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Fuck Fuck When I was growing up, my father used to say as a joke (sort of), “Teenage boys: the lowest form of life on earth.” He was probably imagining some combination of his adolescent self and Philip Roth’s Alexander Portnoy, a character who revolved around a tight coil of urge and surge and shame, whose repertoire of obsessions ranged from onanism to defilement and whose actions seemed almost piteously in thrall to his loins rather than his head (which was too busy processing anxiety and guilt to offer much guidance). Portnoy’s Complaint was a best seller in 1967, but to this day its protagonist is for many people besides my father the epitome of adolescent-male sexuality: desperate, reckless, insatiable. The horny little devil.
If you conceive of teenage boys as walking heaps of lust, you probably conceive of attractive adult teachers who hit on them as public servants in more ways than one.
Media representations of grown women who pursue teenage boys have hardly been scary in recent years. Phoebe’s brother on Friends married his home-ec teacher and proceeded to live happily ever after. Jennifer Aniston’s affair with little love-struck Jake Gyllenhaal in The Good Girl would be difficult to describe as abuse. He pined for her, he worshipped her, and if he ended up destroyed, we couldn’t blame her . . . a lost little girl who happened to be in her thirties.