Get to class

You arrive in class, perfectly on time. You might have been catastrophically late under normal circumstances because you procrastinated massively; fortunately it occurred to you to freeze time for however long it took to get yourself together, presentable, and a minimum up to speed on the weird precepts seen or to be seen in the course.

You take your usual seat in the classroom, at the doorwards end of the third row of tables from the chalkboard. It's a sparsely populated area, due to the clustering of the various clans and factions of students at the farmost seats away from the teacher, where she can't hear them nattering. You've never had much to say to your peers historically other than to correct them on, well, basically everything, because they're so ignorant these days, so you never felt the need to hide yourself from any educator. Plus, in this class, it means you get a decent view. It's odd that the other lads shy away to the back even in this class; you'd think they'd have wanted to savour every possible opportunity to get an eyeful of Miss Dahl. Perhaps they have invisible telescopes.

Talk of the devil and here she comes, Carolina Dahl, in her early twenties, a tall brunette in slightly flared jeans. She doesn't say a word as she comes in, just sets down her things, opens up her laptop, and within a few minutes she starts calling the surnames. Immediately the hubub hitherto going strong falls and whimpers into dead silence; difficult to tell if it's because we absolutely need to hear Miss Dahl as clearly as possible as she enunciates in vowels so bent they would surely be the envy of any harmonica player, to make sure we can tell who she's calling, or if it's because she does it with such an unwaveringly flat expression, possibly unintentional, of perpetual disgust on her features, that we worry if she might not literally kill us stone dead through sheer **** of will, by staring us each in the eye with daggers bursting from her irises. Either way you can't get enough of it. It's hilariously endearing when you contrast it with her actual character, insofar as she acts while attempting to teach. She's immensely attentive to the needs of the class and the individual students, and quite happily will routinely course-correct the lesson to focus on one point of theory if so much as one student is sufficiently brave to admit that he has failed to assimilate it. Routinely of course, that student is you.

Today you have a concern that you'd like to use to preemptively derail the class and give the shaft to the curriculum: you still don't understand what on earth is the derivative of a function and how to deal with it.

It's hard to read her reaction to this revelation. There's certainly frustration to discovering new depths to your manifest lack of mathematical literacy each week, but at the same time she seems relieved to see your consistent sincerity in answer to the question "Is there anything we did last week I need to explain again for anybody?" You know, from teachers saying this in the introductory lectures, from teachers complaining about it in your presence when in the polite company of your parents who befriended lots of them, that this question is one the entire educational establishment wishes had more response than the standard empty silence. Because everybody knows something like 50% of people would say, as you do, "I'm drowning in deep water here", but choose to stay silent. And everybody knows why they stay silent. Because they don't want to slow everyone else down in getting help that ultimately won't do them any good because the teachers providing it are so impaired in their teaching by the curriculum that they don't have the tools to help them. The system kills knowledge while the people with knowledge desperately scramble to pass it on. In a way with your constant questions you're being a dick to those who are blessed with the ability to learn in the way that the system wants them to learn.

And speaking of dicks, Miss Dahl has started talking. Her accent is unusually thick and drawling today, such that your effort to decifer what she is saying has, in failing miserably, drawn your attention to the inescapable reality that she looks really good in plain clothing. The white t-shirt and the bright blue flares, along with the choice of letting loose the long jet black hair, make unmistakeable the youthful exuberance of this woman's form. Inevitably, you've gone rock solid in your nether regions.

It really hurts too. Somehow, with part of why you bothered to come to class being that you would satisfy a desire to ogle a pretty girl, it never occurred to you that wearing a pair of tight jeans would potentially be a Bad Idea, and now your knob is swelling while in a sort of bent position. I mean, we all know that erect penises are adequately described as long bent things with a sort of lump on the end, but the sort of constriction that your current ill-chosen pants must impose upon your particular thing will make a dangerously anomalous and possibly hazardous bend well beyond what is acceptable, what is safe, even. You must do something about this 'cos it ain't going away.

Oh. Well, that's handy. You can do something about it. You were on the verge of a minor panic for a second there, but actually, what cause is there for worry? You stop time casually. Miss Dahl's voice cuts out; she freezes with a hand near the chalkboard writing out the incomprehensible formulas. One look around confirms that all the other students are likewise fixated. You rise, release yourself from the offending ballsack constrictor, and reach into your underwear to make strategic adjustments. Unfortunately, having placed your soldier in the most convenient position, which is upright and pressed against your stomach, you discover that both your boxers and your damn jeans end too low to cover you completely, meaning that whatever you do, there is a high likelihood that the next time you stand up there will be a conspicuous lump manifest near your navel, even if you put your shirt over it. If only you had a long cardigan. Trying to slip back into your greatcoat while sitting down would just draw attention to you. And yes, the hardness might die before then -- but it might not. Miss Dahl is such a pleasure to behold.

And behold, there she is, frozen in her explanation of the lambda thing in the process, facing the chalkboard. What a backside indeed!

It's not as if you're going to learn anything if you just sit back down, pretend nothing is happening and hope for the best.

You've always wanted to see more of... Carolina.

...

Would that not be immoral?