Why I Didn’t Sleep With My College Professor

Even though I wanted to...

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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 I.

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, 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 ’t 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 informed me of the work I was expected to do and the deadlines by which I was required to submit 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, but 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 by them. 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 like 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 offer 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, I came to understand what was happening.

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 was necessary for my school work. I would do my best to visit places where I knew he would 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 over 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 letdown 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 discussed schoolwork and how my essays were progressing.

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 on 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 it 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.