I [M] am in an arranged marriage, and remember the teacher I loved [F] – Dubai-based – Part 1

*(Quick disclaimer: This is based on my true life story, but I’ve changed a few details for obvious reasons. Also, English isn’t my first language, but I tried to be as narrative as possible. This is my first time writing anything in a narrative form, so I hope you can give me some feedback not only on my writing style, but in general too. I’d appreciate it. Enjoy!)*

Arrange marriages suck, and that’s the bottom line. You may need to have conservative sentiments to accept it, or leniency to tolerate it, but in the end, it just sucks. There’s no organic chemistry, maybe first laying eyes on one another across the desks at school. A shy smile, a smile back, a glimmer in her eyes, a wink from his. A mutual attraction in a sea of other lesser options. That’s the real test of love: being able to single out the one you know you can talk to and be with, and potentially build a life together.

These things were robbed of me, and I’ve had to accept it. I went through the regular stages of grief: denial that it would happen, pent up frustration and anger at the possibility, bargaining for a few more years of freedom, and finally sunk in depression and acceptance. It was a long and arduous journey, with emotional ramifications that I have to deal with to this day, but my motto in life for now is “it is what it is”

I wish I took more advantage of my life as a young single kid, growing into my own, discovering the world at university, and getting to know others. I can blame it on cowardice, or on severe social anxiety, or on the high demands of educational success brought on from my family, but I missed that opportunity. I was too invested in my studies, and that, in the end, was time stolen from my social and emotional development through relationships.

More than anything, it was the teachers that I felt I missed the most. I’m not sure what it is, whether it was their perceived authority and power on me as a student, or their amazing intellect that drew me closer. But that was my draw at the time, my “kink” if you will. I was never wholly attracted to looks more so than charisma, personality, and what makes her human. Nothing shows this more than my philosophy professor, Miss Christina.

She was in her mid-forties, but you couldn’t tell. Her shimmering blue eyes sat on a face well taken care of, not overly done with makeup, but just enough to exemplify her natural beauty. Her oval face was neither too defined nor rotund, but well filled and smooth. Her face had the knowledge of the world without the years of experience, a face that can comfort you in the knowledge that the world is bigger than ourselves, and we shouldn’t worry. Her dark blonde hair with brown highlights flowed like a waterfall, always over one shoulder, like a badge of honor. Her frame was thin but not skinny, and she stood with authority and defiance to others, a feature I found most attractive of all. Her breasts, while hidden under several layers, were perky and firm, larger than you would expect, but obviously not artificial. Again, she knew her beauty, stood by it, and defied it by exemplifying her amazing intellect and eloquence. Leave aside her lips, full and pink, or her seductive gaze, it was her confidence that always drew me in.

It was in her classes that I wished I were a philosopher. Her narrative ebbs and flows, like a calm river, moving past and bringing with it lessons of questioning our very existence. I never used to sit in the front row, I wouldn’t want to be obvious. But I would sit back, in the second or third, watching her go into Hobbes’s *Leviathan* with a passion I can only aspire to. Her explanation of the social contract, what it is to be human amongst fellow humans, and how to govern ourselves in relation to the leviathan that is the state. I would be mesmerized at her channeling her inner philosopher, with a cadence of velvet, while her waterfall hair wobbled with her posture, and her breasts high and proud.

Every once in a while, she would shift her gaze towards me, and I would sense a glimmer of recognition. Almost like she read my thought, and was proud of her effects on me. A look that says, “you don’t want me, but need me.” Which was true. I needed her. I needed her to hold me and explain the universe, to kiss me and breath in our love, and to use me, make me her toy and dominate me. I needed all of these things, but I knew it was just out of reach.

I would visit her during office hours, and sit opposite her, watch her be more laid back, funny, and comfortable. There was no strict pose, that authoritarian gaze that I found admirable in her teaching style. In her office, she was a woman, elegant, beautiful, funny, emotional, and thoughtful. She was real, and I loved her even more. In there we would talk and connect, forgetting we were teacher and student, but man and woman. I would hear her laugh about her university days, the shit she would get into, and the friendships and broken hearts that have crossed her paths through the decades. Her Italian accent nonexistent, but in minor moments, you can hear that young woman come out, the girl who roamed Milano with a big heart, a hungry mind, and ambitious determination. When I would look at her, I don’t see a forty-something year old tired teacher. I see a woman who has lived through experiences and has come out stronger and more confident. I think that was why I fell for her.

“Have you ever been in love, Studentae?” she asked once, and my heart raced. I couldn’t imagine why that had come up, as we were talking about Immanuel Kant. I looked into her warm blue eyes that glared at me with knowledge. Almost inviting me into it like a cool swimming pool on a warm June afternoon in Dubai. I looked back, nodded without saying a word, closed my eyes, and jumped in.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i6zzr7/i_m_am_in_an_arranged_marriage_and_remember_the