Boni Mata of the Daily Californian recently wrote of a rather provocative relationship.

So, I slept with my professor

When my professor walked in on the first day of class in all his statuesque glory, wearing a half-buttoned Oxford shirt and chalk-covered slacks, I nearly dropped my pants on the spot. “Love at first sight,” I claimed — I’m that type. Flash forward four months:

“Being with you is a gift,” he said as he stroked the hair that fell down my naked back. I lay on my stomach as we both looked out onto the street at the unfortunate passers-by who weren’t lovers like us. “You’re perfect.”

I knew it was in the cards for me when our knees touched during office hours. I asked him about Hegel, he got up to close the door — not all the way, but ajar. “Go on.” He walked me home after our second meeting. By the third, I was dreaming about him. I’d come to class far past Berkeley time, visibly sulking, “Sorry.” He’d send emails, “I appreciate how your mind works.” I’d reply, “I need to see you outside of class.” Never once did I feel sexual pressure on his part; every one of our intimate encounters, I initiated.

I’d had one too many glasses of wine the night I fell into his lap. He drove me home, we kissed on my sofa, went back to his later on. I never expected that a one-night stand with my professor would turn into something so spectacular. “Our bodies were made for each other,” he’d tell me. We could talk for hours and never sleep. We’d talk about love and death and literature, and it was beautiful. Our secret bore so much wrong from the outside but was so perfect from our perspective.

Yes, he was in charge of my grades, but we both knew I’d have gotten an A regardless. What started out as a typical teacher fetish turned into one of the deeper relationships I’ve ever sustained with a person.