In 1978 when I was teaching history in a high school the voters decided to reject a property tax assessment to continue the programs we had which we educators believed to be the best in the state. As a result of the rejection we were forced to cut back on our programs. One of the programs that had received recognition for its apparent success was an extensive counseling program. Several of the school directors and most of the administrators never accepted the benefits of this program as worth the cost and so we saw this disappear.
The result as far as I was concerned was to add to my regular duties the counseling of 23 students. It is not my purpose here to go into the particulars of this duty only one student’s problems. Let’s call him Fred. He was 16 when he first came to me. He was a tenth grader with average to above average grades. He had no history of disciplinary problems but some history of absenteeism. He was a tall slender, good looking, sandy haired fellow. Over the three years I counseled him, my observation of him in class was that he seemed to be respected by others but somewhat socially isolated. I would not describe him as a loner but he did not seem to belong to any particular crowd.
The first time he came in to talk to me it was about having problems with a female teacher. I knew this teacher. She was older and often remarked that we teachers had become soft and that is why students were not as good as they had been years ago. Not wanting to be an advocate for him with this constantly scowling colleague, I counseled him to take the penalty of the previous assignment and try to do better from then on. About a month later he was back in with the exact same problem and the teacher had threatened to not only fail him but talk to his mother. It seemed that involving his mother was the worst thing that could happen so I decided to pursue why.
By carefully questioning him I gained his trust to the point that he confided in me that his mother was a drunk and on those occasions when he had not had time to do his homework he had had to take care of her. Having had some experience with alcoholism in my family I asked him how he had to take care of her. He reluctantly explained how she would sometimes pass out and he would have to carry her to bed. Other times she would get sick and he would have to clean up after her. He also explained that she threatened him if he ever told anyone.
I asked him what he thought she would do if he left her passed out on the living room floor. “You see, as long as you take care of her, she does not have to take care of herself. If she finds herself on the floor she may get herself in bed before passing out next time.” He accepted what I had said but I was not sure he had been convinced.
As it turned out he passed all his classes that year and the following year he was in my counseling group again. Shortly after school started he came in to tell me of a problem but he did not seem to be able to tell me. All he would say was he had done something so bad he did not know what to do but then he left without explaining. Several days in a row I asked him to talk to me but he refused to. At last he came in and he began talking.
On one evening, last year, his mother came home after he had gone to bed and gone to sleep. He had determined to let her care for herself. She was so drunk that she could not get the key in the front door so she leaned on the door bell. After a while he opened the door for her and she fell all over him so he helped her to her room. At the door to her room she passed out. When he carried her to her bed and rolled her down, her skirt rose up. He saw she was wearing no panties. He saw her closely cropped pussy. He was so attracted to it that he even fingered it to see what it was like.
He was able to tear himself away. He pulled her dress down and started to leave the room. He glanced back and thought that she looked uncomfortable as she lay sidewise on the bed with her feet on the floor. He went back to reposition her on the bed and he thought she would sleep more comfortably if he removed her shoes. Then he removed her stockings which were held up by a garter belt. There was her pussy looking at him. Again he was attracted to it. He admitted this was the first pussy he had ever looked at or touched. Since she was out cold he figured there was no harm in learning all he could. “Better than getting some giggly girl to let him look,” he said.
I said nothing as he fell silent for a few moments. At last he continued by saying he pulled himself away once again. Again he looked back and thought she would sleep better if he took off her dress. And covered her with a blanket. He insisted he was only thinking of her at this point but once he had removed her dress he stood long moment looking at her bra. It looked tight but to undo it he would have to roll her over. That might wake her. So what if she does, he thought and rolled her over. He released the hooks and again started to leave. He turned back and rolled her to her back. He then lifted off the bra for the purpose of making her more comfortable. He did not know what he had expected but her naked breasts with their brown nipples now captured his attention. He felt his own body responding to her beauty. He had to touch her breasts, squeeze them, and pull on them.
Still the only sign of life from his mother was her shallow breathing. He bent down to look closely at her breasts and suddenly found himself sucking on one. He suddenly pulled back and looked at her sleeping face. He asked himself what she would do if she awoke with him sucking on her tit. What would it take to wake her, he wondered? He patted her cheek. No sign of life. He patted harder. Again there was no movement on her part. He slapped her. Still there was no response from her. He slapped her hard enough for it to sting his hand. This caused her head to roll to one side and her cheek turned rosy but she slept on.
He again sucked on a tit and then reached down to finger her pussy. He had never fingered a pussy before but he found hers quite moist. Fist he only stuck in one finger but soon he had three fingers pushed deep in her. He pulled his finger out and pushed them back in repeatedly and his mother still slept.
His prick strained against his pajamas. With his free hand he pulled his PJs down and played with himself. He thought that as far as his mother was concerned there was no difference between his fingers and his prick so soon he found himself climbing up on the bed beside her. He was still a virgin at fifteen, almost sixteen. He would just stick it in to see what it felt like. She would never know. Then he would go back to his room and jerk off.
He spread her legs far enough apart to get between them. Moving up his prick came in contact with her pussy. He studied her face for any signs of wakefulness. Reaching down with one hand he rubbed the head of his prick along the moist slit. He slipped his prick in an inch. It felt good. He slid it in another inch and it felt better. He pulled back slightly and pushed in farther. That felt even better. Now he was not thinking of anything but how good it felt. Soon he was making long deep strokes.
He suddenly stopped buried as deep as he could go. This was all he had intended to do. He looked at her face. Every detail said to him she was unaware of what he was doing. His body begged for him to continue. He told himself just a little more and then he would pull out.
At this point in the telling of the story, Fred broke down in tears. To tell the truth, the telling of the story to this point had been a little erotic to me and I thought he had not had to go into detail like he had. I wanted to ask, if he had cum in his mother. I didn’t because the little I knew about counseling said to let him have his time. If there was to be any benefit for him, he had to tell it without any interference from me.
At last through sobs he said, “I couldn’t stop. Mr. Green, I could not stop.”
I had to get an answer to a question so I asked, “Did she ever find out?”
“No but…” He continued to sob, “…I made her pregnant.”
I was so surprised by his statements that I blurted out. “Well, where did she think it came from?”
He seemed to quickly compose himself and continued his story, “The next day she asked me if I had seen the guy who had put her to bed. I told her I had not and then she muttered to herself wondering why he had left without waking her. I figured I was off the hook since she thought the guy she had been with had screwed her.”
He went on to tell me that a month late his mother brought a guy named Eddie home. Fred’s mother told him she was pregnant and that Eddie was the father. But the problem as far as Fred is concerned is that his little sister is blond and fair skinned and Eddie has black hair and dark skin.
“Who gave you the idea that because you sister’s and Eddie’s coloration are different that he could not be the father? I asked.
“I just thought it myself,” he responded.
“If no one else seems to be concerned, I would just try to forget about it,” I said.
“Mr. Green, I hoped you would understand. I did something awful and I can’t just forget it.”
I decided to change the subject and approach the problem from a different direction. “Does your mother still drink too much?”
“No she doesn’t. I don’t think she’s been drunk since…” He stopped as though he was thinking something over. After several long moments of silence he said, “You know Eddie might the best thing to happen to mom. He even got her to stop smoking. They don’t go out. They screw a lot but she’s real happy and…” He again fell silent. He sat looking at his hands as though he was trying to see if they were clean.
I had no idea what was going on in his head but I let him think for several long minutes before asking, “How does Eddie treat the baby?”
“Oh, he treats her like she is his. In fact he is always saying things to her like, ‘You are my baby, yes you are.’” He paused again and then added, “Last summer right after the baby was born, Eddie’s family (his mother, two brothers, and a sister,) came to visit to see the baby. He was so proud, showing her off, jiggling her to keep her from fussing, cooing at her to make her smile.”
“It sounds like he believes the baby is his. I think you should…” I began but he interrupted.
“Don’t tell me to forget what I did. I did something wrong…real wrong,” he insisted.
“At least if you cannot forget it let me refer you to a professional counselor who can help you deal with the truth. Your problem fits the criteria to be referred…”
Again he interrupted, “I don’t want anyone else knowing. What will my mother think if I’m going to a shrink?”
“She won’t need to know and a psychologist or psychiatrist will keep everything confidential just like I will,” I tried to explain.
“No,” he said firmly, “I’ve already told you more than I intended. I just wanted to tell someone…” He stood and bolted from the room.
I could not let it go there. I spoke to the psychologist to whom I should have referred Fred and he agreed that the boy needed professional counseling. He assisted me in filling out a “blind referral.” That is, no one, neither school administration nor parent would be involved.
I thought that I had done the right thing. In my mind, Fred was calling out for help and I had provided the best available. However, it did not work out. The day that Fred received notice of his appointment with the psychologist he walked out of school and disappeared. Since he was already eighteen years old he was not considered a runaway but he was designated by the authorities as a missing person. Since there was no indication of foul play, history of abuse, or trouble at school the authorities did little to find him.
I talked to the psychologist about Fred and he suggested we keep quiet since if we went to the police we would be obligated to tell about the incestuous rape. This would make Fred a wanted man and make it public knowledge that he had raped his mother. “Better to let Fred keep his secret his own way,” the psychologist advised.
“I just hope he is living a worthwhile life,” I said in parting.
This is just one of the few failures of an otherwise successful teaching career. This one haunts me. And Fred, I know I change your name, but if you have read this there are enough clues that you will recognize your story and contact me. I need to know how you are doing.

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