godlikeme

Posted by tolik gavnoed on January 25th, 2019

Mitchell kept in touch with several of his former teachers. I guess he respected the profession he went into more than he acknowledged. 

One such friend or mentor was Holger, his art teacher in high school, a European and something of a moralist. He told Mitchell in a talk about his work at the college that touching students was unacceptable. He held that any physical contact at all by a person in authority was connected to rape. Mitchell disagreed. His students were adult, if young ones. Respect was mutual. But on reflection and seeing how he felt carrying out his usual practice of touching arms or shoulders of people he talked with in class as he moved around he saw Holger might be right. His contact was gentle, felt good. He thought students also enjoyed the friendliness and would miss it if it stopped, but Mitchell saw that the good feeling that welled up in him on contact, skin to skin, the familiarity it brought, could, if sustained, build into the aggression of sex. It was part of the same continuum. He felt bad at the prospect of no longer touching students, wondered what other joy he'd have to give up. There seemed fewer and fewer. 

He had his eye on me, but we barely had any contact, conversation much less physical. One day by chance we took the train home at the same time. Mitchell usually drove but that afternoon his car wasn't available. We talked hesitantly at the station, finding our way with each other. Even that occasion went other than he'd wished, Mitchell told me later, when we were close. A gang of rough boys had interrupted us. He'd felt something wet on his shoulder once, twice and looked up and saw the group on the next level behind the brass filigree fence and bannister (which gleamed). They were cramped together, some gripping others for support, as if otherwise they would have fallen over from laughter, which they tried but failed to suppress, while doing their best not to look our way, down, let on it was they who had targeted, bombarded us. Their joy at Mitchell's reaction showed in their grins, their frenetic motion, the energy that radiated from them, they couldn't contain. 

Mitchell saw they had been throwing spitballs or something. That was the wet. The boys were very young, not more than twelve at the oldest, some very small, even looked slightly undernourished but streetwise. Mitchell wondered if their badness went as far as criminality. Did they pose a danger? 

He moved to chase them off. They went willingly, acknowledging their weakness in relation to an adult, did not challenge Mitchell, attempt to fight him. Mitchell said he'd felt embarrassed on my behalf. He'd hoped to show me a gentle world, one in which only beauty and tenderness were present, but now he wondered if such a world even existed. For every lovely feeling, impulse- love, tenderness, generosity- the kind he felt for me, wanted to share, he said- there existed countervailing hard, dark currents of aggression, violence. That was life. That was nature. Animals and humans inhabited the same territory. 

Mitchell said he'd felt distraught that day, his high hopes on meeting me for the ride home tumbled to the opposite extreme of despair. He said the light and dark, late afternoon in open air subway station had seemed to mirror his feelings. Warm sun beams alternated with stark shadows that looked as impenetrable as steel. He described to me how the light had flickered at the edges of my hair. He's a photographer and saw that, as we stood facing each other trying to talk, shy, I was backlit. The light colors of my hair showed, he said - it's not completely black; suffused with sun it looked brown, russet, almost sand- the scene reminded Mitchell of the beach- "Can you imagine that? Can you see it? I guess not." He'd felt such gentleness then- he laughed, acknowledging his talk of violence just finished- and at the same time wanted to pounce on me, bring us together, forget the talk, right there on the outdoor platform with the sound of the train roaring. He said the light flickered around my head like a sunstorm.

"You tossed and turned your head like this," he said. 

"Like what?"

I'd worn a bare-shouldered top- deep yellow coarse cotton, a little stiff, not new, faded, straps- one might have twisted. Maybe I'd turned to straighten it, then checked the other. 

Did Mitchell see it as flirting? 

Was that what we were both doing, motion taking the place of words that failed us, came and went like a bad connection, and were hard to cope with anyway in that noisy setting- the background sounds became a roar, almost soothing- yes, reminiscent of the beach, if you let your mind go there. And in the sun, when it hit, words melted away and with them their meanings.

I laughed in turn. Mitchell conceded- bragged- he wasn't a moralist like his former teacher. But was he even an idealist, as he portrayed himself? Or were his high-minded words then part of his seduction technique? Both could be true. 

—

Mitchell took photographs of the students in my class, not all but it seemed like most. He announced it as a project. Later, a lot later, he told me his real purpose was shots of me but he couldn't ask for them directly. Including everyone made his true objective less obvious. No one, least of all me, would know that I was the only "model" he wanted to shoot. 

Trouble came as the project proceeded. A colleague of was in the room when a student (not me) came to Mitchell to look at the photos he'd printed of her (he had them all in a portfolio). Until then, Mitchell's friend- no one outside the class- knew about his photographing us. 

His colleague got curious, not to say suspicious, asked Mitchell what he was up to. Mitchell explained he was doing an art photography shoot of the group. 

"Did you get releases for it?" the other man asked. 

"Yes," Mitchell said. Then, "Well, no. I asked everyone's permission, of course. But no, I didn't get it in writing." 

"You know there's a form to fill out," Mitchell's friend said. Students were to sign. Mitchell was to subject the document to the office. He hadn't- too much trouble- or to avoid drawing attention to his work. 

Mitchell's colleague addressed the rest of us, students who had all returned to the room from break by then. 

"Let me make an announcement," he said. "We'll overlook it this time, but in the future if your teacher asked to make any record of you please make sure he follows the proper procedure. It's for his own sake. I know you care about him." Mild laughter came. Students saw the other teacher at the head of the class was being funny. 

He continued, serious but keeping the moment light, wanting to correct Mitchell's behavior without embarrassing him in front of his class. 

"He knows he should, as when you go on a field trip." (On those and other occasions students had to sign releases affirming their consent to time spent outside the college; if one hundred percent did not agree to participate, no trip would take place). 

Turning now to Mitchell, standing at his side, he said to him, in the same loud voice for the benefit of us all, using humor but to nail home the the point he believed important, "If you ever use any images of students in a way not authorized by them or in a way that brings a stain on this college." He looked at Mitchell keenly and repeated, "a stain on this college"- he clearly was referring to masturbation, the stains Mitchell's semen- so it seemed anyway!

He faced the students again to complete his statement, "if that happens, your teacher will be in prison." 

Mitchel knew his coworker was joking but thought, "How can he speak with such certainty? Prison could only follow a trial and conviction. I might be acquitted!" 

I told Mitchell, "I like your older face (don't worry). The older a face is, the more complicated and more interesting it gets. Lines show your character." But there was a limit. After a point, when wrinkles are too many, a face looks just old; age becomes the dominant element; overshadows others. 

Mitchell said, "Finally we're cooperating. I'm so glad." Words to that effect. He was sitting and I was too, on top of him, facing the same way. His arms looped my waist. His penis was inside me. He moved his hands all around, freely enjoying texture and shape. My skin looked light. He could move his cock and bring feeling rushing through us both. Later he said he wondered if the rapist had by chance held me in the same position. It occurred to him he could have done anything. Mitchell couldn't know everything he'd done. He might have liked that position. It gave total control of my movement, if that was what he wanted. I'd told Mitchell in general what had happened during the rape and some details, but not all, and he hadn't asked, I guess out of consideration for my feelings. Telling all about anything isn't possible. Any experience is limitless in its details. Look at this diary: one hundred episodes and it hardly scratches the surface. 

With Mitchell behind me (we were in almost the same pose, he sitting on the couch and I sitting on him), I thought of a parade I'd gone to see in the city with friends. Space for watching was narrow. A string line separated spectators from parade route. I felt a man pressing me from behind. Conditions were cramped. There or so rows of people crowded together. All the same, anyone could recognize his touch as unnecessary, deliberate. But there was only so far I could go to get away from it. Advancing further would have meant stepping across the line onto the parade route and exposing myself to public scorn. It would have been like walking off a cliff- well, maybe not that bad. 

godlike
porn
free porn
gay male
male porn
gayporn
pornmale