The year was 1943 and we were in the middle of the War. I was in junior high school and enjoying the school environment very much. To anyone else, I was a typical nice kid who excelled in art and was having fun being on the school football team. Due to being sick in grade school, I was a year behind my year group and, therefore, a year older than my classmates. We lived on an acreage on the edge of town a little over a mile from the school. My older sisters had preceded me in school and had done well, so I always got the benefit of the doubt with my teachers many of whom had taught them as well.

Some of the teachers were new. One, Mrs. Jones, was an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties who gave us a class in library or reading twice a week. We marched to our classes to keep order in the hallways and I will forever remember marching to her classroom which was in a basement area. The reason why will become evident. The walls were stacked with books from floor to ceiling all around her classroom. She would lecture for a while about books and then let us browse the stacks to become familiar with the various pages containing information on the author, publisher, year, etc.

She taught this subject to all of the grades in the junior high school from sixth through eighth grade. Most of us thought of the class as a place to relax since the only thing we really had to do was read books. One day in late spring, she said we were to all choose a book to read and that she would check it out to us just like the regular library. We were turned loose to browse again and I came across a book with an English Spitfire fighter plane on the cover. I glanced at a few pages and saw that air combat was involved which was the deciding factor for me. I closed the book and took it to her desk where she was checking books out to other students. It was called "Malta Story."

She looked at the book's cover, then at me, and said, "Are you sure you want to read this?"

Her question surprised me, so I said, "Yes, it's about airplanes and the War, isn't it?"

She answered, "Well, yes, it is, but (long pause)--well, all right." She then filled out a card and had me sign for the book. I took it back to my desk and began to read it since there was still plenty of time left in the period.

As I read the first several pages, I noticed that she kept looking at me. Her reaction to my selecting this particular book was very perplexing since it was only about an RAF fighter pilot protecting the island of Malta in the Mediterranean against German bombers. When the bell rang ending the class, I could still see her watching me out of the corner of my eye as I left the classroom. That evening, I returned to the book since I was in love with airplanes and wanted to read about the dog fights. But, as I continued to read, it became all too clear as to why she had hesitated about lending me the book. The fighter pilot was shacking up with a girl and the descriptions of their love scenes were explicit.

I was no different than any other boy my age and thought often about sex. I had even drawn a sex comic book which took a long time since my own artistry always made me stop to play with myself. There was no doubt that I was now reading the book with one hand. During the next two days I jerked off into more socks than seemed decent. I had read and reread the pages with the sexiest passages so often that the book would fall open to those pages if opened up on a table.

The next time we went to that class, we were to bring our book and continue to read in class. Most students would not have finished their reading and I pretended that I had not as well. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the teacher watching me almost continuously as I pretended to read my book. My head felt hot so I figured my face was red knowing she was watching me. I knew she knew what I was reading and was embarrassed. So when the bell rang at the end of the period, I was petrified when I heard her call my name as everybody was leaving. I went back to her desk.

She asked me what I thought of the book so far. Not knowing what to say, I said it was great. She smiled and said, "You chose a book that is a bit advanced for this class. If you have any questions or want to discuss the story, I would be glad to go over it with you."

I told her that wasn't necessary, but just to have something to say I told her I wasn't sure about how to go about writing the book report. By this time, I was so anxious to get out of there, I didn't know what I was saying. But, she tried to put me at ease, or at least that's what I thought when she said, "You know, maybe we should discuss the book and how you would go about writing the report. But, I have to leave the classroom since the janitors are going to be making repairs here this afternoon. I only live a block from here, so if you have time, we could walk to my place and go over everything after school today."

Now, things are different today when the idea of a student going alone to a teacher's house is absolutely verboten. But, in those days, it was not unusual at all for students to visit teachers' homes. I had been invited into their homes by much older female teachers on more than one occasion. Sometimes I would shoot rabbits and take them over to their houses all dressed and ready to cook. I didn't want to go to her house. It was just too embarrassing knowing what the book contained. It scared me that she would discover how it had gotten me sexually excited. I really didn't want to do it.

Mrs. Jones had always seemed to be somewhat stern and solemn in the classroom, but my uneasiness was related directly to that book, because she already must know that I was aware of the "dirty" stuff and would surely find out about my own pecadillos (i.e., jacking off) while reading it or so I worried. But, now her demeanor seemed to have changed and she didn't sound threatening at all. Still, in order to get out of there, I agreed to meet her after school. I would figure out how to get out of that later.

For the rest of the day, I thought about how I could tell the teacher that I had to go home because of my chores, etc. But, because I had been raised to be honest, knew I could never pull off a lie with anybody. Finally, I resolved to go through with it, but would try my best to make it a very short affair. That afternoon I met her in her classroom, and was again surprised about how congenial and friendly she was. As we walked to her apartment, I began to enjoy our conversation which had nothing to do with the book. I found out that she was married and her husband was in the Army in the Pacific. She seemed like a totally different person and I began to feel very much at ease with her.

When we got to her house, she told me to have a seat on her sofa and she opened up the windows. It was a warm spring day and I was wearing very loose light thin cotton pants and a short sleeve shirt. My teacher came back into the room and asked if I would like something to drink. I told her a Pepsi Cola would be fine if she had it. She brought in a bottle and glass and then poured a red colored liquid into a goblet for herself. She then sat down on the couch right next to me. We were practically touching. I could feel her warmth.

She asked if I had the book with me. 'Oh no,' I thought, 'not the book!' as my earlier ease switched to tension.

Then she looked down at the coffee table where I had placed my books, and said, "Oh yes, here it is," as she picked it up. The teacher leafed through the book and then handed it to me saying, "Why don't you read some passages that you particularly liked?"

I quickly went to a page describing a dog fight in which the fighter pilot had shot down a German bomber and then got into a fight with a Messerschmidt. She smiled as I read it I knew I was not out of the woods when she took the book back and paged through it to the soiled pages I had practically memorized and handed it back to me saying, "Now, this is the other aspect of the book, read some of that and tell me your reaction."

I was devastated. She would somehow find out how I had been aroused and played with myself while reading that stuff. Adults always seemed to know things like that. With a very red face, I began to read where she pointed; they were the most explicit passages of the couple's sexual encounters in the novel. Under my panicked circumstances, I figured I would not have my normal reaction which was to immediately get hard.

Unfortunately, I must have reacted in Pavlovian fashion since my penis pushed up my pants as I read the words. I couldn't believe my body betraying me as I continued to read aloud. Then, I realized that her body was against mine so her closeness must have been a contributor. She also smelled good. I stopped reading and looked at her; she was smiling.

"That was very good," she said. "Now how did you feel when you read those passages?" I said I didn't know, lying the best I knew how. But, she persisted, and said, "You see, those passages were written to get a reaction from you, and I can easily see they have had an effect." She was looking down at my lap where my penis had made a tent out of my loose pants. "You see," she said, "it affected you because you have gotten an erection."

I could have died at that moment as I looked down to see my pants propped up by my penis. But, before I could say anything, she asked another question. "Now, how do you think the same thing affects a woman?" I was so embarrassed about my condition that I could say nothing since I thought this was evidence that I masterbated (in those days practically a mortal sin) while reading the story.

She answered her own question by saying, "A woman does not have a penis, but she is affected, nevertheless. Would you like to know how that occurs?" I just nodded dumbly, so she put her hand over my pants and touched my erection and went on to explain how my reaction was male but a female has totally different reactions, and would I like to see what that is like.