He told me he was working on his PhD. He said it was on changes in the evolution of the physical characteristics of adolescent boys in the 21st century. He said he wanted me to be a part of his study. I was flattered that he had singled me out as the one student in his ninth grade biology class he invited to participate.
He told me that all of his research equipment was at his home and offered to take me there after school one day. He asked me to tell my parents that I would be working with him on an extracurricular project for which I’d receive extra credit.
The day finally arrived and I was excited. I felt special, honored. We dove to his house and went down to his basement, where his home office was. He offered me some lemonade and oatmeal raisin cookies, my favorite cookies. He asked me if I was ready to get started and I told him I was.
He said he needed to take some measurements to use for his baseline. He suggested I strip down to my underpants, which I did. He asked me if he could take pictures of me with his digital camera and I said he could. Then he grabbed a cloth measuring tape and began taking measurements. First my chest. Then my waist. My hips. My shoulders. My arm length, leg length. He measured the circumference of my upper arm, lower arm, thigh, and calf.
Then he said he needed to measure the size of my penis and testicles. He asked me to remove my underpants. I hesitated, but he assured me that it was for scientific research, so I removed my underpants.
He took my flaccid penis in his hand and measured its length and circumference. I was uncomfortable with him doing this, but he was my teacher. And this was for his PhD.
Then he said he needed to measure my penis when it was erect, like a before and after image, and he started to stroke it. I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. I tried pushing him away, but he was strong. Then he bent down and tried to take my penis in his mouth.
I saw the large microscope on his work table, reached over and grabbed it, swung it down, and started hitting him on his head with it. Over and over again. He stopped. And that’s when I called 9-1-1.
“Thank you for your statement,” the police detective said. “We’ve contacted your parents and the school. One of our officers will drive you home.”
Written for today’s Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt. Today’s prompt is “teachers.”
This fictional piece was inspired by the movie “The Tale,” which I recently watched on TV.
This, That, and the Other 
Teachers are worse than the priests.
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Betrayal in its most brutal form.
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I wish all those incidents could end like that …
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I wish all those incidents never happened.
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Even better.
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I think you nailed this very well. The worst form of betrayal, from people you should be able to trust. A year ago I wrote an article for an online over 60s group about my reflections on the horrors of my education. Of the 200+ responses at least 95% were of similar tales of brutality and abuse. I was shocked at the high rate of terrible tales of school from people both men and women of my age.
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It is apparently more common than people realize…or are willing to admit or acknowledge.
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My older brother and I went to the same Catholic high school. He told the story of the Brother who ran the uniform shop in that you never went there alone. About five years ago the same brother was convicted of child sexual assault which happened when I was a student there, but I never knew anything about it at the time. Your story reminded me of that teacher.
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Sorry if it brought back unpleasant memories.
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All good I spared you the details of somethings I knew and saw.
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I watched a documentary of DW on pedophiles, have to admit some are just misusing the system. It’s a shame that Internet has contributed to increase in the crime rate of this particular crime. A great post, but unsettling to say the least.
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Too often it is someone they trust…. too often it happens. Good post on a horrible problem.
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