I like to think of myself as a master of exploitation. Others will call me a bitch, a whore, or just plain evil. But my interference in the affairs of others is minimal; its victims further extend the problems I cause. Many solutions present themselves, but are neither explored nor realized. I feel no sympathy, and remain far from empathy. I only feel joy for every second of misery they experience. And the best part will always be the transition period; when they realize that the fun I gave them is becoming a great misfortune, and in some cases, a disaster.
Chapter 03 - Returning to Consciousness
Needless to say, my recovery from the events at West Virginia required relocation. I decided to transfer to a university in Southern California, which, because of certain details in the following story, will remain unnamed. To regather myself, to completely undo all the brainwashing that manipulative whore I left in the basement did, I drove across the country to my new home.
It was the summer of 2006. I had some catching up to do on music, so I threw in the new CDs I'd gotten shortly before departing, "10,000 Days" by Tool. "Mesmerize" and "Hypnotize" by System of a Down. And just to mix it up, "Black Holes and Revelations" by Muse. It was meant to clear my mind, and that it did. I took the fresh air of Middle America full blast with the windows rolled down, the sweet crunching melodies of guitar, and every knob inside my head being reset to zero.
In collecting myself, I had to rationalize everything I had done. Every pussy I had worshipped, every cock I had sucked. There had to be some other reason than love for me to indulge in every sexual kink imaginable in such a short amount of time. Besides, was it really love that I felt? It was more of an obsession. Allowing a seduction to become a cardiac probing. I was tricked, that was the plain and simple fact. I would not have become what I did had she not been there to make me a guinea pig in her little experiment. It wasn't my fault that I became a real slut.
But that didn't mean I didn't enjoy it.
I admitted to myself, when crossing the border into Oklahoma, that sex was fantastic. Even not knowing who it was that I was fucking made it exciting. It was fun to pleasure someone else, fun to receive it. But it caused an immense mental weakness within me, and until I could control that piece of myself, I would really have to be careful. I am the one who exploits weaknesses, not the other way around.
So as I arrived in California, driving through the vast Mojave Desert, I came to a conclusion - join the profession where sex means nothing: filmmaking.
**********
I immediately jumped onto the school radio program. There was an open slot on Fridays at 7:00, primetime for rock and roll radio. I figured all these pop-chewing kids wouldn't give two shits about it, but it was my slot and I intended to use it. College radio, I came to find, was a rather precarious thing. There's no fight for ratings, no sponsors or ads. But the danger comes in the actual content put out. Unlike the real world, there are a few items of propaganda the school wanted me to follow.
"Safe sex is not a joke," I'd say at 7:30 on the dot. It twisted my arteries every time I said it. It reminded me too much of high school. Being coddled into a false perception of personal care. But I had to hand it to them, using a fear tactic was a nice way to get what they wanted. If only they could learn how to make it work.
I made the school paper the week before school started by playing an entire album during my slot. I skipped right over the announcements and messages I was told to say and just kept the record playing. It's not really that interesting news, but what else is going to happen before the first lecture has lulled us all to sleep? So it went down in print that I had played Catch 22's "Permanent Revolution" in its entirety. Just before the fifth track, word had gotten around campus what was going on, and practically every party had tuned in.
I suppose they saw it as a nice sign of rebellion. A symbol of individuality in our last step before the real world. So when "A Minor Point" blasted through everyone's speakers, I was a name to remember for at least the remainder of summer.
Among the thousands that came to know the name Kim Lazenby, one was already very familiar. That one is who truly came to establish me as a social assassin.
**********
I sat in a screenwriting class with a typically pompous old woman with crazy hair. She definitely seemed the creative type but lacked the charisma to expand her touch upon the artistic world beyond the page. The way I saw it, there was no way that she could remove my own characteristics, so why worry about her influence? She can only teach me. That was the idea, wasn't it?
The forty other kids in the room seemed to be hanging on every word she said. A bunch of wide-eyed freshman so fortunate to have been accepted to this prestigious establishment. I was one of two transfers, not only from another school but from another program entirely. I sat with the other, one Harry Figgan. He had this miraculously natural head of jheri curls and piercing blue eyes that almost made me afraid to look at him. I could tell he was very happy to be here, but he wasn't so falsely enthralled as the rest. He was ready to work, not just to listen.
So at the end of the lecture we were all assigned to go watch "Rain Man" to get a nice idea of story structure. Harry offered to watch it with me, and I accepted.
Back in his dorm, there were movie posters wall to wall. I couldn't understand how he didn't just jump straight into the film program, but for one reason or another, that was how it was. He went to a drawer underneath his bed and revealed about a hundred DVDs, one of which was the choice film of our professor.
The film started rolling. The lights were off and the blinds were pulled. We sat on his bed, facing the opposite wall where the small TV stood on a small bookshelf. It was a small, uncomfortable room designed for one-half people. Yet somehow I fell straight into an old habit.
It must have been ten minutes before I realized I was stroking his cock. At some point I simply reached over and started rubbing over his shorts, and the motions took the rest for me. It had been three months since I had even seen someone naked but here I was falling right back into my brainwashed state. It was my hypnosis still shining through.
When I snapped out of it, I jumped off the bed in shock and practically ran out of the building. I was smart enough not to live on campus, so my location would be unknown to the strange boy who now thought I was some sorority bimbo. Which I was.
**********
I found a very nice apartment, only a five minute drive from school. It was a one bedroom place with a separate living room and kitchen. It was very well sized for me. I didn't feel suffocated, but I didn't feel trapped in space. It was a Goldilocks apartment.
I ran into my place practically hyperventilating. I knew this would be an issue at some point, but for it to be so subconscious, so easy; it was enough to make me vomit. The absolute hatred I held for Helena was directly associated with sex, in any form. I knew this would be a challenge I would have to overcome, or it would undo me once again.
I saw the outcome of failure. I saw myself rationalizing that being a brainless sex toy for the pleasure of all that desire me would not be so bad. I saw myself being passed around at parties with every passing year until my looks faded and my body failed me. Then left in solitude with no saving grace. It was an inspiring thought. Inspiring to defeat that fate, of course.
Inspiring because I was aroused by the idea.
Smart woman that I am, I realized that in order to defeat this conditioning I would have to continue to be sexually active with full awareness. I would have to learn my real preferences, my real desires, and my real distastes. With enough concentration and thought, I would be able to undo all of the bimbofication I was subjected to for the sake of a thesis.
