Philosophers have argued for centuries whether we chose what we do because of the way we are or we become who we are because of the things we chose to do. In my case, did I become a psyche major because people have always found it easy to come to me with their problems or have people learned to come to me with their problems because I am a psyche major?
Regardless of the answer, by the middle of my senior year at college I was beset almost constantly with fellow students unburdening their souls upon my shell-like ears. Between neurosis and psychosis, dreams and nightmares, fantasies and fears, I heard some of the sickest shit imaginable. I had no idea how many girls secretly want to fuck their fathers, how many of them actually have fucked their fathers, nor how many boys have similar urges surrounding their mothers/sisters/hot aunts/and small boys next door. Fortunately, none of it fostered in me the urge to alert the police about imminent deaths or destructions (although one young lady's sexual confessions about life growing up on a farm would have sent PETA into a tailspin!) and while listening to all this cerebral garbage made me feel generally unclean, there were more pleasant aspects.
Among those, at least in the beginning, was meeting Mackenzie.
I first saw Mackenzie in a freshman biology class I was retaking to better my grade. Already signed up for post-grad work, my overall average would determine placement and financing. I considered retaking an otherwise dull general bio class an investment in my very near future.
Mackenzie was not the sort of person I gave a second glance. Of average height and build, she had medium length brown hair in no discernable style, wore very little makeup to enhance what appeared to be a quite ordinary face, and hid whatever physical attributes her body offered under baggy sweats and unflattering ankle-length denim jumpsuits. I was therefore quite surprised when, about mid-term, she approached me in the quad (all campuses have quads; an area where either four paths intersect or four buildings form an unintended courtyard, quite often the only discernable landmark available) and asked me for help.
My dorm-mate was almost never in our room and so it was usually no problem for me bringing people home for whatever purpose. In her case I assumed another mundane session 'on the couch' listening to her tell me the details of her secret soul. Wearing bib overalls two sizes too big and a flannel shirt handed down from some lumberjack ancestor, she sat on the edge of my bed while I rolled over my desk chair and, with clipboard and ballpoint in hand, prepared to be dumped on.
Her problem, it seemed, was an overactive libido.
"It's why I dress like this," she said, tugging on the front of her unfortunate attire. "I try to make myself as undesirable as possible because," and here she laughed nervously, "it doesn't take any encouragement at all for me to lose control. All boys have to do is smile at me and I start getting wet and excited and..."
I could see she was already approaching a heightened state of arousal just talking about the process. Using my best sotto voce I calmed her down and assured her she'd be fine, that she was perfectly normal (for a nymphomaniac perhaps!) and that everything would be all right.
"I can't concentrate on my work," she complained, the strain showing on her face, which somehow looked incredibly better with some emotion coloring her otherwise sallow cheeks. "All I think about is fucking! My grades are suffering! I don't even eat right, all I want in my mouth is cock!"
A thought came to me then, and had she come to me the previous year I most assuredly would have found some other way to attack her problem, but I was currently halfway through a course in hypnotherapy. Dr. Wosciewicz told us it was, in practiced hands, a moderately useful tool, but had also warned us that despite what we may have seen on TV and in the movies it was not, nor should ever be used as, a parlor trick to amuse our friends. I must admit the temptation to have some of my friends clucking like chickens whenever they hear bells ring was at times overwhelming, but the ethical and legal aspects of being caught doing so (and of possibly not being able to stop it after the fun was gone) would have meant all my hard work and vocational planning being nullified by my misuse of an already questionable practice. I'd be the best educated Taco Bell employee anyone ever saw. Mackenzie's plight, however, screamed for its immediate application, and so taking the proverbial bit in my teeth, I began.
I had her recline and relax, gave her some breathing exercises to perform, and made the final decision to give it a try. Putting someone under is not so much a matter of dangling a watch or other shiny object before them but more an attitude and, most importantly, a tone of voice. One must be confident and comforting in order to successfully place someone in a suggestive mode, and even then a large percentage of people are immune to the effects, but Mackenzie seemed to be quite susceptible and in no time I had her in that state which is sleep but is not sleep.
Hypnotism can be used, among other things, to help people lose weight and quit nasty habits by reprogramming their natural responses to certain stimuli. In her case, it was a matter of redirecting her libidinous response to everything even remotely interpretable as a sexual come-on, which I found remarkably easy to do. I can't here give any details for fear of my gentle readers taking it upon themselves to experiment on their spouses, significant others, friends, neighbors, and co-workers. I shall not be responsible for a sudden blush of impotent people going about making chicken noises at the sound of bells.
About halfway through the session I was seized with an urge to play, however. Perhaps the ease of my success had gone to my head or maybe it was a lingering juvenile fantasy left over from some antiquated sit-com scenario, but I could not stop myself from giving her a final suggestion before bringing her back.
Her sexual appetite would be rekindled (and amplified, if that was possible) if she heard the word 'sponge' three times within a minute (it was the least likely term I could, at the moment, think of to be used so frequently) and then turned off again with the use of the word 'dishtowel', something I supposed imagining would instantly cause one to lose whatever ardor they had managed to accumulate anyway, either while under a hypnotic suggestion or independently in the midst of a roiling orgy.
I then gave her the usual 'when I count to three' routine and she awoke refreshed and alert and with no memory of what had been said during her time under. In fact, I was surprised when the first thing she said to me was, "When are we getting started?" I had always thought that a screenwriter's gimmick.
"We're all done," I told her, and she seemed positively giddy at being cured in so short a time. "Go back to your life," I said, "and don't worry. You'll find everything is changed for the better."
She stood, and offered to pay be.
And that's when I made my second mistake.
"No, please," I told her. "I can't very well go about sponge-ing off my fellow students."
Her expression changed, as if something she'd eaten that morning had suddenly decided to make an enemy of her. Perhaps it was my expectations overwhelming my observance, but she seemed suddenly prettier. Her facial features softened, and her whole carriage became far more feminine than it had when she first slogged into my room.
"Is it warm in here?" she asked, and I could see her face flush. It was a very nice face, full of promise.
"If it gets any warmer," I quipped lamely but for effect, "they'll have to mop us up with a sponge."
She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. "Would you mind if I took this shirt off?" she asked. "It's too hot in here for all these clothes."
