Chemistry Pt 08

Author's note: this is the eighth installment in a ten-part series.

~

My analytical lab TA is not happy that I am late, but she helps me get set up and get the experiment going, anyway. Once I am working, I realize that the lab is not that difficult. All I have to do is run a set of compounds through a procedure that I had done

ad nauseum

this past summer at the lab during my internship. It's long and tedious, but I just have to go through the repetitive, dull motions of it, collect the data and analyze it later on my own time. I sit back and let my muscle memory pretty much take over. It is a welcome relief to feel like I am being productive without having to think too hard about it.

While I am working, every once in a while I panic, my mind flashes with the intermittent red light, my TA in the organic lab, the matted fur of his hairy ass, my cock buried inside him, but then after a few seconds, the panic fades, as though I am remembering something embarrassing from a long time ago, or something that someone else had done, maybe a crazy story I'd heard. After a few hours, the memory has faded so much it is almost indistinguishable against the general din of my thoughts.

Since I arrived late, it takes me until after everyone else is finished to wrap up my experiment. The TA is annoyed, she keeps sighing and looking at the clock. But I'm not really in a hurry to finish, I want to do everything correctly, and also, this is the first time I have felt a sense of calm in recent days.

I finish about 45 minutes after the lab officially ends. The TA helps me clean up so that we can get out the door faster. I remember something about the TA upstairs, something about an issue with the problem set.

"Have you graded the problem sets yet?" I ask the TA as we are leaving.

"Haven't looked at them," she says, not even turning to look at me before locking the door behind us and heading off down the hallway.

I stand there for a moment. What did the TA upstairs say about the problem set? I can't remember. In my head, through the fog, I see a dim, blinking light, cum splattering on the floor. I get dizzy and lean against the wall for a moment to steady myself. I press my forehead against the cool concrete of the wall to gain control of my thoughts.

He said something about an email.

I head down to the large computer lab on the first floor. There aren't many people in the building now, just a few clusters of students studying here and there. The computer lab is almost completely empty. I pull up to a computer in the far corner of the room and log in to my email.

There is an unread message from the organic synthesis TA, from an hour or so earlier.

Amir -- sorry you had to run before we could talk about your problem set, we still need to discuss ASAP. BTW, per your previous email -- yes, you can make up the lab from last week, we will need to find a time to do that... one on one ;) Let's do it soon.

I sit there, not knowing what to make of this. What is wrong with the problem set? And why do I feel like there is something...

charged

when I think about the TA? I can't penetrate the opaque cloud in my memory when I think about him. Had we... had something happened between us? I have a sense that there is something important missing.

Jamie. Jamie is fucking with me.

It occurs to me that Jamie could be getting into my head and erasing things. But even as I think this, I feel fog cloud into my mind, and soon, the thought has spiraled away.

There is another email in my inbox, from Mahan, in Farsi. Like my mom, Mahan is on a mission to preserve our ethnic and cultural integrity, one email at a time. The subject line reads, "dinner".

Amir, dude. You are coming over to my place for dinner tonight, there will be no arguments. Be there at six. My mom dropped off food yesterday so you know it will be good. Mahan

I chuckle. Mahan's parents live less than an hour away, and he is always complaining that they come to see him almost every weekend, but he also pretty much lives off the food that his mom cooks for him. My stomach rumbles. It's 5:30. I write back, in English.

OK, see you soon

I log out and stand up, stretch my arms over my head. Oof, I smell bad. I am still wearing dirty clothes, and I remember that I haven't showered today, in fact, I can't remember the last time I had. I think about going back to the dorm, but that will take to long. I'll have to hustle in order to get to Mahan's by six.

Mahan lives off-campus, in a large apartment on the top floor of an old house with two other guys. I've been there once since school started, but I can't quite remember which street to take from campus. I circle around a bit until I remember where to go. When I get to his house, the main door is ajar. I press the door bell but nothing happens, so I walk up the stairs. I hear pots banging as I enter the living room. I see Mahan, a whirlwind of motion, in the kitchen. I stoop to take off my shoes.

"Amir!" he yells, and comes out to greet me. We hug in the living room.

"Woah, you reek, man!" Mahan says, holding me at arm's length.

"Yeah, sorry, I really need a shower," I say, embarrassed.

Mahan looks me up and down. There is a concerned look on his face.

"Amir, what's up with you? You're not yourself recently," he says.

One of Mahan's roommates, the skinny one, whose name I forget, walks into the living room and grabs a book bag from the couch. He looks at me and nods. I nod back. He is incredibly slim. As he bends over to pick up his bag I watch the arc his body makes in space, the faintest curve of his buttocks protruding in his shorts. He walks back out of the room.

"Amir?" Mahan says. He is still looking at me. There is a frown on his face.

"I don't know," I say.

I don't want to unload all of what is happening onto Mahan. I know he wouldn't get it. He wouldn't slow down enough to take in what I am saying.

"I've just been, really busy and super stressed. I think... I think I'm just freaking out about all my classes and stuff," I say.

"You need to take it easy, bro," Mahan says. He grimaces at me. "Hey, why don't you take a shower here? I'll heat up the food and it'll be ready by the time you're done."

"I don't have any clothes," I say.

"I'll lend you some," Mahan replies and he walks down the hall toward the bedrooms.

I follow him, sheepishly.

"I've got a big shirt and some shorts that will probably fit your fat ass," Mahan says, laughing. He roots around in the closet and throws me a blue T-shirt and a pair of silver basketball shorts.

"I'm not lending you any underwear, so you'll have to go commando," he says.

"That's fine. Thanks, man."

He hands me a clean towel and points me to the bathroom. The bathroom is small and cramped -- everything seems proportioned for a not-quite-fully sized person. I have to move carefully not to bang into the walls or the sloped ceiling over the toilet.

I strip and throw my clothes into a pile on the floor. In the mirror, I look gargantuan, like a massive, hairy brute; even more brutish due to the fact that my beard has grown out so much. I inspect my beard in the mirror. It has never been this long before. I'm not sure if it is the beard, but my whole face looks different. Like my features have been adjusted, ever so slightly. I suddenly get the feeling that there is someone else looking back at me through the mirror.

Jamie.

Instantly, blood surges into my cock. I look down and watch my erection jut out, absurdly large, bobbing over the small form-factor sink. In my reflection I see a flicker in my eyes. Is it amusement? I put my hands up over my eyes, and rub. When I look again, my face looks more normal, more like myself. My erection starts to go down.

He's reminding me who is in control.

I should feel rage, anger, fear at this intrusion, but my mind is so jumbled up right now that I can't even manifest an appropriate response. I just want relief from all of this.

I run the water in the shower and wait for it to heat up. It is one of those flimsy plastic shower stalls and just as cramped as the rest of the bathroom. When I step into the shower, though, my anxieties dissipate, the hot spray of the water is sublime. I let the water course over me for a minute and then I reach for one of the bottles of body wash on the floor of the shower. I scrub my face and hair, then the rest of my body, reveling in the feeling of getting clean.

I want to stay longer in the hot water, but don't want to seem rude, so I cut the water once I am done washing. I towel off and then pull on Mahan's shorts. They are probably huge on him, but on me they are almost comically snug. They aren't going to hide anything, I realize. The T-shirt is also a bit tight across the chest and arms, but whatever. I am just grateful to be clean and wearing clean clothes.

I gather my dirty clothes and towel and leave the bathroom. As I walk to Mahan's room, I pass an open doorway. Inside, the slim roommate is lying on his bed, reading a book. I see him look up at me as I go by, and his eyes drop immediately to my crotch. His eyebrows rise up in a look of mild surprise.

Embarrassed, I hurry on to Mahan's room and drape the wet towel over the back of the chair at his desk. Then I go back out to the kitchen, avoiding looking into the skinny guy's room as I pass.

Mahan has laid out an impressive array of food on the table. Gormeh Sabzi and tahdig, and some sort of meat in pomegranate sauce. There are greens and yogurt with fresh-looking lavash. Plus a few other dishes I don't recognize. Mahan's mom is a master cook. I whistle with delight.

"Dude, this is amazing!" I say.

Mahan just grunts in acknowledgment. He is dishing out something else in the kitchen. I sit down at one of the places he has set.

"Eat, eat," he says, from the kitchen, and I don't need any more encouragement. He brings a bowl heaped with another rice dish I don't recognize, and sits across from me. For several minutes we both eat ravenously. The flavors and textures of the food send my mind reeling back in time, to family gatherings, from years and years ago, visits from friends and relatives, warm and friendly hands on me, on my cheeks, my face. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation of being a child, wrapped up by my family, protected.

I don't realize I am crying until Mahan reaches over to put a hand on my arm. I look up at him and hot tears fall down my face. His face registers surprise, but also worry. I take a deep, shuddering breath. He moves his hand away.

"Amir, talk to me," he says, quietly. "What is going on?"

"I don't want to get you involved," I say, wiping my eyes with a napkin.

"Involved? In what? Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"I don't know. Maybe." I want to tell him everything, but I'm worried about what might happen to him.

He sits back and crosses his arms. "Amir, cut the bullshit. You can trust me, I'm your friend, I want to help you."

I close my eyes. I am weak, exhausted from trying to keep everything in check, handling it all by myself. Maybe I should tell him.

I open my eyes and lean toward him, over the table. He leans toward me.

"I'm being... tracked," I say in a whisper. "Manipulated."

"Manipulated?" Mahan says, his brow furrowing. "By who?"

I don't want to say Jamie's name, so I say, "By this guy... here at school. He's... making me do things, horrible things. He... he's messing with my memory." I feel relief finally saying the words out loud, unburdening myself of the secret. Finally confessing what is going on.

"Messing with your memory, how?" Mahan says. He reaches over to spoon more food onto my plate, gestures at it, encouraging me to eat more.

"I don't know how he's doing it, I think maybe he put something inside me," I say, still speaking low. "Like some sort of virus... or a device. It comes on randomly, I think. I have these... experiences, where, like, I'm not fully conscious... I can't really explain it, but... like, it makes...

he

makes me do things that I wouldn't ever do... and then he does some sort of... erasure, like, he wipes my memory... of the events, so that I can't remember them... the details of them..."

As I speak, Mahan is listening and nodding, but not looking at me. He is looking at his food and taking small, careful bites.

I trail off, mid-thought. I haven't said anything about the gay stuff, of course. The sex. That is too shameful to talk about. Plus, how could I even explain it to Mahan, who is perhaps the world's most ardent heterosexual.

Mahan stares at his food for a long moment, then looks up at me.

"Amir, that sounds... horrible," he says. There is concern on his face, but there is also something else. A mask of some sort.

"You don't believe me," I say, stiffening in my chair. It is clear from his body language. I see him turning thoughts over and over in his mind. His mouth contorts several times as though he is about to say something but then decides not to.

Finally, he says, "It's not that I don't believe you, Amir. I just think maybe you need to take it easy for a while. Get some sleep. Eat some decent food..." he gestures again at my plate, "... maybe don't work so hard all the time."

I sit back in my chair, bring my hands up to cover my face. "You think I'm just stressed out." I say.

"Yeah, I kinda do, man."

Maybe he's right. What do I know? Maybe I just need a break from the craziness of the semester. Then, an image of Carl's ass, gaping from being pummeled by Tim's cock flashes before my eyes. I inhale sharply. This is not just stress.

"Look," Mahan continues, "why don't you stay here tonight? We'll watch an old Iranian movie and drink tea like a couple of old men. You can crash on the couch, we will just relax." He smiles and kicks me under the table.

I laugh. Mahan is a good guy, a good friend. Whether he believes me or not, his proposal sounds good, certainly better than going back to my dorm and spiraling back into my thoughts.

"Sure," I say. I pick up my fork and began to eat again. He does the same.

~

After dinner, I help him wash up. We chat about random things. Mostly, I listen to him complain about the different factions of the PSA and their opinions about the upcoming Halloween party. If there's one thing Mahan can do, it is to keep up a wall of patter such that there isn't much room for anything else. Usually this annoys me, but tonight I am grateful for the excuse not to have to think. All I have to do is listen to him.

After we are done cleaning up, Mahan pulls out a huge, cloth-cover book filled with DVDs and flips through the sleeves until he finds what he is looking for.

"Bingo. Have you seen this?" he asks, pulling out a DVD printed in Farsi, with a couple of old-timey looking actors' faces arrayed across the disc.

"Maybe?" I say. "I don't remember the names of those old movies, though."

"You're gonna love this, it's totally insane," he says, and he pops it into the DVD player.

I sit down at one end of the couch in the living room with my cup of tea. Mahan grabs the remote and sits at the other end of the couch and we start to watch. It is an old comedy, just like the ones my dad used to make us watch all the time when we were little. It is vaguely familiar, but it could be that it is just similar to any number of other movies from the era. Mahan doesn't shut up, of course. He comments the whole time about the costumes, the accents, the ridiculous sets. I just laugh along with him.

"Hey, what are you guys watching?" Mahan's skinny roommate is leaning against the door frame between the kitchen and the living room.

"Just an old Iranian movie," Mahan says.

"Oh. Pre-revolution?" the roommate asks.

"Yeah," Mahan says, shooting me a look.

The roommate watches the screen for a bit, then glances over at me. I see his eyes flick down to my crotch. I look down and see that I am bulging pretty obscenely in Mahan's shorts. I shift in my seat and pull my ankle up to rest on my knee, blocking the view.

"Wild," the roommate says, looking right at me. A prickle of electricity shoots down my spine.

Mahan pauses the movie. "Hey, Ben, is it OK if Amir crashes on the couch tonight?"

The roommate looks at Mahan and then back at me and says, "Fine with me."

"Cool," Mahan says.

The roommate -- Ben -- stands there for a moment, but when it's clear that Mahan waiting for him to leave before restarting the movie, he walks back down the hallway toward his room. His gait is fluid, almost like a cat's.

Mahan unpauses movie, looks at me and rolls his eyes. He told me before that his roommates are fine, perfectly nice guys, but totally boring, devoid of personality, and are always asking him to 'keep it down'.

We drink our tea and watch the movie. It goes on and on like all those old movies do. When it is finally over, it's almost eleven. I am exhausted, almost falling asleep for the last twenty minutes of the movie, while Mahan could probably just go on all night at full speed. He asks if I want to watch something else, but then he sees how tired I am. Worry flickers across his face again. He clears his throat and shifts his weight on the couch.

"Hey, Amir..." he says, looking at the floor. "Maybe tomorrow, you and I could... um, go talk to someone about what you told me? Tonight at dinner?" He's turning the remote over and over in his hands.

I prickle. "Talk to who?" I ask.

"I don't know. Um. Maybe someone at the counseling center?" He is still avoiding looking at me.

"You think I'm crazy," I say, standing up. My head starts spinning.

Mahan grabs my arm. "No, no, that's not what I meant," he says, quickly. "What I mean is, maybe they can help figure out how... this guy... is manipulating you. That's all I meant. It just sounds like a problem that you might need help with, like something that they might be able to help you figure out."

He pulls me back down to sit on the couch. His voice is calm and soothing. I'm not sure that I trust what he is saying, but I am so exhausted; it is just easier to go along with him.

Fine.

"Fine," I say.

Mahan gets me a sheet and some blankets and a pillow from his room. I lie down on the couch and hear him moving around the living room and kitchen, turning out lights. A few minutes later, I hear someone go into the bathroom and take a shower. The sounds of other people moving around and the general creaking of the old house are soothing, like being in my house again as a kid.

~

The first thing I notice when I wake up is the bright moon shining in my face from outside the window. It's glaringly bright, a full moon, and it looks huge, the intricate patchwork of craters is amplified somehow, enlarged, such that I feel like I can almost reach out and touch it.

Then I become aware of a presence beside me. I am lying on my back. The skinny roommate is standing next to the couch, his skin reflecting the moonlight, pale and pearlescent. He's wearing just a skimpy pair of briefs. I should be afraid -- or at least surprised -- to see him, but I'm not. I look up at his smooth, slender body with the full expectation that it is mine to take.

I push the blankets off my body and reach for him. He steps forward willingly, toward my hand. My palm contacts his thigh just above the knee, and I caress upward, under the fabric of his briefs to feel his ass, then around to the front to feel his cock. It is slight, like the rest of him, almost delicate. I caress it and press my palm under his balls, rolling them in my hand, squeezing his cock and balls in my fist, letting him feel the strength of my grip.

I pull his underwear down and off his legs, and as I lie there he swings his leg up over my head, straddling my face, facing down my body toward my feet. I pull him down onto me and rub my beard up into him. I feel him push my shorts down and then I feel him put his mouth on me, on my cock. I nuzzle harder into his crotch and push my tongue up against his taint. He shudders when my lips find his hole and he grinds himself down against me. My hands are on the lobes of his ass and I can't believe how small it is, how light he feels on top of me.