My girlfriend asked me to stop writing short stories about her; I refused.

I met Carly three years ago, when she was a senior in high school. I'm Mr. Thompson, her English teacher. We weren't intimate until after she graduated, but was there an inappropriate relationship before that? Was I grooming her? I don't think so.<br><br>Our affair wasn't based on teenage fantasies or magical school days. In fact, our days at school were largely separate. It was that she was so damn beautiful and I couldn't get my gaze away from her. I couldn't help but think about her every evening, after the kids had gone home. I was honest with myself about this.<br><br>That's why I stopped writing, at least for a while. My stories were no longer about high schoolers who were surprised by Mr. Thompson, "the new teacher," who wore dark glasses to class. There was no more Carly in my stories. In its place was my new obsessive fantasy.<br><br>The fantasy went like this: a high school student would be out in the hallway, during class hours, and Mr. Thompson would stop them and remind him that he needed to be in class. The student would apologize and the teacher would say it was okay. He would then explain that this was a new school and he was a new teacher, which is why he wasn't sure of the student's name. <br><br>The teacher would then ask the student to remind him of their name and the teacher would apologize and say he would try to remember it for the future. Then the student would go on their way, back to class.<br><br>I know, it isn't very exciting. But that's my fantasy. I get off on it. I wrote several short stories about it and they were all the same, with different details. Different teachers and students. Different hallways. I put these stories in a large stack of paper, which was starting to get so big that I propped it against a bookshelf.<br><br>I hadn't been with Carly that much, but the times we were together were so intense that I couldn't help but think about her constantly. She was my girlfriend, my lover. I thought about her when I wasn't with her, but I also thought about her when I was with her. I thought about her when she was talking to me, when she was telling me about her life, her new college, that she was thinking about going to med school.<br><br>Things were pretty normal for us, until the day she discovered my short story collection.<br><br>She had come over on a visit from college. She was on a break and was home to see her parents, but was staying at my place because her parents didn't know about us. So she was at my house and I wasn't. I was out getting some groceries for the next day and she was alone in my house, on my bed.<br><br>I imagine it was boring. We live in a pretty empty area, far from the city, so she wouldn't have had much to do. She was probably just sitting on the bed, on her phone, bored out of her mind. She gets off the bed, looks around the room, and sees the stack of paper.<br><br>She reads the stories and finds herself in them. <br><br>At least she thought she did. I didn't specifically write about her, but I did use her name. Carly. What a name. It was too perfect to avoid using. I used it in a few of the stories, with different teachers and students. The teacher would stop a student, who was out in the hallway, and ask them to remind him of their name. The student would say "Carly" and the teacher would apologize and say he would try to remember it.<br><br>Carly read through my stories, over and over, she told me. She read them twice, then put them down, then read them again. She didn't know what to think of them. She didn't know what to think of me.<br><br>I got home a few hours later, with a big bag of groceries. I walked into my bedroom, to drop the groceries off, and there she was. She was sitting on the bed, with the papers spread around her. My stories.<br><br>"Hello, Carly," I said.<br><br>"You're sick," she said.<br><br>I didn't respond. I just stood there.<br><br>"Why would you write this?" she asked.<br><br>"I don't know."<br><br>"Why don't you stop?"<br><br>"I'm not going to."<br><br>"You have to."<br><br>"No."<br><br>"I don't want you to write about me anymore. It makes me sick."<br><br>"I won't."<br><br>"Do you know how I feel, reading this, seeing myself in these stories."<br><br>"No, how?"<br><br>"Humiliated," she said, with tears in her eyes.<br><br>She started to cry. I didn't do anything; I just stood there.<br><br>"I'm sorry," she said. "This is too much for me. I can't be your girlfriend anymore."<br><br>"Okay," I said.<br><br>"I'm going to go home, now," she said.<br><br>"Okay," I said.<br><br>"I feel so disgusted. I never want to see you again. I'm calling my parents, and I'm going to tell them everything."<br><br>"Don't do that."<br><br>But that was all I said. I didn't do anything to stop her as she called her parents and told them, over the phone, about how I was grooming her when she was my high school student. She didn't need to say any more than that. I was done.<br><br>Her parents came and picked her up and I never saw her again. I never saw my students again. I never went back to that school again. Things went back to normal, I guess. I just stay home, now, and work on my stories.<br><br>I still write about teachers and students, and hallways. But now I'm more specific. I write about Mr. Thompson, a teacher at a new school. He's a good teacher, with a passion for his job. He's not very good with names, however, so when he sees a student out in the hallway he always stops them and asks them to remind him of their name.<br><br>"I'm sorry," he always says. "You look familiar, but I'm a new teacher at a new school. I'm still trying to learn everyone's names."<br><br>The students are always understanding and Mr. Thompson is always sincere. He really wants to learn the names of all his students. He's a nice guy.<br><br>Carly reads the stories. She tells me that on Reddit. She has a new username, but she tells me it's her when she private messages me. She says she's glad I'm still writing stories, since they're so entertaining for her. She says she reads them out loud to her friends at college.<br><br>She reads my stories out loud to her friends at college. I think about this when I write them. I imagine their reaction. I wonder what they think about my fantasy. I imagine them laughing at my gullibility and naivety.<br><br>But I still write the stories. I write them for myself and I write them for Carly and her college friends. Mr. Thompson is still out there, stopping students and asking them to remind him of their names. I'm still getting off on it.<br><br>I'm still obsessed with my fantasy.