Status: active as ever.
I Love It When We Touch
A Tragic Hero
What the hell?
I am sitting in my fifth period English class. We are a mere five minutes into the lesson and I’m struggling to pay attention. But not for the reasons you may assume. I like English, in fact, it’s my favorite subject. So I’m not exactly bored, I’m just sort of distracted. Yes. Distracted.
“Please, take out your notebooks and turn to a clean page. We’re going to have a quick dictation,” Mr. Fletcher announces, receiving groans of protest in return.
I try to conceal my ever-growing problem as discreetly as possible, but it’s a difficult task when every tiny movement causes it to brush up against the rough denim of my jeans, sending a jolt of that weird feeling running through my system.
“We’re going to discuss tragedies today,” the teacher says, evoking another chorus of groans from the class.
As I’m bending to get the notebook out of my back-pack, I accidently rub it against my tummy. I inhale sharply at the contact, feeling waves of warmth simmer in my lower abdomen.
What. The. Hell?
I glance around the classroom quickly to see if anyone has noticed my little predicament, but they’re all focused on their work, scribling notes and answering questions diligently. I slump lowly in my seat, mind running wild with ideas of what on earth was wrong with me. ‘Cause I can assure you this has never, ever happened before. And I honestly don’t know what’s brought it on. Oh my Lord, what if it’s broken?
I feel my insides twist at the thought.
“In a tragedy, the central figure meets with disaster or grave misfortune. In most instances, the tragic hero’s downfall is a direct result of fate’s intervention or of a character flaw, also referred to as hamartia. This means that--”
What if it gets stuck like this forever? It’s so hard. How is that even possible?
“Though flawed, the tragic figure is usually of noble stature and is basically good. The downfall, then, always seems to be worst than what the figure actually deserves. This creates an--”
I glance down at the bulge that has formed in my pants. After a careful scan around the room, I reach down tentatively, giving it a light squeeze. Big mistake. A tiny squeal escapes my mouth as the swell pulses beneath my fingers, forcing a luscious warmth to pool in my belly. My cheeks burn raw and red as a few pairs of eyes flick toward me. I keep my gaze locked on the desk, pretending as though I don’t notice their stares and, thankfully, they all turn back to their work.
“A tragic hero should suffer some recognition of his flaw and the reason for his downfall. The audience should experience a purging, or catharsis, through the experience of the hero’s suffering. Even with the--”
Despite my current situation, I somehow manage to get my book out of my back-pack and turn it to a blank page. But Mister Fletcher is speaking far too quickly for my blurred mind to accurately decipher a single word. At this point, all I can think about is the solid, warmth between my legs and how much I want it to go away. And it’s not long before I’ve had enough.
I swallow thickly before calling out, “Um… Mister Fletcher?”
The English teacher turns to look at me, seeming slightly annoyed, “Yes, Frank?”
“Can I go to the bathroom, please?”
“I’m right in the middle of a dictation. Can’t you hold it?” he huffs, placing his hands on his hips.
“No.”
A slight pause.
“Go on, then.”
I rush out of the room as soon as he utters his permission, using my bag to cover myself. Moving quickly down the halls, I find the bathrooms and crash into the nearest, empty stall. I toss my bag to the floor before sitting on the toilet seat and examining myself. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see that it's gone down quite a bit, in fact, it’s almost completely back to normal. Maybe I’m not broken after all…
I am sitting in my fifth period English class. We are a mere five minutes into the lesson and I’m struggling to pay attention. But not for the reasons you may assume. I like English, in fact, it’s my favorite subject. So I’m not exactly bored, I’m just sort of distracted. Yes. Distracted.
“Please, take out your notebooks and turn to a clean page. We’re going to have a quick dictation,” Mr. Fletcher announces, receiving groans of protest in return.
I try to conceal my ever-growing problem as discreetly as possible, but it’s a difficult task when every tiny movement causes it to brush up against the rough denim of my jeans, sending a jolt of that weird feeling running through my system.
“We’re going to discuss tragedies today,” the teacher says, evoking another chorus of groans from the class.
As I’m bending to get the notebook out of my back-pack, I accidently rub it against my tummy. I inhale sharply at the contact, feeling waves of warmth simmer in my lower abdomen.
What. The. Hell?
I glance around the classroom quickly to see if anyone has noticed my little predicament, but they’re all focused on their work, scribling notes and answering questions diligently. I slump lowly in my seat, mind running wild with ideas of what on earth was wrong with me. ‘Cause I can assure you this has never, ever happened before. And I honestly don’t know what’s brought it on. Oh my Lord, what if it’s broken?
I feel my insides twist at the thought.
“In a tragedy, the central figure meets with disaster or grave misfortune. In most instances, the tragic hero’s downfall is a direct result of fate’s intervention or of a character flaw, also referred to as hamartia. This means that--”
What if it gets stuck like this forever? It’s so hard. How is that even possible?
“Though flawed, the tragic figure is usually of noble stature and is basically good. The downfall, then, always seems to be worst than what the figure actually deserves. This creates an--”
I glance down at the bulge that has formed in my pants. After a careful scan around the room, I reach down tentatively, giving it a light squeeze. Big mistake. A tiny squeal escapes my mouth as the swell pulses beneath my fingers, forcing a luscious warmth to pool in my belly. My cheeks burn raw and red as a few pairs of eyes flick toward me. I keep my gaze locked on the desk, pretending as though I don’t notice their stares and, thankfully, they all turn back to their work.
“A tragic hero should suffer some recognition of his flaw and the reason for his downfall. The audience should experience a purging, or catharsis, through the experience of the hero’s suffering. Even with the--”
Despite my current situation, I somehow manage to get my book out of my back-pack and turn it to a blank page. But Mister Fletcher is speaking far too quickly for my blurred mind to accurately decipher a single word. At this point, all I can think about is the solid, warmth between my legs and how much I want it to go away. And it’s not long before I’ve had enough.
I swallow thickly before calling out, “Um… Mister Fletcher?”
The English teacher turns to look at me, seeming slightly annoyed, “Yes, Frank?”
“Can I go to the bathroom, please?”
“I’m right in the middle of a dictation. Can’t you hold it?” he huffs, placing his hands on his hips.
“No.”
A slight pause.
“Go on, then.”
I rush out of the room as soon as he utters his permission, using my bag to cover myself. Moving quickly down the halls, I find the bathrooms and crash into the nearest, empty stall. I toss my bag to the floor before sitting on the toilet seat and examining myself. I breathe a sigh of relief as I see that it's gone down quite a bit, in fact, it’s almost completely back to normal. Maybe I’m not broken after all…
♠ ♠ ♠
So, I wrote this a couple of years ago and was re-reading it the other day and I thought... Hey, with a few tweaks, this might actually be pretty decent. And so, here it it. Hope you liked it. Another update is on its way.