My teenage affair with a teacher damaged me for life

She was a naive 16-year-old when she fell in love with her geography master. Only now can Christina see it was abuse, not romance

By Christina Morris

Last updated at 11:38 PM on 26th October 2011

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More than 20 years ago, this writer who contributes regularly to the Daily Mail, became embroiled in a sexual relationship with her teacher. For legal reasons, we are protecting her identity.

For a gauche 16-year-old, newly arrived from a strict all-girls’ boarding school cosseted away in the West Sussex countryside, the first day of term at an urban sixth form college was a bewildering experience.
The very fact my parents had agreed to let me do my A-levels in a co-ed environment — instead of at the sixth form of a single-sex private school — was, frankly, a triumph.
I think even my parents could see it was  time for me to learn how to talk to boys. Until that point, the only man I’d had any daily contact with for eight years was the school caretaker. So there I was, clutching my new bag and worrying over the clothes it had taken me weeks to choose — a polka-dot skirt, tights and ankle boots.

School girl crush: Christina thought her teacher loved her but only now realises she was abused (posed by model)

As I tentatively pushed open the door to my assigned form-room, I saw a man in his mid-30s wearing jeans and cowboy boots. He was leaning back in a chair, his feet up on the desk. Looking me up and down, he said: ‘Hi. I’m Mr Martin. Did someone pay you to wear that outfit?’

I remember blushing, then feeling livid with myself for making it so obvious how out of my depth I felt. This man, whoever he was, had been assigned as my personal tutor, someone responsible for my welfare at college, who was also charged with steering me through my A-level in geography.
A person in authority had never spoken to me like that before and I had no idea how to respond. I later learnt this was a typical exchange for Mr Martin — or Ben, as he preferred to be called. He used insults as a way of breaking down the teacher-pupil barrier and encouraging us to communicate with him on an equal level. He loved witty banter and seemed to prefer students who were able to deliver sharp ripostes.

WHO KNEW?
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It was all very strange to someone used to more traditional teaching methods — standing up when an adult entered the room, for example, and putting up your hand before asking a question.
It soon became clear these quaint habits of mine, drummed into me through years of disciplined schooling, gave Mr Martin plenty of ammunition. I soon became the butt of his jokes. ‘Sharpened your pencil, Christina?’ he’d inquire, as I arrived for a lesson. ‘Got an apple for me?’ he’d ask at the end.
Obviously, he was goading me, but I still have no idea why he singled me out. Most of my classmates were more streetwise and would have given him a better run for his money. I was self-conscious, awkward and acutely aware of sounding too posh. Perhaps he found this endearing.
One day he asked me to stay behind after school and help him catalogue some books in the staff room. We were on our own and I decided to ask why he was always picking on me. I don’t know what I expected, but he walked out from behind his desk and put his arms around me.
‘Don’t you realise it’s a sign of affection?’ he asked. It’s probably obvious to any adult reading this now what I should have done. But I was an impressionable  16-year-old with no experience of boys or men. Suddenly this man — 6ft tall, his brown hair streaked with grey — was telling me he liked me. Could I hear alarm bells?

Battle of wits: In the beginning of their relationship, Christina's teacher would flirt with her in class (posed by model)

Of course not. I tumbled headlong into a crush that was to consume my every waking moment for the next two years. At the start, I didn’t expect my feelings to be reciprocated. Mr Martin was head of a department and, ironically, responsible for my welfare. He was also married.
To my shame, this wasn’t something I reflected on. In my immaturity, it was the fact he was my teacher that seemed the greatest obstacle to us being together. As time passed, my feelings must have been glaringly obvious. I couldn’t stop blushing and I would find any excuse to stroll past Mr Martin’s office.
In class, I lost my inhibitions and started answering back. To his  delight, I became bolder at returning his insults. I wonder what my classmates must have thought, as lessons were often a battleground between the two of us.
‘Did you leave your brain at home, Christina?’ he’d challenge. ‘Did you leave your hairbrush?’ I’d retort.
The shift from blatant flirting to physical contact was a smooth one. It began six months later, at the start of the summer term, with a hand on my back as he steered me though a door, then a foot nudging mine under a table during a lesson. He never acknowledged these touches, but I understood what he was saying and knew what was unfolding.

I can’t pretend I was the innocent party: I wanted his attentions more than I wanted anything else in the world. Certainly, the fact we were harbouring a secret so dangerously explosive made it a heady aphrodisiac for both of us. The first time he kissed me, towards the end of that first academic year, was one evening in the staff room, against a row of books on seismic activity. I remember thinking the earth had moved, but all he could say was: ‘You understand you can never tell anybody about this?’ I said I did: I would have done anything for him.
Caught up in what I perceived to be a grand romance, it is significant that I felt unable to raise the subject of sex. I didn’t want to appear presumptuous but, at the same time, I felt he should know I was a virgin. Yet, the idea of bringing this up made me tense.  We were, by now, kissing whenever and wherever we got the chance — once, brazenly, at the end of a lesson as the last pupil left the room. But we never discussed what was going on. I didn’t want to pin him down or rock the boat with a conversation about what we were doing, so I kept my mouth shut.

After that first time... we fell into a pattern of driving back to my house after college and having sex on a rug on the kitchen floor

It’s probably inevitable that when we finally did have sex, it was a let-down. By then, our secret affair (if you can call it that) had been going on for six months. One day, just after my 17th birthday, Ben offered to drive me home from college — not something he had ever done before. We barely spoke during the drive; I was aware of an unspoken sense of anticipation. As we pulled into my driveway, he turned to look at me and put his hand on mine. I think we both knew what was about to happen and, just for a second, I wanted time to stand still.
What ensued seems surreal when I remember it. Like some kind of Lolita, I took his hand and asked if he wanted to see my bedroom. Upstairs, we sat awkwardly on the edge of my single bed. Then he took off his shoes and beckoned for me to lie down next to him. It was made worse by the fact I was in my childhood bedroom surrounded by teddies and Duran Duran posters, knowing my mother was due home from work at any moment. By the time she came through the front door, 30 minutes later, we were sitting at the kitchen table with a cup to tea.
She was flustered to find a teacher in the house. I’d had no time to process my emotions about what had happened — and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Ben, on the other hand, immediately launched a charm offensive, accepting biscuits from my mother and assuring her it was no problem to have given me a lift home.
In fact, it had been an opportunity to discuss my A-level syllabus. After that first time, which he never knew was my first time, we fell into a pattern of driving back to my house after college and having sex on a rug on the kitchen floor. We didn’t want to risk going upstairs again in case we couldn’t hear my mother coming in, although Ben always left in plenty of time to avoid another parental encounter.
We had sex once a week for the last six months of our relationship and I was so lucky not to get pregnant, because we didn’t use contraception. Insane, I know. One day I asked Ben if we were having an affair. ‘If that’s what you want to call it,’ he said. It seems unbelievable, when I cast my mind back now, not just that no one suspected what was going on, but also that I was able to stumble through my last year at school and get any work done at all. I’ll never forget the fact Ben was invigilating my A-level.
Everyone had their heads down, focused on their exam papers. But as he walked past my desk, he had the audacity to touch the back of my neck and wink. The only person I confided in was my best friend, who thought it was rather exciting that I was involved with a teacher. I suppose it seemed very grown-up.
I don’t know how I expected it all to end. Still, nothing was discussed. The snatched moments we had in the staff room, his car or my parents’ kitchen weren’t wasted on talking, but I believed it was love. Well, what did I know? I regarded him as my first boyfriend. It should have been no surprise that when that final term ended, Ben congratulated me on getting a B in geography and wished me luck at university.
He would, of course, try to write, but things would be busy over the next few months as his wife was heavily pregnant. I remember staring at him, my eyes blurred with tears and my throat burning with the effort not to cry. How could I make a scene? I’d never even told him how I felt, never staked a claim or admitted how much I loved him.
In truth, he probably thought it had all been a bit of fun. He had no idea what the last two years had meant to me. To say I was heartbroken would be an under-statement. I somehow managed to hide my feelings from my parents, staying in my room for most of that summer holiday, desperate for a postcard, a phone call, anything.
I thought about contacting him, but I had no way of doing so — no phone number, no address, no way of knowing where he was. Of course, there was no contact from him. And so that September, with no enthusiasm whatsoever, I headed off to university feeling jaded and depressed.
All too predictably, I dropped out after one year. But it took me a lot longer than that to get over what had happened with Ben. Did I mean nothing to him at all? I’ve never understood what he saw in me or why he did it.
I still feel a pang of loss, probably as things ended so abruptly and he never explained his feelings. I was left hanging and for years I wasn’t interested in boys my own age.
They seemed so immature and, of course, there wasn’t the same excitement factor. Falling in love with an older man is like running before you can walk. For a long while normal relationships seemed dull in comparison. It wasn’t until a year after leaving university that I felt able to fall in love again.
I’ve been married for many years now, but I still think about Ben. I’m not sure you ever forget your first love. I hear he’s done well for himself and is now the head of a private school. Presumably, it’s his job to sack teachers who abuse the trust of parents who are paying a fortune to send their children there. I’ve often wondered if I was the only one. It would be flattering to think I was, but I doubt that was the case. Ben took all those risks once, so it would be naive to think he didn’t try it with other girls.
I don’t want to sound bitter: after all, I should have known better myself. But now that I’m a mother with three daughters of my own, I look back at my teenage self and want to cry for her. For the first time, I can see how vulnerable she was, how fragile was her need to be loved and accepted.
As for you, Mr Martin, I hope that baby of yours was a girl. And I hope she gave you sleepless nights as a teenager, staying out all night with her hell-raiser boyfriend. At least that way you’d have known she wasn’t being abused by her teacher.

The names in this article have been changed.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2053883/My-teenage-affair-teacher-damaged-life.html#ixzz1bxhlsoy7

WARNING TO ALL STUDENTS: DON'T GET INVOLVED WITH YOUR TEACHERS!!!! YOU WILL BE THE VICTIM (MANGSA)