Carole Pearce

Careers 1969

 Life categories ‘Careers’, ‘Love’, ‘Money’ ; she often chose a  20:20:20:  formula as a child to win the board game. Loves to win, spot the main chance, sadly ignorant of the bigger picture. Even now the pattern repeats. She feels destiny tickle her toes as she wickedly smuggles deep into the delicious beachfront Blackpool hotel bed, courtesy of   the Department:  An Easter week long Physical Educational course, Archery. She already enjoys the sport, simply fancies a free holiday, and the Certificate will eventually help her teaching career.  Tangy sea air pervades the draughty bow windows under the heavy, gently glowing, copper velvet curtains, her gorgeous young toothpaste flavoured gymnast husband slides beside her, bountiful backlit Adonis.   Anticipation, hints of spicy aftershave, a stomach thrilled with three full meals a day, tropical overpowering central heating, a cutting, vicious east wind blasting their Rococo palace; she sighs, replete, sets her target. There are about a thousand other young teachers gathered for this varied Easter vacation training programme. Palpable excitement floods the testosterone-loaded coaches to and from the daily sessions, ambience free zones. Squads of   vigorous young studs keen to conquer brightest, fastest, best. Coy power females obviously doing the choosing.   Carelessly clouded in fragrant Freesia, soon their birthdays, she jokes it’s time they had a baby; stupid or programmed? Driven by a deep primordial urge to complete her pleasure, it’s her move. She could ask for anything right now. Instead of thinking, she lies back, giggles, enjoys the moment. Breathes in, fills with a sense of utter contentment, already mentally satiated, fat, gorged, in total control, hugs herself. Central figure in her own shimmer pink docudrama, monumental naiveté; she’s confident her new perfume will do the trick. Keeping her distance, she draws in her young flat tummy, thinks – next year I’ll be a mother !  Arrow sharp.  A no-brainer. Eagerly reads her mood, brushes her arm, he’s got his promotion, hates condoms, and being a PE teacher, thinks only of scoring soon. Understanding his consent, she hovers, moist, prepared, exquisitely composed, unaware that her entire life is about to lodge squatly at the bottom of the economic ladder: No warning gong of doom, no red flag. She takes a moment. Lifts her face above him, encircles his neck, kisses him with more tenderness than she has ever known or shown, holds nothing back, as though the quality of this offering will determine the outcome. Without a benign sky fairy, or god of any persuasion watching, waiting to slap him back on track, Adonis is in for a late night. Remembers his team is playing away, hopes he can catch the result later. He plans a departmental ski trip soon. Val D’Isere is practically snow sure in February.  Better not mention that at the moment.  Tentatively, a winning tactic, he reaches out, pulls her into his arms, presses her into his hollows. Birmingham could slip to the bottom of the league; rolls her beneath him, masterly. Her heart floods with gratitude, quiet pride, knowing he will never let her down. She bites around his collar bone ferociously, scrapes those tanned broad shoulders, back. Feels the need to be in command. Experimentally, wriggles down, nips and laps sensitive inches of flesh, inner elbows, kneecaps, hip joints. Dominatrix, on a roll, pins him against fresh white linen, forces his arms flat. Lightly strokes his powerful legs, magazines stress the need for differentiation; ardently rakes his thighs, enjoys his rising excitement. Going for gold. Target practice or what!  Blindly she burrows into his safety zone, drinks in his body smells, feasts voraciously on his firm strong flesh, explores her nesting site:  Bullseye! Heady fragrant solid walls of warm seductive muscle wrap around her, gym workout getting a result, has he set the alarm for the overseas cricket report tomorrow morning? Wordlessly they rock in unison, melting into each other.  She rears up onto him, nips his ears, nuzzles his neck.  Reeling, he gazes at her, pleased, surprised, covers her face and neck in firm sweet kisses, picks up the pace, lets his rhythm flow. Defensive play no longer an option, with a bit of luck they should thrash the Aussies. She lets her sensual, sexual self swim in a dizzy giddy swoon of ecstasy, float on a wave of gaudy desire, whilst her scheming self makes sure he won’t regret it.  Canny. Absorbing his energy, heat, and passion she blinks, time seems to drop away; best case scenario, she’ll be resigning this summer. She visualises ‘home, family,’ newly discovers her life plan, sublime comfort. Classes of over thirty, her workmates will be green with envy; to give up inner city teaching!  Eldest of three daughters, she loves being first, should have two before she’s thirty. A whole new identity sweeps in upon her, no idea where this new self comes from, wild, unstoppable. Most probably get her maternity clothes in the summer sales. They are closing down loads of shops in the precinct. Shifting into a lower gear, delicious soft pure kisses fuel the giving of pleasure; create a fresh layer of commitment, dedication. Extending foreplay, swaying, rolling, they savour their slow satisfaction, testament to their future. The pram should fit snugly under the stairs. Let’s hope the new neighbours are child-tolerant. Generous lips pay sweet attention to eyebrows, temples; cheeks press together in a tender physical promise, to love, honour, cherish.   Obey the breeding imperative. They hold on to each other as one, believe in the silent mutual pledge of total loyalty. Mothercare have their sale soon! Lungs almost bursting, never happier, wildly ecstatic to have taken this irrevocable step, she gasps at the intensity of her orgasm. She’s really getting this right.  Living Bliss!   Forget any thoughts you ever had of   Travel, then.   Fodder. 

Proof that limited education keeps the British teaching workforce topped up, 
stultifies the senses, deadens higher consciousness; crushes creativity, arbiter of  taste.

Forty years later, wryly recalls Blackpool, modest expectations, her ruin and salvation. Blame that 20. 20. 20. formula. Small semi, daughter and son within three years, finally made Head of Department: Fair share of ill health through relentless Government led curricular policy changes.  Be careful what you wish for. Having cleaved those lower rungs, slogged away at the chalk face for almost thirty years, they count themselves fortunate to have their health, thank god for P.E. fitness. Those 60’s   dudes knew how to rock ‘n roll alright; see she’s smiling!   Shame


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