Obligatory trigger warning… this story contains some gray area stuff that might not be everyone’s cup of tea. You’ve been warned. Also sorry this is LONG.
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When I was in elementary/junior high school, I was in band. I played the clarinet, and had enough aptitude that if I actually practiced, I could be good. But like most kids that age, I really didn’t have the discipline to do so. So my parents signed me up for professional lessons, which took place on Wednesdays or Thursdays after school in a spare classroom at the junior high. The teacher, Mr. S, was a fairly young guy; though he seemed old to me at the time he couldn’t have been more than 30. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, the same pair every time, as if he didn’t have more in the way of wardrobe items. His brown hair was tightly curled against his skull and always either glisteningly gelled down or frizzed out like a brillo pad. His face had the acne-scarred texture of an orange rind. Although he was conventionally proportionate and I couldn’t pick out anything specific about his appearance that was off-putting except his skin, he kind of gave off this strange vibe that made me slightly uneasy. Not always, but sometimes the way his brown eyes would glint with an unnamed intensity would catch me by surprise. At the time, I had the child-like thought that he could tell I was lying about practicing, and that’s why his gaze would pierce through me while I played. But if so he never explicitly called me out on it.