Everyone likes a good headline, and as good headlines go, 'Teacher 'wanted to be boy's sex slave'' is a fair cracker of an attention-grabber. Better still it's not even from one of Unkie Rupert's scummy tabloids, springing as it does from the supposedly less-sensationalistic subbies of the Fairfax empire. The story singularly fails to disappoint:
Nazira Rafei, 25, appeared in Melbourne Magistrates' Court this morning charged with four counts of wilfully committing an indecent act on a child under 16, sexual penetration of a child under her care, supervision or authority and making unwarranted demands. Documents before the court allege she assaulted a student from the western suburbs school by touching the boy on the genitals through his clothing, kissing and hugging him in February and March this year. One charge alleges she lay on top of the boy in the back seat of her car, pinched his nipples and told him to "treat her like a sex slave".OK so that is from Unkie Rupert's goons but the Age had the better headline. Regardless, it's everything you want from a story. It speaks to an eternal standby of teenage fantasy immortalised in popular culture, from film - if you can call the early-90s Claudia Karvan-Alex Dimitriades vehicle The Heartbreak Kid popular - to of course music, from Van Halen's Hot For Teacher to the Casanovas' 10 Outta 10. It seems that throughout the history of male adolescence, everyone has had the fantasy of their year 12 maths teacher draped laschiviously across the back seat of their car, begging to be treated like a sex slave. Everyone except me, it would seem, as my year 12 maths teacher was a crusty, fusty, doddering old relic, vaguely resembling a lobotomized Fabio Capello and propped up solely by Valium and whiteboard marker fumes. In fact my high school was unremarkable in every way save for its total and overwhelming lack of crumpet-licious goodness on the teaching staff. Even the giddy twenty-something blonde IT studies teacher wasn't really optimal, as she had teeth like Makybe Diva and was commonly (and one might say aptly) referred to as Milo, on the basis that she most certainly wasn't Quik. That nickname worked better before they renamed it Nesquik, but the march of time claims all my friends, including incredibly witty write-offs for giddy twenty-something blonde IT studies teachers. In hindsight it was probably a good thing for our school that it wasn't a dumping ground for early-career and in particular first-year-out teachers, as in the NSW system at least the young 'uns usually get sent to busted-arse schools in busted-arse suburbs like Mount Druitt; our more elderly staff spoke to a more established and secure teaching environment. Although at our school they could speak to it all they liked, not a chance were we listening to the tepid old fuckers.
So, for the sake of the quality of our education, it was a good thing in hindsight that we weren't inundated with a swathe of twenty-something trainee educators with as much idea about how to teach as they did how to score with someone their own age. However, looking back through the eternal beer goggles of fifteendom, I don't remember seeing things quite the same way. Which brings us back to Miss Rafei of Roxburgh Park High (right.)
From the comfortable long-term-relationship position one finds oneself in these days, one can say she's... a'ight. Not too flash, not a face to launch a thousand ships (a ten foot tinnie with a two horse outboard might be the extent of it)... but a'ight. Maybe on a dark night with a prevailing wind. If she played her cards right. But when viewed through the hormonal haze of adolescence - a half-dozen years of desperate delusion best described by the Goodies' mission statement, i.e. We do anything, anywhere, anytime (or at least we would have if given half a chance) - and airdropped into the irrevocably naughty teacher-student fantasy that Professor David Lee Roth et al have previously commented upon - Miss Rafei suddenly looks a lot better than a'ight. And finding oneself trapped in the back seat of her car with her casually slipping the whole sex slave deal onto the negotiating table, sounds like the best idea since Mr Bread bought his first slicer. The nipples thing you could take or leave, but it's always good to see a bit of creativity, even if slightly misguided.(Just noticed the wedding ring on her hand, too. Someone's not been doing their job properly. If in doubt, outsource. And as Maccas knows very well, juniors are cheaper.)
And yet, before you can say 'victimless crime', it all goes pearshaped and Ms Rafei finds herself up before the beak for nothing more than seeking to express the love that dare not speak its name (largely because her tongue was down his throat at the time.) And that's what we're left to presume about the nameless complainant in the case, that he prefers the company of shaft. Because why the fuck, and/or how the fuck, do you say no in that situation? It is your duty as a debilitatingly toey teenager to take Miss Rafei up on her word. You are nothing less than a failure as a man - and will be a failure to ever become a man - if you do not. Yet, in the words of the Age:
Police also accuse the teacher of making an unwarranted demand by harassing the student last Monday not to disclose the relationship. During a brief hearing at the Melbourne Magistrates Court yesterday, Rafei's lawyer, Steve Pica, told the court that the case was "likely to attract a fair degree of media attention".Thanks. For. That. Wasn't aware Captain Fucking Obvious had taken his bar exam.
Anyway, the point is, there's only one way the Fuzzy Muff would be privy to that sort of information, and that's if the little twunt ran to mummy (and thereafter Cuntstable Care) and cried his little eyes out about what the bad lady with the short skirt and no visible panty line was making him do. Instead of finding out whether Ms Rafei banged, as the informative entry in the lads' cubicles no doubt indicated, like a dunny door in a gale.
Said it before, said it again. Generation Y: fuckin' soft.
(Interestingly, if you are partial to a bit of this sort of thing, Roxburgh Park seems to be the place to send your young lads in order to make sure the practical elements of their education are taught by experienced teaching professionals rather than the year ten bike. The Age:
It is the second time in two years a teacher at a Roxburgh Park school has been accused of performing sex acts on a student. In July 2006, Roxburgh College teacher Natalina D'Addario, 37, of Kensington, was sentenced to four months' jail for having sex with a 15-year-old boy.If it was the same 15 year old boy it might be understandable why he's getting a bit sick and tired of it.)
Of course, given the advent of Web 2.0 with its focus on user-driven content, what our nameless, gormless pseudo-male should have done is plainly, plaintively obvious. Instead of videoing and YouTubing your mates next time they head around the school next door to kick some peon's head in, bring a bit of those Paris Hilton styles to the boudoir. Then, once you have enough shoddily-recorded material to put her career in serious jeopardy, it's time to play the game beloved of Hollywood starlets and Wollongong council planners everywhere: BLACKMAIL! With the YouTube-mediated demise of her professional career as her only alternative, all of a sudden your favourite nasty little teacher will be oh-so-willing to get down on her hands and knees to do those dirty, filthy, disgusting things she knows you want to see her do. Like cleaning the oven.
In conclusion, it's that dramatic absence of creative thinking, that lack of entrepreneurial spark, that really makes me despair for the next generation.
I blame the teachers.
The Doctor is OUT.
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