Fifteen
When I was fifteen and fucked-up I fell in love with an older man, Bill. Ten years my senior, I thought he was perfect. He was brilliant, artistic, musical, and really cute in a lanky, geeky, long-haired hipster sort of way.
Bill liked me too. He liked my wit and my sarcasm and my cute little babydoll dresses and combat boots. He liked my blue hair and my nose ring and my ability to make him laugh in the most unlikely circumstances. At first it was innocent. We'd go to diners for grilled cheeses and black coffee with lots of sugar and talk about music and movies. We'd hike through the woods and marvel over the light filtering through the trees. I'd be the first to fall off the log bridge and he'd laugh and give me his flannel shirt while I shivered and let my clothes dry in the sun. He made me mix tapes and took me camping. The more time I spent with Bill the harder I fell for him and the harder he fell for me.
Some of you may be creeped out already. Why the hell would a twenty-five-year-old man fall for a fifteen-year-old girl? Those of you who for whatever reason are not yet creeped out, how's this: Bill was my teacher. At boarding school. I lived there and so did he. We got away with it for months, but eventually the school's administration found out. And did nothing.
The school's administration, who knew that a teacher was dating a student, didn't do anything about it. Bill wasn't fired. They didn't even take me out of his classes and I was taking three of them. The administration just told us that we were no longer allowed to leave campus together, especially in his car, and that we weren't supposed to spend time together outside of the classroom.
At the time I wasn't particularly interested in following directions. I was desperately in love with an amazing man who actually loved me back and I wasn't going to let a couple of old geezers, who obviously knew nothing of true love, tell me how I could or couldn't spend my time. So we ignored them. Rather than leaving campus together, I'd go for a walk and he'd pick me up. On weekends I'd sign out to a friend's house and go to New York with him instead. Every now and again I'd sneak across campus in the middle of the night and meet him in his room in the boy's dorms or his classroom. We wrote each other love letters constantly, passing them through his best friend, Ari, a senior at the high school.
This went on for months, but eventually it grew tiresome. One morning, sprawled on a rickety sofa bed in his college friend's New York apartment I really looked at him. We'd eaten acid together the previous evening and I was ready to sleep. Bill, who couldn't sleep, wanted to talk. I was annoyed, but I propped myself up to chat. Beneath the waves of color surrounding his face Bill looked tired and old. In my drug-induced haze, as he stroked my hair, I felt nothing but his love for me, but his love, for the first time, felt icky. Confused I went to sleep while he tossed and turned, complaining about his aching back.
Over the next few weeks my feelings of doubt grew into disinterest and resentment. He began to act needy, jealous and weak, whining if I didn't call him and acting annoyed if I wanted to spend a weekend night with friends. At some point it occurred to me that Bill's two best friends were in high school. A man with a master's degree from an Ivy League college didn't have any friends his own age.
Things between us ended badly. More on that another time.
Bill liked me too. He liked my wit and my sarcasm and my cute little babydoll dresses and combat boots. He liked my blue hair and my nose ring and my ability to make him laugh in the most unlikely circumstances. At first it was innocent. We'd go to diners for grilled cheeses and black coffee with lots of sugar and talk about music and movies. We'd hike through the woods and marvel over the light filtering through the trees. I'd be the first to fall off the log bridge and he'd laugh and give me his flannel shirt while I shivered and let my clothes dry in the sun. He made me mix tapes and took me camping. The more time I spent with Bill the harder I fell for him and the harder he fell for me.
Some of you may be creeped out already. Why the hell would a twenty-five-year-old man fall for a fifteen-year-old girl? Those of you who for whatever reason are not yet creeped out, how's this: Bill was my teacher. At boarding school. I lived there and so did he. We got away with it for months, but eventually the school's administration found out. And did nothing.
The school's administration, who knew that a teacher was dating a student, didn't do anything about it. Bill wasn't fired. They didn't even take me out of his classes and I was taking three of them. The administration just told us that we were no longer allowed to leave campus together, especially in his car, and that we weren't supposed to spend time together outside of the classroom.
At the time I wasn't particularly interested in following directions. I was desperately in love with an amazing man who actually loved me back and I wasn't going to let a couple of old geezers, who obviously knew nothing of true love, tell me how I could or couldn't spend my time. So we ignored them. Rather than leaving campus together, I'd go for a walk and he'd pick me up. On weekends I'd sign out to a friend's house and go to New York with him instead. Every now and again I'd sneak across campus in the middle of the night and meet him in his room in the boy's dorms or his classroom. We wrote each other love letters constantly, passing them through his best friend, Ari, a senior at the high school.
This went on for months, but eventually it grew tiresome. One morning, sprawled on a rickety sofa bed in his college friend's New York apartment I really looked at him. We'd eaten acid together the previous evening and I was ready to sleep. Bill, who couldn't sleep, wanted to talk. I was annoyed, but I propped myself up to chat. Beneath the waves of color surrounding his face Bill looked tired and old. In my drug-induced haze, as he stroked my hair, I felt nothing but his love for me, but his love, for the first time, felt icky. Confused I went to sleep while he tossed and turned, complaining about his aching back.
Over the next few weeks my feelings of doubt grew into disinterest and resentment. He began to act needy, jealous and weak, whining if I didn't call him and acting annoyed if I wanted to spend a weekend night with friends. At some point it occurred to me that Bill's two best friends were in high school. A man with a master's degree from an Ivy League college didn't have any friends his own age.
Things between us ended badly. More on that another time.
posted by girlfiend at
4:23 PM
2 Comments:
Heavey stuff. The older i get, the less possible it seems that a guy in his mid 20's or older could really fall in love with a 15year old. Not that he'd be lying or anything.
i'm shocked that the school basicly allowed it to go on.
Of course the most appaling aspect of this story is the latest example of girlfiend's inexplicable attraction to men with generic first names.
e2
Bill was the closest I have ever come to wanting to inflict serious boldily harm on someone.
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