Why I Didn’t Sleep With My College Professor

Even though I wanted to.

Let’s call him Mr. A …he was fascinating.

Of course he was.

Not only was Mr. A a professor at my college, but he was also a published author. Listening to him was captivating. It wasn’t long before I developed a child-like infatuation. Still, it was safe to feel that way because I knew there was no way in hell I would ever have anything to do with him.

First of all, to my knowledge, he had some sort of girlfriend. Second, he was my professor. Third, I was 18, and he was 23 years older than me.

However, as I discovered about a year later, all of those reasons weren’t an impediment at all.

School Business

The first time I took one of his classes, a Writing Workshop, I was very excited. After all, I was going to learn from his brilliant mind.

As weeks went by and being the perennial teacher’s pet, I did my best to be at the top of the class so I could gain his approval. When all of my papers started to get A+ grades, I was over the moon. Soon, the semester ended, and I thought that would be the end of my interactions with him.

However, about a year later, luck gave me a chance to be close to him. Turns out, there was a Literature class I needed to take but did not fit my schedule. My counselor told me, “you could wait a year, or take it as an independent class, under the supervision of a professor. I think Mr. A is available.”

I almost stopped breathing. This was perfect, not only was I going to take the class I needed, but I was going to get to work with him. The little girl in me was thrilled.

Something You Want

Once the semester began, I showed up at his office. He told me the work I was expected to do and the dates in which I was to hand in my assignments. I had to write some papers, do some interviews, and even take some pictures.

I was more than happy to do that. Not only that, to know that Mr. A, an actual writer, would be the one to grade my work made it extra challenging. I was quite aware that my infatuation remained, but, just like in the beginning, I didn’t expect anything to happen. In my mind, this was similar to fantasizing about having sex with a Hollywood star — fun to think about, but unlikely to happen.

Then, as part of the work in another one of my classes, I had to write a sort of biographical note on a person I admired. There was one catch: we had to take it to that person and have it signed. Now that I think about it, it sounds more like an 8th-grade assignment, but at the time, I didn’t have to think much to figure out who I wanted to write about.

I drafted the piece, got good notes on it, took it to him, and left. I almost feel a wave of tenderness when I think about Young Me…so naive, and so eager for his approval.

A couple of days later, we crossed paths in the school hallways. He stopped me to ask how the assignments he had given me were going. I gave him a brief report. Then, he paused, took one step toward me, and mentioned he had read my piece about him. “Fuck,” I thought,” maybe it was poorly written.”

He stayed quiet for a little bit. After what seemed hours, he looked me in the eye and said, “there is something you want…and I can give it to you.”

For a moment, I stared at him, not sure of what he meant. You see, my autistic brain sometimes takes things too literally. Something I want? Well, I want to be a published author. Is he going to help me with that? Read my work and give me suggestions?

Yes, the infatuation was there, but it didn’t even cross my mind that he was talking about something else. It couldn’t be. However, in the following weeks, sure enough, I understood what was happening here.

He wanted to have sex with me just as much as I wanted to have sex with him.

A Kiss

During the rest of the semester, we engaged in what I can only describe as courtship. We would talk more frequently than it was necessary for my school work. I would do my best to visit places where I knew he was going to be, for example, his favorite coffee shop. He would call me at home or work.

On one of such calls, he told me, “come to my office…after 4 pm.”

Being punctual and eager to please, I showed up right on time. Once I was there, I understood why he had asked me to come precisely at that hour.

Everybody else was gone. We were completely alone. And I was not displeased at all.

He stood up to greet me and walked to me. I approached too. Once we were close enough, he grabbed me and kissed me.

It wasn’t a good kiss at first. I could tell he was trying, but I guess he came in too hard and was having trouble with his “delivery.”

The kiss ended, and, for a moment, there was a bit of a let down on both sides. I mean, after so much sexual tension, this was kind of disappointing. So, I kissed him back and, not to toot my own horn, but I can be a very good kisser. The fact that, once I let go of him, he was out of breath, gave me the confirmation I needed.

Then, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened, we talked about school work and how my essays were going.

From then on, whenever we got a chance to be alone, we would kiss. He would sometimes even slide into second base. He was good at it…

If we saw each other in public, we would kiss in the cheek. On one occasion, I don’t know why, I failed to do so and just extended my hand. As he shook it, he said in an urgent tone, “Kiss me on the cheek.”

I promptly obliged.

As things escalated, the moment came when he asked, “what is that you want?” As the child I was, I told him I wanted everything. I implied I wanted a relationship, although I did my best not to make it sound like that.

Today, so many years later, I have to give it to him: he didn’t laugh, nor did he lie to me. He explained this was not possible because he couldn’t be anybody’s “everything.” I was disappointed, yes, but then he kept on talking.

“Have you ever had sex?” he asked.

For a moment, I thought about lying, so he would think I was cool and sophisticated. However, I figured he would see right through me, so I decided to stick to the truth.

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

“Have you had boyfriends?” he asked again.

“Yes. But we didn’t have sex. We came close to it, but…” I let the sentence explain itself.

He stared at me. “You are 19, right?”

“Yes,” was all I managed to say.

He paused for the longest time.

“You are old enough now,” he said. “It’s about time you grew up.”

At the time, those words pushed on all of my shame buttons. Fuck, he probably thinks I am a little girl.

Now I know the appropriate answer was, “what the fuck makes you think you get to be the judge of that?”

Don’t you hate it when you think of the correct response 20 years too late?

Contempt

Soon, we started discussing how we would go about it. At first, we decided we would use condoms but, when I began to take the pill for health reasons (and also to have sex), we thought it would be best to wait until the pills kicked in.

I didn’t understand it then, but now I see that, to him, waiting a bit more was worthy since that meant sex without a condom. No, at the time, it didn’t occur to me to think of any STDs.

I was half excited, half terrified.

On the one hand, he had explained to me how he would never force me to do anything I did not want to do. On the other, even though I enjoyed our making up sessions, it was clear to me I was not prepared to have sex and found myself impeded to tell him so.

Then, on a faithful day, as we were chatting, it seemed that he had judged the time had come. I had been on the pill for over a month now and was, therefore, “ready.” Still, he sensed my hesitation and told me how I should just get it over with because all of this wasn’t a big deal. It was just sex.

In a way, he was right. Sex is sex. It doesn’t have to end up in a relationship, and it can be something two consenting adults do just because they want to have a good time. Still, as young as I was, I could tell that, even if love was too much to ask, I wanted to feel safe and appreciated.

Had he stopped talking after the “it’s just sex” line, maybe this would be a whole different story, but, once again, he kept on talking.

He said how, when he was my age, he used to suffer a lot because of women. “Women used to be a mystery to me,” he explained. Then he added, “but after I was with several of them, the mystery was over. No big deal.”

Yeah, he said that.

And it wasn’t just his words. It was the contempt in his voice, the dismissal…the scorn.

My face must have reflected my disappointment because, in a rush, he added, “then, of course, other mysteries arrive.”

Bullshit…

The Breakup

After that conversation, I started to pull away from Mr. A. I admitted to myself that, as much as I liked him, I didn’t really want to have sex with him. I showed up to hand in my assignments on their due dates, and that was it. No more conversations, no more visits after hours, no more make up sessions.

A few weeks later, he called me one last time. He did some small talk and then went straight to business. Could we have sex today?

I stayed quiet for a few minutes. Finally, I found the courage to speak up.

“It’s not going to happen, “ I told him.

He paused for a moment. ‘Why?” he asked at last.

Why?

It was a funny question. I knew the answer, and yet, I couldn’t put it into words.

“It just won’t,” I said.

“Ok,” he replied.

After School

As time went by, here and there, I heard comments from other girls who had been close to him. Some of them would say, “well, he said he wanted to watch a movie with me.” Others would explain how he, “gave them advice on their academic future.”

On all of those occasions, the girl in question would have a quiet smile on her face — the kind of smile I used to have.

Yes, it felt great to have his attention. And yet, when I was with him, I never could shake the feeling that I had to prove my worth. That being me wasn’t enough. I had to be someone else…someone that pleased him…

He never forced me. He didn’t threaten to fail me. Still, when I think back at those days, I can see the subtle manipulation. There I was, a 19-year old kid who thought she was smart enough to deal with a 42-year old guy who, literally, had been doing this for years.

He was an artist at moving right on the edge of my boundaries, probing here and there. And, for the most part, I let him.

As much as I wanted to sleep with him, I did not trust him enough to go ahead with it. Not only that but, the more I got to know him, the more I realized that, to him, this would just be a fuck. Nothing wrong with that, by the way, but it was not what I craved. It has taken me a long time, but now I understand I needed an emotional connection, and I wasn’t going to get it from him. He tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.

The one thing I resent him for, it’s shaming me for not being “experienced,” for pressuring me into thinking there was this supposed schedule in which I should have sex to prove I was mature.

I came across him a few times, here and there, in academic events in my city. The first few times, we would say hi and even chat a bit, but it has now been years since I last heard of him.

I don’t know if the still works at the college I went to. Come to think of it, I don’t even know if he is alive. For a moment, as I wrote this piece, I considered googling him to find out. However, if there’s a little something I have learned, it is that some things, once we have learned from them, are best left undisturbed.