Chapter 2

One day in class while Charlotte was having fun with her students, she called on Malcolm Wilcox to solve a problem on the board by saying “You’re up Mallory.” When came forward, she noticed how red his face was. As he sidled toward the blackboard, she noticed his hands crossed at his crotch as if to hide something. When she realized he was indeed “up,” she figured that he had been fantasizing about her. Becoming short of breath her face turned red.

Defensively, she said, “I’m sorry to have made fun of your name, Malcolm.”

About a week later, she opened her mailbox and found an envelope addressed in a familiar hand. There was no return address. On a plain sheet of paper was a typewritten poem:

*Mallory vanished while climbing Mt. Everest in 1924

When Charlotte showed the poem to Giordino he said, “Frankly, my dear, Mallory seems to give a damn,” a play on Rhett Butler’s last words in Gone with the Wind. But I think, my dear Charlotte, you might be getting yourself into deep shit. Maybe you should ask that he be assigned to another counselor.”

The school year ended two weeks later. All summer long Charlotte was haunted by having called Malcolm “Mallory” and watching him come forward that day in the classroom sporting an erection. She knew he wrote the poem. But how can this kid be so God-dam confident? He’d been flirting all along and Charlotte was still astounded that he could hold her gaze so fearlessly. What made it worse was how much he turned her on.

The first day in that fall term she was even more astounded when she found a note in her box that read, Dear Ms. Speaks, I have a serious question that I need to ask my counselor. Can we set up an appointment for after school today? Mallory.

Charlotte told the school secretary that Malcolm Wilcox would be checking into the office. “Give him the message that I will see him in my room at 3:45”

She was in a dither all day, stammering in class and making mistakes on the blackboard. One of her students said, “Are you alright, Ms. Speaks?” Placing the class on their honor she went to the teacher’s lounge for a few minutes to collect her thoughts and try to get her erratic breathing back into synch. When she got back, they were concerned that she was OK. The boys of course fantasized about having sex with her. The girls looked at her as a mentor, an older sister figure. Looking quite young for her age none of them expected that she was over thirty.

Nervously waiting at her desk when Malcolm Wilcox walked into the room, she couldn’t imagine what kind of question he would be asking her. Typically, it would have to do with his curriculum requirements for college. As a sophomore, he was a bit young to have questions about college though, so she sensed that whatever it was it had to do with her. “Why have I led him on,” she asked herself.

She had grown accustomed to male students ogling her. Usually defusing that by returning the student’s gaze in an aggressive, stern manner, though she loved being thought of in that way. But with Malcolm, even as a ninth grader, there was something deeper about this young man; his ogling coming out as deep analysis. Though she knew better she would sometimes allow herself to swim in the pools of his eyes. I wonder, she thought if he even realizes what he’s doing to me. She never experienced these exchanges without feeling moisture seeping between her legs. And that POEM. Castigating herself for jokingly calling him Mallory she thought of the words, “Are the peaks I seek as worthy ... As those holding G. H. Mallory?” she wondered, is he referring to my breasts? Of course, he is.

She jerked with a start as she heard, “Ms. Speaks. Oh I ... I didn’t mean to startle you,” coming from the boy standing suddenly beside her desk.

Her voice was tight as she said, “You didn’t, Malcolm. I was wrapped up in a difficult calculus problem.” JESUS, my panties are soaked. Why did he have to come here TODAY? “Sit there,” indicating a chair in front of her desk.

“So,” she said, trying to segue into some kind of comfortable dialogue, “Did you have a good summer?” The conversation was choppy, each telling something they did.

Just when she was ready to query what the Wilcox boy had come to ask her about Malcolm asked, “Did you get my poem, Ms. Speaks?”

“Um, yes I did, Malcolm.” The silence was awkward before she said in a threatening, discouraging way, “Why on earth did you send that to me, young man?”

“You called me Mallory, Ms. Speaks.” Clearing his throat, he went on, “I ... I wanted to let you know that I knew who George Mallory was. And I wanted you to know that I ... I write poetry.”

“Have you been writing poetry for a long while?”

“It’s the only poem I have ever written.”

When she peremptorily quoted: “Are the peaks I seek as worthy ... As those holding G. H. Mallory?” Malcolm’s face turned red.

“By peaks, I was referring to your superior intelligence, Ms. Speaks.”

It was her turn to blush. Either this young man is very quick, quite sincere, or both. Whatever, I have to put a STOP to this. “I apologize for misreading the intent of your words, Malcolm. But it’s not appropriate for you to write poetry to a teacher that could be construed by the administration or the PTA as romantic.” Giving him a sincere but brief smile, she said, “Personally, Malcolm, I loved the poem. But there will be no more of these. Do you understand?”

Gathering papers on her desk to indicate that the interview was over she expected to see the disappointment on his face. But he kept his seat, his eyes gazing intently into hers. His expression was neither hangdog nor challenging. “I apologize for making fun of your name, Malcolm,” she said, “It won’t happen again.”

“Mallory?” he asked. She nodded. “I loved how you called me the name of that great man. The guys were asking me what you meant. I told them you were joking. I wrote the poem that night.” Subtly lowering his eyes to her breasts, he murmured, “I wrote it as a way of praise, not disrespect.”

She couldn’t keep from blushing as she said, “Never again, Malcolm. Have you GOT that?” He didn’t respond. “I guess we’ll call this meeting over.” Expecting him to get up and leave she was intimidated by his refusal.

Any other boy his age would have lowered his eyes in defeat and would have gotten up to leave. Malcolm’s were still swimming deeply in hers when he said, “My mother calls me, Malo. Dad says it’s too soft, like a marshmallow. But I like that she refers to me that way. I love that you called me “Mallory” though. It’s not soft in any way. He died there ya know—George Mallory?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered trying to rush the meeting. “I think...”

Interrupting her he said, “But the reason I asked to meet with my guidance counselor, Ms. Speaks, is that I have a very serious problem that I need your help on.” All summer long he had prepared for this meeting and vowed that he would follow through with it no matter what the consequences. He knew Charlotte Speaks liked him, really liked him.

Courageously he plodded on. Having gone through puberty he had been masturbating in his room every day, often as many as three times. The feelings he had for Charlotte were the same ones that had grown in him for his mother. Both women were strikingly attractive. Both related to him in a mature almost confidential way. Each of those times he went to his room to masturbate he left the door open a crack in hopes that his mother would walk by and catch him in the act. He was eventually rewarded with the knowledge that his mother had peeked through the crack and had watched. “You might think this is weird Ms. Speaks,” he said in frustration, “but I have been um ... I have been um ... I don’t know who else to talk with this about it but um...”

Morphing immediately into her professional role Charlotte’s attention became riveted. She wondered if the boy might have been molested or something. “Don’t be embarrassed, Malcolm. Just tell me what it is that you are trying to say.”

“Um I have been um,” he hesitated just like he had practiced so many times. “Having...”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been having thoughts of having sex with my mother.” He said it as if the sentence were all one word.

Blown away by what she thought she heard Charlotte said, “Can you say that a little more slowly, Malcolm?”

“Geez, Ms. Speaks this is so hard. Um ... I’ve been having fantasies of having sex ... with my um ... mother.”

She had one such conversation with another boy in the past that presented her with the same dilemma. Like now it was incredibly hard for her to deal with. She thought of the woman she had met in parent/teacher conferences, the woman she had seen at the supermarket, Agatha Wilcox. She thought she was extremely attractive. But she seemed so prim and proper. How could a woman like that have any thoughts of illicit sex with her son? Malcolm had said it bold-faced, gazing deeply into her eyes. She wanted to crawl under the desk. At the same time, she realized that her nipples were tingling.

“Should I tell my mother, Mrs. Speaks? My father is a minister, what if he were to find out?”

Taking a deep breath, she eased it out and said, “It is not uncommon for children to have taboo (she wanted to make sure she used that word) feelings toward their parents.” She wasn’t prepared for what crashed down next.

“I think my mom wants to have sex with ME.”

She knew this conversation was way above her level of expertise. It went deep into the dialogue about teenage boys and their raging hormones, and how surreal thoughts sometimes flooded their brains. She spent the next half hour telling him about exercising more: taking cold showers, positively denying the feelings ... and incest’s taboo implications and illegality. Finally, she said, “I hope the conversation has helped you, Malcolm.”

“It’s good to get it out in the open with someone you admire and trust,” he replied. Thank you for being so understanding. GEEZ, Ms. Speaks I thought I would never work up the courage to tell you THIS.”

When he disappeared beyond the door she gasped, “Phew! That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” For the first time she realized what the intensity of the Wilcox boy’s magnetic gaze was all about, “And the little bastard has been undressing me all the time,” she uttered.

After school, she met Jim Giordino for a drink and told him about what had happened. He laughed and said, “The little bastard is a calculating son of a bitch, isn’t he? He knows you’re getting hooked on him.”

“I’m NOT, Jim,” she said, her voice seething with anger.

“From your mouth to God’s ears, Charlotte,” he said with a chuckle.

“Can I come over to your place, Jim?”

“Later you mean?”

“No; now ... I’ll stop and get a pizza. Do you have beer?”

When she got to Giordino’s house she set the pizza on the table, dropped to her knees, and unzipped him, sucking him fiercely until he came in her mouth. It was midnight when they reheated the pizza and cracked the beer.

“That boy has got your number, Charlotte.” He said. “We’ve never made love this fiercely unless you consider the time you showed me that poem. Looks like ole Mallory is going to assault your peaks, Ms. Everest...”

After the wild night of sex with Jim Giordano brought on by her meeting yesterday with Malcolm Wilcox Charlotte felt wiped out. From the time she got to Jim Giordino’s last night, it was a marathon without stopping to eat. Kicking back for an hour at midnight they had pizza and beer then went back to bed. Still horny, Charlotte was unable to sleep. She awakened Giordino with a blow job and resumed the sexual onslaught ‘til just after two a.m. Failing to wake Giordino with her hand she sucked him to no avail. Still limp he awoke from his deep sleep and cried “Uncle,” telling her she had not only worn him out, “You’ve made my balls feel like they’ve been pounded on all night with Thor’s hammer.”