Lessons Learned

When we are moved to such a state of hysteria so as to conclude we are “in love”, can we ever really know the true object of our affection? Is it really her? Or him? Or is it the person we become in their presence that leads us to feel that we “love” them? If that is the case, is it fair to say that we only ever really love ourselves? Though I have thought about this far too much, I doubt I'll ever reach a conclusion. It seems to be a question without an answer.

Once we have a taste of “love” like this, though, regardless of it's true definition, there is no denying that it is nearly impossible to settle for anything less. It will feel like failure.

As with most Love Stories, the beginning is hard to pin down. But the first one to me a taste of this kind of impossible to repeat love was my Professor during my freshman year of college. It started, I suppose, the evening I arrived at my Gender Studies class half an hour early. That was not a habit for me, but rather the result of poor planning which left me with some time to kill. I internally debated for a moment, but decided to go ahead and take a seat in the back of the classroom. I took advantage of the time to touch up my mascara, as I brought out my hand mirror from my purse. While working on that, I was embarrassed to catch sight of her in the mirror, walking in to see me do such a personal task. I clumsily put up my belongings, feeling like an awkward teenager as I muttered a “Hi, how are you?”

She was always put together, beautiful in a quiet way. She didn't need the approval of others, it was clear. She always seemed confident in her speech; her simple style indicated both more and less effort than other women her age. It seemed to me that everything she did, she did for herself alone. Not for the purposes not for others to see. I wanted desperately to be just like her, to put on that kind of confidence like a protective shield, the kind that would ensure I would always love the curves of my hips just as she seemed to, that'd I'd never want to change the shape of my breasts or the strength of my thighs. To mimic the friendly coldness she exhibited toward others would be to forever be comfortable in my own skin. I knew, of course, that I would have to get closer to see how she managed it. What I didn't know was how to go about it...or that I might get more than I bargained for.

That evening, as everyone else filed in and took their seats, I could tell she was different. There was something slightly skewed about her, like a copy of a painting that is almost, but not quite right. I watched her hands shake as she organized her materials on her desk and I simply pretended to look at my phone as a way to look at her. Shadows ringed her eyes and it seemed as though her breathing was labored. Throughout class that day, her lecture was brief and her tone more clipped than normal. It's likely that no one else noticed; I was probably the only one who examined her that closely. To me, though, it was obvious: she was fighting something. And, it appeared, she was on the verge of losing.

I wish I could say this was when I stayed after class to talk with her, but it took four or five more class meetings like this, her behavior increasingly suspect for me to build up the courage to do so.

Though I would eventually make her fuck me in her classroom, that's not how it happened the first time. That night, after class, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to know what was happening to her. I let everyone else stream out of the building, then headed outside. The parking lot was empty, save for our two cars. I tapped on my phone in an effort to appear occupied. I heard her small sigh resound as the door to the building locked behind her. Surreptitiously, I glanced over to see her close her eyes and, it seemed to me, try to cast off the feeling of having been inside, of teaching, of being with other people. She didn't yet see me and I could tell that she was in utter relief at being returned to her most pleasant state: alone with herself.

She collected herself and walked. As soon as she caught my eye, she tried to put the mask back on so that I wouldn't see her. “Elena,” she breathed my name in surprise, “Is... everything alright?” I assured her I was fine, but told her I wanted to talk. About her. Her eyes betrayed her as she peered into me. “About me? I'm sorry. What do you mean?”

“Why is it,” I began, my tongue heavy as the words I'd rolled over and over in my mind came tumbling out, “that you seem so...sad?” The word hung impotently in the air between us.

She tilted her head at me and gave a smile that wasn't really a smile at all. “I appreciate your concern, Elena, but let me assure you, I'm fine,” she lied to me, the first of many, as she walked past me toward her car.

Before I made a decision or processed my thoughts, something primal within caused me to reach out, grab her arm, and dig my nails into her skin. We froze, a tableau under the sodium lights, our eyes locked, breathing ragged. It seems to me now that it was silent for an eternity, but I know logically it was only a moment before she spat out her venomous words at me, “What. The. Fuck?” She shook her arm away from my grasp, but I knew somehow that she'd loved what I'd just done to her. She wanted more. So I gave it to her.

“I said: what is wrong with you?” I whispered as I stepped in front of her, blocking her access to her car. “You've been acting…” I searched for the right words.

“Crazy?”, she suggested, “You mean, a little like waiting outside...at night...for your professor...to ask them about their personal life? That kind of crazy? I see the way you're always looking at me. It would be impossible not to. I'm flattered, really. But...for reasons which I hope I don't have to explain to you, this,” she gestured in the space between us, “won't be happening”.

“You've obviously given it some thought,” I countered, “A lot of thought”. The look she flashed me was something between hate and delight.

“Fuck. You.” the words didn't sound quite right coming from her. She had to try too hard to be mean.

She reached past me to try to open her car door. “Only when you earn it,” I breathed in her ear. At that, whatever resolve she'd had, dissipated. She turned her face to me and let her lips explore mine. Her tongue insisted; I acquiesced. She ran her hands along the sides of my hips, setting me on fire. I took both of her hands in mine, pulled away, and told her that we should go to my apartment, only a couple of blocks away. Through the quiet streets, we drove as I spent the entirety of the trip terrified she'd stop following me, change her mind, and go straight home. She didn't.

Without a word, we entered my apartment. I took her hand and led her to my bedroom. I motioned for her to sit. She complied. This was the first time I commanded an audience. The feeling of power, and the potential it held, was euphoric. “Listen,” she began. I silenced what I'm sure was to be an explanation or a disclaimer with a single word: “No”.

With that, she looked up at me, her mouth agape but silent. Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to reconcile this new version of me...this new version of herself with what she thought she knew. Standing over her, I moved closer, letting her knee rest in the space between my legs. I ran a finger over her cheek and traced the shape of her lips. Hungrily, she opened them, taking my finger inside the warmth of her mouth. I let a small whimper escape in reaction to my ecstasy. Shaken out of her reverie at the sound, she stopped, blanked as if waking from a dream, and pulled her mouth away from me in one excruciatingly swift motion. It was then that I learned the importance of control; I would not be guilty of such carelessness again. I leaned in and kissed her, tenderly at first, then increasingly demanding. I slid my hand through her silky hair, wrapped a section of it around my hand, and pulled, exposing her neck. Her cry told me it hurt just enough. My my lips slightly apart, I teased the delicate skin with my breath, pulling away when she moved in to get my lips to make contact, keeping my grip on her hair all the while. I pulled once more and let go, pushing her flat onto the bed. Her eyes ran along the length of my body as her chest heaved.

“Take your shirt off,” I told her and, with only a moment's hesitation, she sat up and lifted it over her head, tossing it aside. “And that,” I ran my finger under the strap of her simple black bra and snapped the strap against her skin. She cast a brief look of defiance at me, but she did as she was told.

“Oh, you don't like me talking to you like that?” I asked. Though my voice remained steady, her breasts, now fully exposed just for me, sent my mind and heart racing. I wanted nothing more than to give in and explore, to consume her. “Stand up,” I told her instead. “Now, everything else.” At my gesture, she peeled off her skinny jeans, revealing nothing underneath. “Wow, you were ready, huh?” I walked behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist, my other hand finding its way to her breast, my fingers gently teasing her nipple. She exhaled shakily, as though trying to steady herself. “Did you hear me? I asked you if you were hoping to get fucked tonight,” I whispered into her ear.

“Mmmm,” came her only reply as I continued caressing one nipple.

“I cannot understand you,” I said with slightly more volume and tightened my grip on her breast until she arched her back, leaning into me with a whimper. In a move that confirmed how much she wanted me to hurt her, she only shook her head and made more unintelligible sounds. “I see,” I said, letting go of her and stepping back. “Lay down,” I ordered. When she laid on her back, I leaned in, my mouth to hers, “Face down”. She did as she was told and I grabbed her hips, pulling them up to arch her ass for me. I let my hand explore its curve, my touch light and teasing, just before giving her a stinging slap. The euphoria at the sound of my hand making contact and the sight of her flushed skin made me dizzy. “Are you going to answer me? It's clear that you're a slut who is always ready to be fucked. Am I right?” I prodded.

“Please,” she exhaled, the smallness of her voice barely audible.

“Please, what?” I asked, slapping her again, then sinking my teeth into the flesh just below her ass, where it met her thigh. At her scream of pleasure, I stopped thinking entirely. After my mind left my body, I can only seem to recall, in some amalgamation of dream-like images, nonlinearly fused together, her head between my thighs in service of my own pleasure, my mouth working her breasts over, leaving beautiful bruises she marveled at the following day, and all of the other lessons we taught one another over the weeks that followed. She told me she'd decided to leave her husband a couple of months earlier. She never told me why though and, as a naive nineteen year old, I guess it didn't occur to me to ask. All I knew was that I wanted to keep teaching her--and for her to keep letting me--forever. But, as I now know, there is nothing in this world that lasts that long. Forever is impossible.

I'd never been able to let my mind rest--to stop worrying or analyzing or questioning--as I did during my all too brief times with her. I'm sure that's why I've sought, all these years later, to chase that high. I've tried to find it with other women, with men, with lovers and strangers, as the one in control and as one ceding it.

As the teacher. As the student. These lines, it seems, are inextricably blurred for me.

But, as all addicts know, there is no replicating that first high, everything after that will simply be dimmer versions of the same experience, growing fainter with each appearance, until it ultimately fades away, ceasing to exist altogether.