First of all: No, I'm not going to tell you where I got the clicker. (And no, it wasn't from an alien, a genie, or a wizened old man in a Chinese antique shop.)
Second: It's not magic. Everybody knows that sound waves, in subaudible frequencies, can have all kinds of effects on our bodies. The only news here is that somebody was able to tune those frequencies in very specific ways.
Very, VERY specific.
The clicker came into my hands during my senior year of college, and I knew exactly how I'd test it. Her name is Evie.
Two things made her perfect for this test--two things that made Evie famous on campus.
First, she's hot as fuck. Every campus has at least a few stunning women, of course, but I mean, Evie is extreme. She's gorgeous. High cheekbones, flawless skin, shiny jet-black hair, huge blue eyes that crinkle into slits when she smiles.
And her body--holy shit. Five-seven, long neck, hourglass figure, tight bubble ass.
And, oh God, her tits. They're huge, of course--why would she win every genetic lottery except this one?--but they also defy gravity. They bloom outward from her chest, forward, as though begging you to hold them. My buddy jokes that you know when Evie's about to enter a room because her tits enter first.
The second thing that makes Evie unusual: She WANTS to be desired.
Most women don't want to be sex objects. Don't want to be mentally undressed. Don't want to be ogled. You know: "Hey--my eyes are up here."
As guys, we're trained to override our instincts. We're taught that it's offensive to stare at, or even compliment, a woman's body. And wow--say "I'd give anything to sleep with you," and you'll get slapped, expelled, or canceled.
I get it, I do. But Evie is not like that. She INVITES your imagination. She gets off on it. She's in that body, and she loves it.
She wears clothing that lets you love it, too: a lot of short skirts, heels, tight T-shirts. You can count on her exposing her midriff--and always, always, her magnificent cleavage. She's got massive tits, and she's not going to let anyone forget that.
She loves the power it all gives her. If you're a straight guy, you're a sitting duck. When Evie is close to you, your brain shuts down and your hormones takes over.
Especially when she spots you trying to peek at her tits. She'll actually thrust her shoulders back, so they lift up closer to your face. At that point, there's nothing you wouldn't do for her. No dude on campus will deny her anything, and that includes the professors.
On the other hand--and this is key--it's all look, no touch. Nobody fucks Evie. I once heard that she's been with women once or twice, but nobody's ever seen her in a relationship. She doesn't date, and nobody's ever credibly said they've slept with her. Her whole thing is about being wanted, but never actually accommodating anyone's desire.
You don't actually make a move on Evie. If you try, she pepper-sprays you. She carries the little canister everywhere she goes. During my time in college, she sprayed at least three guys that I know of.
People would say she's asexual, or closeted. Who knows? We knew only that she's very hot and very crazy.
Which brings us to the clicker.
It was the end of April, senior year. Finals were winding down. Evie was in the cafeteria, finishing lunch. She was wearing a bright red V-neck T-shirt--as usual, a couple of sizes too small, so that her tits stretched the fabric taut. There was no curve of those massive spheres that you couldn't see.
Also, no bra today. She wanted to be sure you could see where her nipples were.
She wore a diamond-pendant neckace that hung well into her deep cleavage, drawing the eye. Her hair, sleek and shiny, hung forward over her face as she scrolled her phone.
I came over to her booth and slid in across from her, uninvited. She looked up only briefly.
"What the fuck do you want?" she said.
She didn't know me. We'd had one class together, but I doubt she even knew my name.
"Just want to look at you," I said.
Her right hand dropped to the purse on the bench beside her. My guess was she was going for the pepper spray.
"Find another table," she snapped.
This was going exactly as I'd predicted. Of course she was hostile! The rule was: You desire Evie. You don't actually act on it.
"You sure you don't want me to fuck you silly?" I said.
Now, I fully realize that nobody talks like that. But this was part of the experiment.
Her hand came up from below the table. The pepper spray nozzle was six inches from my eyes.
"I'll give you three seconds to leave this table," she said. "One. Two."
And this is when I clicked to position 1.
The clicker is a a third of an inch thick, the size of a credit card, a gray 3D-printed rectangle. (It's not exactly a mass-marketed product; as far as I know, this is the only one in the wild.)
It has a slider that moves along a track, popping into any of five positions (six, if you count Off). It's a solid enough click that you can work it in your pocket, which is what I was doing.
It took about four seconds to see the effect of position 1 on Evie: Her hand dropped. The canister rested on the table now, and her expression softened. And she looked at me, really looked, for the first time.
This was not lust; it was just a receding of aggression. But it was an unmistakable change. The goddam clicker worked!
"What's your name?" Eve asked.
I told her.
We began to chat. She was civil. I made her smile a couple of times. Already, I'd made more progress than most dudes had in their four years at this place.
