The Geography Lesson

March 14, 1945

Thinning, soot-coated remnants of winter still clung to naked tree limbs even as barely seen buds pushed through layers of winter bark.

Driblets of muddy water swept over curbs into thousands of miles of gutters, then combined and surged to become gushing streams that poured from all directions of the compass into the fast-flowing currents of the Chicago River.

Wanting this endless day to end, squirming restlessly on the hard oak seat of his desk, paying scant attention to the droning, slightly accented voice of his sixth-grade teacher, his eyes half closed, Mitchell Lipensky gazed through the dirt-streaked window.

The war, so far, had brought no great calamity to either family. Myra’s brother, Sheldon, was somewhere in Italy reconstructing airfields that had been destroyed by the retreating German army, while Ira, Walter’s youngest brother, had spent the duration in Colorado as a clerk “rubber-stamping” documents.

Radio, newspapers and movie newsreels claimed decisive victories for the Allies throughout Europe and Asia, and Americans knew that it was only a matter of time till it “was over over there.”

Slumping lower in his seat, stretching his legs forward, the toe of his shoe nudged the heel of the boy sitting in front of him, and the boy, as though awakened, started and fleetingly looked over his shoulder, then he, too, looked out the window.

Checking to be sure that Mrs. Lefkowitz was not looking in his direction, touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, Mitchell put it through the opening of the small packet of Sen-Sen that was in the breast pocket of his shirt, then licked off the seven or eight tiny, licorice breath-sweetening confections.

Looking at the multi-colored map that was pulled down like a window shade in front of the blackboard, he tried to comprehend his teacher’s words as she pointed to the map with a wooden yardstick, but his brain seemed to be covered with a layer of gauze, and his wandering mind wandered to his tracings and, as happened so often then, his penis, completely uninvited, began to stretch his underpants.

Recently, using his comic books, enlarging the breasts and filling in the nipples and crotch as best as he could visualize, he had taken to tracing pictures of women onto tracing paper and had an assortment of naked women, as best as he could visualize, ranging from Wonder Woman to Archie’s girlfriends, Veronica and Betty, hidden in the recessed top of the built-in hutch in the dining room.

Second from the end, his seat was in the row closest to the window.

Slouching, his Jockey shorts had hiked into his groin, and by putting his left hand into his pocket and stretching his finger through the hole he’d discovered when his nickel fell out, by ripping the hole further he was able to push two fingers through, to beneath the elastic band of his underpants, then, looking about to be sure no one was watching him, and with the possible exception of Tobey, the girl that sat directly behind him, no one was, Mitchell hunched forward, slumped lower and by angling to the right, unless Tobey went out of her way to look, he was able to hide his lower body. Pulling it through, his penis then jutted at a left angle through and from under the elastic band of his shorts and up through the hole in his pocket, and with absolutely no show of motion, he began a squeezing, rolling motion beneath the glans, till, Uh-oh, better stop! But his fingers, as his penis, seemed to have minds of their own and no part of his body obeyed. Straining the material of his pocket—squeezing, rolling—he tightened his knees—rolling, squeezing—pushed his legs forward and sat upward in his seat then, remembering where he was, slouched again… Stop! Why won’t his fingers listen to his brain? And within moments, with a rapid intake of breath, sensing the beginning of his orgasm, constricting his thighs, groin and rectum, Mitchell’s nervous system taking over, he jerked upright and…

“Tach!” Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Tobey whispered, “Mitchell! Can’t you sit still, even for a minute?”

He felt the warm spurts of sticky semen in the palm of his hand, and…

His squirming and, although she’d whispered, Tobey’s words had caught someone else’s attention.

“Mister Lipensky,” Mrs. Lefkowitz said, pointing the yardstick at him, “would you please come forward, go to the map and define the eastern, pre-war boundaries of the Soviet Union.”

Thinking, Oh, my God! he rose slowly, and slower yet made his way to the front of the room.

“And for goodness sake, Mitchell, take your hands out of your pockets!”