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.
This thought process occurred over the course of an hour after I threw up into my sink. It took time to come down from the shock. And when I had finally regained my usual composure, I realized I had to do something about Harry. There would be no way I could recover if he went around marking my slutdom for all to know. He seemed like a very meek and rational guy. I was sure he could be reasoned with.
Next on the list would be the decision - pick a regular fuck buddy or sleep around? Going to parties would definitely be too big of a gamble. Alcohol would be the last thing I need to control my inhibitions. So maybe a regular is the much safer choice. One person who I could trust to stop me if I begin losing my stoicism. But what kind of man would agree to limited sex to de-bimbo me? So it should be a woman. Someone who can understand me on a more personal level when it comes to sex. But not a major partier. Not a straight girl who just wants to explore.
Now where can I find a girl like that?
**********
"What's going on the waves today, Kim?"
Terry Hannidy was the senior in charge of the radio programming. He was the only one on 92.4 faculty that actually liked my freewill style of airplay. Every week I would walk in to see him hunched over a desk, making lists of the best artists of this year or last year or last decade or last century. He taught me the boards and the mics from the moment I walked in during the summer. Terry knew I was a real music lover, and he would be the last one to stop me from expressing it.
"Open with some Streetlight Manifesto. Switch over to Five Iron Frenzy. Feeling ska today for sure," I told him. I walked straight into my booth with the CDs already stacked up in my bag.
"Always the stuff we don't have," he chuckled.
"That might change if people could just move on from Justin and Kelly," I spat at no one in particular.
Terry just laughed. He had more optimism for the state of music than I did. I sat down in my chair and started unpacking the discs, getting them ready for use. In the second studio across the hall, Patty Roberts was finishing up her program on the state of French fashion. I couldn't hear a word she was saying, nor did I want to. I had no faith in her being anything but a basic, superficial fashionista. Always about the hot items and never about the actual look.
Terry stood up and went to the master board, fading out of her program and cutting into the stinger: "92.4 ******** College Radio". Without a word, I let the airwaves punch right into the horn section from Streetlight. I always thought it was best to start out strong before I say anything. Except of course for the Catch 22 incident. I just hit play and let the good times roll.
When the first song ended I swung the mic over to my mouth and signed on. "Good evening all you phonies out there. I hope you had a stressful week at school because as usual, it's time to wind down with friends and booze, because what the hell else are we supposed to do? Don't forget to get online and find out what's going on in the world so you can read the gist of it and pretend you're an informed adult. Meanwhile you can keep guzzling the liquor and regretting it every morning. It's a win-win. Here's Five Iron Frenzy's 'My Evil Plan to Save the World'."
And once again the horns blared. Terry said that people loved my brutal honesty. Fortunately it was a campus of kids who could laugh at themselves. If I had done anything like this back in West Virginia I would have been every fraternity's target for the remainder of my education.
When my hour ended, I decided to go out for a walk instead of going home. I felt that I didn't know the area as well as I should, and it couldn't hurt to start exploring. But as I walked through the campus, I got a bit too lost in thought. Music was so strong in my mind. I was thinking about what kind of band I would have if I could. I would definitely be the drummer. What would the band name be? That's a difficult one. It really depends on the chemistry I have with the other bandmates. What would we...
