful and sober consideration. Your discretion is advised.
The other day, I was watching one of those TV shows that's done in the style and format of a news broadcast. I refuse to call it news, because despite the best efforts of the Hearst Corporation, Time Warner and Rupert Murdoch, in my mind that word still connotes something truer and more dignified than militaristic propaganda or salacious entertainment. Instead I'll call what it was -- a spiffy 60-minute production that produced in me an erection and the firm conviction that I require at least three more prescription drugs in order to continue walking and breathing.
Some grinning blockhead named Matt Lauer was interviewing a woman named Debra Lafave, a drop-dead "hittable" blond high school teacher with the rack of Jane Russell and the lips of Marilyn Monroe. She looked and sounded almost identical to another woman who appeared on the show, Paris Hilton. Something else they had in common -- they had both recently been convicted of crimes. Lafave pleaded guilty to having sex with a 14-year old student. While Hilton was convicted of being Paris Hilton -- a personification that entails constant drunkenness, insatiable nymphomania, and every imaginable form of social irresponsibility.
Even though Hilton enjoys the privileged benefits of personal trainers, manicurists, and every other perquisite of the rich and abominable, I found Lafave more attractive than Hilton in every way imaginable. And I'm not alone in my feelings; Lafave is a goddess in the eyes of venereal males everywhere. And her behavior is part of a trend in the United States -- female teachers who are married or single, ugly or pretty, fat or thin, childless or parental screwing their male students seven ways from Sunday.
Glorified game-show hosts like Matt Lauer pretend to be mystified as to why this trend is occurring. But there are no mysteries here. There is only either the honesty and willingness to see, or the determination to remain blind.
The average woman reaches the apex of her sexual ripeness at the age of 43. Her libido increases for decades after puberty, along with her overall sensuousness and pleasure-giving abilities. She improves like a fine wine, until she peaks, and slowly declines. For males, sexual maturation is more like a Mexican firework -- it explodes spectacularly and kills dozens of bystanders, then immediately flares out and begins to die. But it takes forever to die; it just sits there stupidly burning and billowing smoke.
Everyday all around the world millions of blue-balled teenage boys sit trapped in classrooms with eminently desirable and blazingly horny schoolmarms. What lunatic social engineer contrived to place these volatile compounds in such dangerous proximity to one another? Imagine the relief both parties must feel when the fires of their loins are briefly extinguished in the blessed aftermath of a sexual explosion.
We grown men hear of Debra LeFavre and countless others like her, and we have no choice but to flee to the bathroom and frantically masturbate. We can't help but imagine what it would have been like to have been that boy. In a way, it's reverse pedophilia. We think, Yes teacher, please defile me in the most exquisitely satanic and bestial manner. When we hear of male teachers having sex with female students, we might fantasize about that too. But sometimes we have the decency to feel guilty about it. Not because society tells us to, but because the vicarious roles have been reversed. And we imagine how we would feel if some ignominious fiend like ourselves had laid his hands on our daughter or granddaughter. Is this hypocrisy? I don't know, but I do know, like all male beasts, that I wish I had had a teacher precisely like Debra Lafave when I was 14.
When Debra Lafave walked the floors of her classroom, she felt the lascivious eyes of every pubescent young man, these eyes burning her flesh and caressing her clit. She was beautiful and she knew it. And she felt her power over her students, even more than the power of a dominatrix over a submissive. But the power of a goddess. She was more than Paris Hilton, or Angelina Jolie, or any of those soulless, silicone beasts that have come to permeate our entire lives. She was Aphrodite. And her blazing mane was her wet and inflamed cunt. Its flames danced and teased at the heads of all below her. And for one chosen -- and many would say lucky young man -- the conflagration enveloped him, perhaps coming close to incinerating his being. But in all likelihood, doing him no harm.
But this is not to say that Lafave's actions were more right than wrong or more sane than insane. Even if we dismiss all moralistic interpretations of grown women having sex with pubescent males, the fact remains that the female pedophile's motivations and desires are similar to those of the male pedophile. They're not looking for relationships based on mutual love, affection, and equal responsibility. A pedophile has no more interest in those things than a bloodsucking vampire. What the pedophile seeks is the godlike thrill that comes from controlling, enslaving, and even destroying another human being.
We are a generation of men who are programmed to worship at the altars of porcelain mannequins and inflatable sex dolls. Little girls in the United States are instantly aware of this perverse, collective idolatry by male beasts. They sense the energy field coursing through the air around their skin. And they know that in order to absorb this stream, they must become ideal capacitors for its electromagnetic frequencies. This means transforming themselves into objects of worship and obsession. Billions of human beings pray to the very gods before whom they tremble in fear and want and pitiful desperate aching privation. One need not love a god in order to hand one's soul to it.
Debra Lafave's husband may have loved her, but he did not worship her. She could never arouse in him the wonders of terror and joyousness and transcendent excitation that she so easily evoked in her teenage lover. And the taboo of it all only made it more enticing. No one who has inherited the power of a god can easily walk away from it. Power is more addictive than love. Because it, like a drug, inflates and elevates us into strange and unpredictable stratospheres, but can never keep us permanently afloat. It can never provide any lasting satisfaction.
This is not a simple matter of predator vs. prey, or evil vs. good. We live in a society of revoked and disempowered human beings. No real control over our lives, at least not in any sense that matters. No control of our government, or any of the institutions that shape the direction of the culture. Limited ability to truly make life better for ourselves, and our loved ones. In the absence of genuine personal power, human beings are reduced to begging animals. And the idol to whom they beg is either an external god, or the god of their own egos. And neither can ever succeed in giving them what they really want.
Debra Lafave wanted to be Aphrodite, or at least Paris Hilton. Instead, she'll have to settle for being Debra Lafave -- similar to so many other 21st century Americans in ways that hurt and maim. Social deviants and outcasts with no families or careers or even a country to call their own.[/i]
