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MidReal Story
The Wrong Sort Of Man
Scenario:me a crossdresser bullied in highschool by a group of aggressive teenage hormonial boys
Create my version of this story
Ethan Thompson
He is a sensitive and creative teenager who navigates the challenges of high school while embracing his identity as a crossdresser. He is brave,selfconscious,and resilient. Ethan faces bullying from boys like Jeremy and Chris,who mock his style and sensibilities. He finds solace in his close friendship with Rachel,a fellow outsider who becomes his confidante. Despite the hardships,Ethan remains determined to express himself authentically.
Derek
He is Rachel's boyfriend who works at a video game store. He is caring,understanding,and protective. Derek supports Rachel by accepting her independence and standing by her despite the tension at home with his parents. His relationship with Rachel exemplifies a positive LGBTQ+ connection in the background of Ethan's struggles. Derek remains a figure of stability in the lives of both Rachel and Ethan during their high school years.
Jeremy
He is a high school bully who frequently harasses Ethan for being different. He is aggressive,insensitive,and confrontational. Jeremy enjoys provoking Ethan by making fun of his fashion choices and calling him names. His attempts to intimidate Ethan only strengthen Ethan's resolve to be true to himself. Jeremy's behavior highlights the difficulties Ethan faces in high school and demonstrates the harsh realities of being an outsider.
I was a little late for school.
I had spent extra time in the bathroom perfecting my makeup, and I just didn't want to ruin it by carrying a mirror around with me.
I knew it was unnecessary, but I was just not good at applying makeup yet, so I needed to see what I was doing.
I had started wearing makeup a week ago, and I was still getting used to it.
I had started wearing eyeshadow, eyeliner, and foundation.
I knew I looked good, but I was just not used to seeing myself like that yet.
I walked down the long hallway of Lockwood High School, careful not to smear my lipstick.
I loved the color, and I didn't want to mess it up before I even got to my locker.
"Hey faggot," someone called out behind me.
I turned around and saw Jeremy and his friends coming toward me.
Jeremy was one of the bullies of the school.
I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the scuffed linoleum tiles ahead while my Mary Janes click steadily against the floor.
The hallway stretches long and empty, my footsteps echoing off metal lockers.
Behind me, Jeremy's heavy boots and his friends' snickers grow closer.
I adjust my messenger bag strap, gripping it tighter as I pass the water fountain.
Twenty more steps to my locker.
The sound of a paper airplane whizzes past my ear, but I maintain my pace.
I reach my locker, exhale, and resolve to face whatever comes next.
My hands tremble slightly as I work the combination lock, hyper-aware of Jeremy and his friends closing in behind me.
The metallic click of the lock feels impossibly loud in the tense corridor.
I deliberately arrange my face into a mask of calm, though my heart pounds against my ribs.
Opening the locker door creates a momentary barrier between us.
I take my time selecting my biology textbook and notebook, methodically stacking them in my arms.
The sound of their snickering grows closer, and a wadded paper ball bounces off my locker door.
While pretending to organize my locker, I discreetly reach into my messenger bag's front pocket where I keep my sewing supplies.
My fingers brush against the spool of thread, then the scissors, before landing on the small silver safety pin.
I use it for last-minute clothing emergencies, like when a hem comes loose or a button falls off.
I withdraw the pin and, making it look like I'm just adjusting my stance, crouch slightly and drop it on the floor.
With a quick nudge of my foot, I position the pin so that the sharp end points upward.
Continuing to arrange my books, I keep Jeremy in my peripheral vision.
His swaggering steps bring him closer and closer until he's just a few feet away.
His next step will land squarely where I've placed the pin.
Jeremy stops short, his eyes narrowing as he spots the pin on the floor.
"Trying to be clever, huh?" he sneers, kicking it aside with a scuffed boot.
I meet his gaze, unflinching, and reply, "Just trying to keep my space safe from unwanted pests."
After a beat, Jeremy retreats, his gang following suit.
I watch them disappear around the corner before I breathe again.
As I straighten my books, something flutters from between my textbooks and drifts to the floor.
A folded piece of paper.
I definitely didn't put it there.
My hands are still trembling from the confrontation, but I carefully pick up the paper and unfold it.
I check over my shoulder to make sure Jeremy and his gang are gone before I read the note.
It's written in unfamiliar handwriting, precise and careful penmanship.
Meet me behind the gymnasium after final bell.
Come alone.
A shiver runs down my spine as I read the words over and over again.
Part of me wonders if this is another one of Jeremy's traps, but something about the handwriting makes me think otherwise.
I lean against my locker, reading the note for the fifth time while students rush past to their next classes.
The careful loops and curves of the handwriting remind me of that new student - the one with kind eyes who actually smiled at me yesterday instead of staring or sneering.
I hadn't caught their name, but the genuine warmth in that brief hallway interaction felt different from the usual hostility.
The late bell rings, making me jump.
I carefully fold the note and tuck it into my biology notebook before hurrying to class.
My Mary Janes click against the linoleum as I weave through the crowd.
At my desk, I can't focus on the teacher's lecture about cell division.
I glance at the clock, counting down the minutes until I can discover who left the note and why.
In biology class, I try focusing on Ms. Peterson's lesson about mitosis, but my attention keeps drifting.
I'm seated in the back row, and three rows ahead of me is the new transfer student.
They're wearing a plain white shirt and dark jeans, their hair styled neatly.
I can't see their face from this angle, but I remember those kind eyes from yesterday.
Ms. Peterson writes something on the board, and I pretend to take notes while actually sketching little hearts in the margins of my notebook.
The mysterious note feels heavy in my book.
When Ms. Peterson asks a question, the new student turns to borrow a pencil from the person next to them.
As they do, our eyes meet briefly.
They give me that same gentle smile from yesterday, and my pulse quickens.
I quickly look down at my notebook, pretending to be engrossed in my notes.
But I'm not writing anything coherent; my mind is still on that note and who might have left it for me.
I'm sketching another heart in my notebook when the fire alarm suddenly blares, cutting through the quiet of the classroom.
Students jump from their seats, knocking over chairs and shoving papers into bags.
Ms. Peterson tries to maintain order, but her voice is drowned out by the commotion.
I carefully tuck my biology notebook into my messenger bag, not wanting to lose that mysterious note.
The new student stands up, blending into the crowd rushing for the door.
As I stand to join the evacuation, Jeremy shoulders past me hard, making me stumble against a desk.
I steady myself against the desk, my hip throbbing from the impact.
Before I can fully regain my balance, the classroom lights cut out, plunging us into darkness.
Students' voices rise in confusion and fear around me.
I hear chairs scraping and bodies bumping into desks.
Someone screams.
Through the chaos, I detect Jeremy's distinctive laugh somewhere to my left.
My fingers grip the edge of the desk tighter as I try to orient myself in the pitch black.
Ms. Peterson calls for everyone to stay calm, but her voice wavers.
In the pitch-black classroom, a warm hand finds mine, fingers intertwining gently but firmly.
The touch startles me at first, making me flinch.
But then I catch a familiar scent—vanilla.
A whispered voice near my ear says, "It's okay."
It's the new student.
My heart pounds as they squeeze my hand reassuringly.
Together, we inch forward through the darkness, navigating past knocked-over chairs and panicked classmates.
Jeremy's voice sounds somewhere behind us, but it grows fainter as we move forward.
I focus entirely on the steady pressure of the hand holding mine.
Still holding the new student's hand, I reach out with my other hand to feel for the door in the darkness.
My fingers brush against the cold metal frame, then slide down until they find the handle.
Behind us, the sounds of panic continue—shuffling feet, nervous chatter, and Jeremy's voice getting closer again.
I grip the handle tightly and pull, but it sticks.
The new student presses closer, their vanilla scent stronger now, as they help me pull.
I brace my shoulder against the door and push with all my strength while the new student pulls the handle.
The metal groans, then suddenly gives way.
We tumble forward into the dimly lit hallway, catching ourselves against the opposite wall.
My chest heaves as I gulp fresh air, the vanilla scent now mixed with sweat.
Through the dim red glow of the emergency lights, I study their face properly for the first time—soft features, kind eyes, flushed cheeks.
Behind us, angry voices and pounding footsteps echo from the classroom.
I press against the wall, and the new student does the same, our shoulders touching.
The footsteps thunder closer and closer until Jeremy's furious face appears in the classroom doorway.
But before he can take a step into the hallway, a beam of light cuts through the darkness, illuminating him.
Ms. Peterson stands in the hallway, her flashlight pointed at Jeremy.
"Everyone stay calm and follow me," she commands, positioning herself between us and the classroom door.
One by one, students file out of the classroom, guided by Ms. Peterson's flashlight beam.
The new student's hand slips from mine as we join the line.
I fall into step behind them, watching their silhouette in the glow of Ms. Peterson's flashlight as she leads us toward the emergency exit.
The new student turns their head slightly and whispers, "I didn't expect this on my first day."
I manage a shaky laugh, replying, "Yeah, welcome to our school—where surprises are the norm."
They glance back at me, eyes twinkling despite the chaos, and say, "Well, at least I found a friend in the dark."
As we walk down the dim hallway, Ms. Peterson's flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, a strange scratching sound catches my attention.
It's coming from somewhere ahead, but I can't pinpoint the source.
The new student stops abruptly, causing me to bump into them.
Ms. Peterson halts as well, her flashlight beam sweeping across the floor.
Suddenly, through the red glow of the emergency lights, I see it—a raccoon darts between students' legs, its fur fluffed up.
But what's even more bizarre is that it appears to be wearing a miniature backpack strapped to its body.
The raccoon stops in its tracks and turns toward us, standing on its hind legs as if to get a better look.
Its eyes glow in the dark, and it lets out a high-pitched squeak.
Then, without warning, it scampers off toward the gymnasium doors.
The new student grabs my hand again and pulls me after it.
We sprint down the hallway, our footsteps echoing off the walls, until we reach the gymnasium doors.
The raccoon darts through the gap between the doors, and we follow close behind.
Inside the empty gymnasium, the emergency lights cast an eerie red glow across the polished floor.
The raccoon scampers toward the bleachers, its paws pattering against the wood.
We follow after it, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous room.
The raccoon leads us on a wild chase, darting between chairs and leaping over obstacles.
Finally, it scurries underneath the lowest row of bleachers.
We crouch down and peer into the shadows.
That's when I see it—a faint blue light pulsing behind the metal framework of the bleachers.
The new student grabs my arm and points.
Between the lowest bleacher seats, a shimmering distortion warps the air like heat waves rising from hot pavement.
The new student whispers, "Is that... a portal?"
I nod, my heart racing. "Looks like it, but why is there a raccoon guarding it?"
They glance at me with wide eyes. "Maybe it's not just any raccoon; maybe it's the key to whatever's on the other side."
After the raccoon incident, I return to biology class the next day still shaken by what happened.
The new student is back in their usual seat, three rows ahead of me, and Ms. Peterson begins writing chemical equations on the board.
As she turns her back to the class, I feel a sudden jolt when I notice the new student getting up and moving to the seat beside me.
My pulse quickens as they settle into their new spot.
Ms. Peterson turns around to face us again, oblivious to the switch.
I stare at my notes, trying to act nonchalant while stealing glances at the new student beside me.
They casually stretch their arms above their head, using the motion as cover to drop a folded piece of paper onto my desk.
As they withdraw their hand, their fingers brush against mine for a moment before they settle back in their seat. I keep my gaze fixed on Ms. Peterson, who has started explaining some complex biological concept.
I wait until she turns her back again to pick up the paper.
It's folded into a neat square with precise creases that remind me of origami.
I turn it over in my hand, trying to figure out what it could be without drawing attention to myself.
When Ms. Peterson finally turns around to face the class again, I slowly unfold the paper under my desk, keeping it hidden from view.