Can i have sex with my teacher
I slept with my teacher and it was great (at least initially)
You already know what it is like when a young man acts out his teenage fantasy andHas sex with his teacher(and ended up sucking it up). A similar story follows from the female perspective.
I can still clearly remember the moment I saw him for the first time at the other end of the lively auditorium. His skin was pale, his cheeks pink, and his large eyes yellow like a cat's. He looked both amused and embarrassed, as if we were in an episode of Back to the Past and he just happened to end up here. I had never met someone like him before - he wore Armani suits and quoted from poetry. I immediately had a head over heels crush and even changed my graduation subjects just to be able to attend his class.
Our relationship was already drifting into strange realms when I was still in school. It all started with him lending me American novels and foreign movies on DVD. I come from a boring suburb of London — you have no idea how mature and educated I felt when I was 16 and watching Danish Dogma 95 films. After this relatively harmless start, the mixtapes, including handwritten cassette covers, continued. So my world was enriched with The Jesus and Mary Chain, Jane's Addiction and David Bowie. The mixtapes weren't just for me, but for a small group of his chosen fans. That made us feel very special. I wonder why the other teachers didn't think anything of it. Perhaps they saw no cause for concern because he was in his mid-twenties and had a steady girlfriend for several years.
At that time I was still writing poetry. I'm sure you're all puking up a bit right now, but I thought it was cool and I was so good at it that I even won some competitions and so on. At some point I read him one of my works and he said to me the following: "As a teenager, writing poetry that is not teenage poetry ... that's a gift." Oh God, that comment melted me like an ice cream in the past Today he sends chills down my spine — I just desperately wanted his attention and he could manipulate me at will.
He became my editor. We sat down regularly and went over my poems. He mercilessly shortened it and became more and more powerful with every attachment of his pen. In my head he was Ezra Pound and I was T.S. Eliot. And as if he had not yet been fully aware of his eeriness and presumptuousness, he then read aloud from The Waste Land to me, subtly moving his pelvis back and forth as if he were breathing with his balls.
I had never before developed such intense feelings for someone. This should not change in the years that follow. Every night before I went to sleep, I imagined what it would feel like to kiss him. At that time I hadn't really had any sexual experiences and I didn't know what to do with masturbation either. I was still a virgin, so it was enough for me to just imagine the kiss over and over again.
I never confessed to him how much I loved him. In fact, I've never really flirted with him in any obvious way. I was (and still am) convinced that showing someone that you like them is a sign of weakness. But I still remember how we fought like a couple - sometimes so violently that one of us stormed out of the room angrily. This is definitely not what a normal teacher-student relationship looks like. Despite my defensive stance, he still knew of course that I had a total crush on him.
After I graduated from school, our contact did not break off. But that wasn't unusual for my school either. Several of my friends kept in touch with different teachers. Still, of course, I really wanted our relationship to be bigger and extraordinary - which it wasn't at the time: I met him a few times for something to eat or have a coffee, but at no point did he exceed his Limits.
My first university semester was over and I got a call during the Christmas break. He wanted me to meet him in a pub that evening. I hurriedly got into the shower and shaved my legs. For someone who actually had no idea about sex, I was very optimistic. I went on my way and was totally excited and nervous. But somehow I already had a bad premonition. He had only recently broken up with his girlfriend and was already in the pub (a pretty shabby one, too) when he called me. Somewhere in my naive, fantasy-riddled brain, I knew this thing was going to end badly. Good decisions have never been made in shabby drinking bars.
When I got there, he was already drunk. He said that he had something to say to me, but that I would first have to be as drunk as he was. He went to the bar and came back with four double tequilas. I reluctantly sipped my schnapps and promised not to tell anyone about our conversation. He leaned over to me, but I backed away because I hadn't taken off my jacket yet and wanted to do the same with my sobriety. Finally, he explained to me in note form what had happened. After his breakup, he had something with another former student of his. She was younger than me and then left because she was changing schools. She was about 16 and still wore a school uniform when he was something of her tutor. Her friend was also in the pub looking for a fight. Maybe she was there too and I was her punishment.
Then he kissed me. At this point I had already had one over my thirst and although I had longed for this moment for so long, I was still so far in my head that I was embarrassed to kiss my former teacher in a brightly lit pub.
We jumped into a taxi and drove to him. It was so cold inside that I could see my breath — the temperature inside was lower than outside. We ended up in bed and for the first time in my life I really enjoyed a sexual experience. Suddenly I realized why there was always such a fuss about it. Men my age have just never been my thing.
The next morning I had to hurry so that his mother wouldn't notice me. At 27 he was still living with her - and you have to keep in mind that it all happened before the economic crisis. We then walked to the subway station together and he said casually: "I'll give you your best wishes in the staff room." I was silently appalled.
Back at home, I was totally happy. I had achieved my goal. I got what I wanted. I felt kind of validated - the chemistry I felt between us was really there. In the course of the following days, however, the impression I had gained of him and our relationship slowly began to dissipate. The truth, which was hidden underneath, came to light many times over. However, I tried to cling convulsively to that first impression and pretend I had never looked into the abysses that had opened up.
A few days later we wrote to each other and he agreed to meet me in another pub. This time I was less excited, more insecure and afraid that my impression of him would turn completely for the worse. He stormed in wearing a long coat - this time it was he who didn't take it off. We bridged a few minutes with small talk. Then he looked deep into my eyes and said, "Stop being so unhappy and find a friend." Then he disappeared and that was the last time I saw him. The rest of the evening passed for me then only to consume as much alcohol as possible and suddenly see a deeper meaning in Boyzone lyrics.
The biggest problem with acting out the "sex with the teacher" fantasy is that a teacher who really sleeps with his students ends up being teachers who are real assholes. The type of teacher who really gets that kind of admiration would never take advantage of his position of power and do something with students for whom he is responsible. I was no longer a student, but the huge power imbalance was still there. Overall, this means that feelings for a teacher are a moral paradox: you You will either be frustrated forever because the object of your desire is really worth it and will never sleep with you, or an old pervert will shamelessly take advantage of the situation and your imaginations will be destroyed. You will feel properly taken advantage of - like this much as you would never have thought possible before.
In retrospect, I find his behavior selfish and reckless. He waited until I finished school so as not to break the law. He was always aware that I would willingly grant him his wishes. He used me to make himself feel better, and he didn't care about the consequences for me. I also suspect that I wasn't the only one who fell for his scam.
In the following semester, I drank at least half a bottle of vodka every day. If even the slightest hint of shame came up in me, images and memories would immediately resurface in my brain: the cold house, my visible breath, the sprint to the door so that his mother wouldn't notice me, and above all over and over again the phrase "stop being so unhappy and find a friend".
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