avatarDavina Kaya

Summary

A high school student recounts her experience of seducing her business teacher, a relationship that escalated beyond her initial intentions and led to complex emotional consequences.

Abstract

The narrative describes a teenage girl's deliberate attempt to emulate the dynamic from Vladimir Nabokov's "Lolita" by seducing her high school teacher, who is seventeen years her senior. Initially, she views the seduction as a game, studying age-gap relationships and employing various tactics to gain his attention. The relationship intensifies as they engage in secret communications and eventually a physical encounter at his home, which leaves the girl feeling conflicted and manipulated. Despite her initial perception of being in control, she realizes that the teacher may have taken advantage of her, leading to a reevaluation of the power dynamics and her role in the relationship. The story concludes with the teacher leaving the country after expressing a desire to continue the relationship once she turns eighteen, leaving her to grapple with the aftermath of their inappropriate connection.

Opinions

  • The author romanticized the idea of an age-gap relationship after watching Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of "Lolita."
  • She believes that the teacher, Lewis, was weak and seeking validation, which made him susceptible to her advances.
  • The author prepared extensively for the seduction, studying age-gap dynamics and joining online communities that glorified such relationships.
  • Despite her research into the potential dangers of student-teacher relationships, she underestimated the moral and legal complexities of her actions.
  • The author felt a sense of power and control initially but later questioned whether the teacher was manipulating her feelings of agency.
  • She experienced cognitive dissonance, struggling to reconcile her perception of being the pursuer with the possibility that she was actually being preyed upon.
  • The author expresses discomfort and regret about the physical intimacy that occurred, recognizing that the situation had gone too far.
  • She suspects that the teacher had a history of inappropriate relationships with students and that she might not have been the only one.
  • The narrative suggests that the teacher was aware of the inappropriateness of the relationship and attempted to avoid scrutiny by planning to continue the relationship after she graduated and turned eighteen.
  • The author reflects on her experience with a degree of ambivalence, hinting at possible long-term emotional effects, such as Stockholm Syndrome, and acknowledges the complexity of her feelings towards the teacher.

I Was Obsessed with Lolita, so I Seduced My High School Teacher

It wasn’t supposed to go as far as it did

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

When you’re sixteen, time passes by real slowly — especially during high school.

Day in and day out, you’re in the same place, with the same people, studying the same irrelevant subjects.

And I was bored out of my mind.

So, when I came across Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita movie, I was intrigued. And, unfortunately, heavily romanticized it.

With all the angst, energy, and time to spare, I chose to recreate the same dynamic with my business teacher: an American man seventeen years my senior.

It was supposed to be harmless fun, a wild goose chase — something to help me trudge through the last year and a half of high school.

I never thought it’d turn into anything.

But it did.

To say Lewis was a respectable authority figure was a stretch. Simply put, he was never meant to be a teacher. His need for validation made him weak and eager to please.

Despite this, he was one of the most attractive teachers at our school. And while I’d love to say he was tall, dark, and handsome, I’ll stick to the truth instead.

With an average build, salmon-toned skin, and a symmetrical face, he’d covered the bare minimum. So he became the target of a sixteen-year-old on the prowl.

As part of my plot to seduction, I took on a side hobby: Studying the nuances, dynamics, and complexities of age-gap relationships.

This was a game to me, a test of how far I could stretch the boundaries of what was allowed.

I watched movies portraying age-gap relationships, read student-teacher romances, and joined Tumblr communities dedicated to ‘age-gap love’ and teacher crushes.

While others focused on their university prospects, hobbies, and social life, I’d read the online musings of self-professed coquettes, equipping myself with all the knowledge needed to seduce my teacher.

Alongside my masterclass in seduction, I read articles written by women who’d been abused by their teachers. They detailed the shame, victimhood, and trauma they experienced after being taken advantage of.

I knew I had to traverse this carefully, playing with fire without getting burnt. So, I focused on the power of suggestion, doing just enough to arouse his masculine nature while letting him deal with the moral dilemma of it all.

Although, to this day, I’m not sure he faced any dilemma at all.

With the theory covered, I was ready to get to action.

The first step was looking more womanly while maintaining a youthful appeal — a blend seemingly vital to seduction.

On days I knew I’d see him, I’d wake up one hour earlier to create a makeup look that screamed, “Look at me, but not for too long.”

A barely-there smokey eye for plausible deniability, subtle blush for coyness, and lipgloss to allude to the undeclarable.

Next, I’d apply all the flirty tips and tricks I’d learned, faking playful naïveté amidst a cloud of double entendres.

I started relying on his help for small matters, being the last to leave the classroom as I, for example, “needed help zipping up my backpack.”

I’d also probe about charts, graphs, or tables during class. We’d huddle together, hovering above simple diagrams that I’d overcomplicate to establish a new physical proximity as our status quo.

When I felt extra daring, I played the bratty, clumsy fairy. I’d wave my limbs about, huffing and puffing at how “difficult” the question was, resulting in a not-so-accidental brush of our legs.

Over the next few months, these instances slowly redefined what was normal in our relationship.

I also joined his after-school business club, where he provided extra help to students who needed it.

Since he wasn’t a spectacular teacher, many thought it a better use of their time to self-study, twiddle their thumbs, or count the specs of dust floating about in direct sunlight.

But not me, of course. I thought he was fantastic. A teacher who deserved all the praise and awards and medals for being the best, most fun, and relatable teacher, like ever.

So we got more ‘us’ time.

I probed into his life, digging into his previous relationships, travels, career, dreams, regrets, and family dynamics. Ooo-ing and aaa-ing at every opportunity I got to make him feel like a man: appreciated, cherished, and respected. Things that, by the looks of it, he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He was, after all, a beacon of unprecedented wisdom, insight, and knowledge.

Or so I made him feel.

Things escalated when he started to reply to my after-school emails on unrelated topics: memes, song recommendations, and articles.

But the tables turned when he moved our conversations to Google Hangouts — Gmail’s chat function — enabling a feature that’d automatically delete our chats after twenty-four hours.

We started a back-and-forth conversation that’d continue into late nights and rekindle during the day, with knowing glances exchanged in the classroom.

It was my little secret — our little secret — one that made me feel naughty, bold, and powerful.

But did I have the upper hand? Or was he letting me feel like I did?

Our ongoing conversations and exchange of pictures bred familiarity. My femme fatale facade was crumbling, and I warmed up to him, confiding in him about my worries, hopes, and ambitions.

It went from a just-for-fun pursuit into a place of odd comfort. One where I pondered the possibilities and consequences of what was happening while enjoying the intimacy created by something that was just ours.

Soon enough, we started talking about riding off to the mountains for a weekend getaway.

I didn’t actually want to do any of that. Since I’d always assumed he’d be moral enough to never physically pursue me, I didn’t consider the weight of my words.

To me, it was all roleplay and fantasy.

But one day, he suggested we go on a date. Not in public, of course, as “people might see us,” but on a homemade sushi date. At his place.

While I’d developed feelings for him, I was uncomfortable being his serious romantic interest.

Why did he want to take this further?

Wasn’t this just a harmless game?

A thrill-of-the-chase experience for us both?

But I felt bad for stringing this man along all these months. I thought I owed him a date.

So I accepted.

We planned to meet up at his place after his business club. I took a taxi from school, telling my parents I was off to meet my friends.

His bachelor pad was as expected. Nothing special nor memorable — guitars, alcohol bottles, and gym equipment, with poorly wiped surfaces matted by veils of dust.

He had a sushi kit and a bottle of wine waiting for us on the kitchen counter, with a separate, more expensive bottle on the side. He’d gift this to me as a seventeenth birthday present.

From the get-go, I was tense. I played it cool as usual, embodying the role of a free-spirited teenager excited to meet her lover.

But deep down, I knew it shouldn’t have gotten that far. I had no business being there — and I never strategized for such a scenario because I never thought it’d happen.

But I didn’t want to feel powerless like those women I’d read about. I told myself I wasn’t a victim. I wanted it, I sought it, and I got it. It was my choice.

I thought if I repeated it to myself enough, maybe I’d believe it.

As we sipped wine and made sushi, my unease subsided. Or rather, I doubled down on the wine to suppress my anxiety.

After nibbling on our wonky sushi, we sat on the couch, discussing everything and nothing, as usual. At some point, he reached into the nook beside his couch and offered me some weed, but I politely refused.

I was tipsy but fully coherent by that point, and we ended up cuddling: me on top of him, feeling him harden beneath me as he caressed my back.

Even through my haze, I knew this had gone too far. I felt powerless and taken advantage of.

I had to leave.

So I excused myself, telling him it was getting late and I had to return before my parents questioned me.

The next few days were a daze.

Did I really want this? Surely. Why would I go to his place if I didn’t? I was, after all, a fully grown, newly-turned seventeen-year-old, capable of making well-informed decisions.

As he’d always say, I was “very mature” for my age.

If I put a stop to our little dalliance, I’d confirm to myself that I knew this wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t have gone this far, that he was a predator.

I couldn’t face the idea that I wasn’t the pursuer, that I wasn’t in control, that it wasn’t on my terms.

To bridge the cognitive dissonance, I reiterated that I wanted it: An internal monologue that played over and over and over again to override any thoughts that said otherwise.

And we kept talking as usual.

I went to his place once more after that — no alcohol involved. And for the first time, I saw him for who he was.

As he serenaded me on his guitar, bellowing some folk love song while looking deep into my eyes, my internal organs coiled from the cringe.

There was my teacher: Raw, suitless, stripped of his supposed authority, trying to romance the student he was meant to protect, guide, and set up for success.

What the fuck am I doing here?

After that, he insisted we watch a scary movie. He wrapped his hand around me as I dissociated from the fact that I was cozied up with a thirty-four-year-old weasel.

Did no one his age want this man?

That same day, he tried to kiss me. We were talking about my previous conquests, and I was listing all the guys I’d kissed and where they were from.

With an uneasy sigh and shaky exhale, he said, “What about an American?” As he leaned in for a kiss. I turned my cheek and laughed, switching to an unrelated topic.

How could he be this bold?

Where was his moral compass?

Why was I questioning the ethics of this relationship more than him?

Has he done this before?

Was I the only one?

A couple of weeks later, at the end of the school year, he was seen out having drinks with a recent female graduate.

My stomach turned inside out.

When I questioned him, he promised me it wasn’t like that, that it was all coincidental. He was “out with a bigger group of fresh graduates who’d dispersed,” leaving him with her.

Right.

He said I was the only one he’d ever felt this way with, that he wanted me to be his girlfriend, but we had to wait until I was eighteen and graduated.

At that moment, all my fears were confirmed. I was not the pursuer but the pursued. And likely not the only one.

Soon after, he told me he’d taken up a teaching contract in another country, saying he couldn’t bring himself to teach at our school anymore. And a couple of months later, he was off, running away from the consequences of his actions and starting afresh.

I’d love to tell you that this is where the story ends. That I never saw, spoke to, nor heard from him again. But I’d be lying, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s complicated.

Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it’s Maybelline, but the rest is a story better saved for another time.

Nonfiction
This Happened To Me
Personal Essay
Memoir
Coming Of Age
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