The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Paul Westfield is the biggest prick on campus. I’m not fully sure why I think that, but there’s just something about him that rubs me the wrong way. Sure, our school is populated with the typical bonehead frat boys, but at least with Cro-Magnons like those, you pretty much know what you’re getting. Paul I first encountered fall of my freshman year, in one of those Intro. to Soc. / Philosophy courses they make everyone take. From the second he sauntered into the room, the guy just irked me. He had on these tight jeans and a t-shirt, with this leather jacket on top I knew had to be ridiculously expensive. Clearly overcompensating. He wore that thing everywhere. And you could tell by the way he strutted into a room he thought he knew everything. They say every class has one of “those guys,” and if you can’t figure out who it is, it’s you. Ours was definitely Paul.

Paul quickly made it clear he was intending to be a Philosophy major (though we don’t officially declare ’til the end of freshman year), and he had a smarmy, self-indulgent question or answer for everything. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes every time he raised his hand and began spouting off another of his know-it-all, pseudo-intellectual libertarian discourses about whatever we were studying that week. The guy only had one lens through which he viewed everything, and it was exhausting. Our week on Nietzsche was intolerable.

To make matters worse, he was constantly flanked by this gaggle of other philosophy-heads. Most of them were gay dudes, for some reason (maybe the discipline attracted them?), and I kept getting the impression Paul fancied himself particularly cultured for it. I constantly caught snatches of him referring to himself as an “ally” or spouting off on the importance of various “LGBTQIA issues” as I walked by their cadre after class. For some reason, these dudes were hanging on his every word, which I could never quite get. It wasn’t like he was an Adonis or anything. He actually had a fairly plain face and body, not cut, though not in bad shape, either—just a standard-issue guy’s body with a stout chest and broad shoulders, further emphasized by that goddamn jacket. He wore these wire-frame glasses that I think were supposed to be hip but just looked dorky in my opinion, and he had this obnoxious haircut that was shaved on one side, with his sandy blond hair flipped across his forehead and longer on the other. Total hipster trash. If that was what got these guys’ flags at mast, I’d seriously have to rethink the collective wisdom of the gay community.

Of course, it wasn’t all Philosophy Gays. There were usually at least a couple women too—and cute ones, at that—following him around just as slavishly. I could never tell if he was dating anyone, as he always seemed too aloof. He struck me as one of those fuckbois who never hold down a relationship, but just keep a rotating cast of women to spout off to. If that was the case, they were sure lining up for it, and it drove me crazy. Each day in class became an endurance test, and if I saw Paul and his stupid glasses and stupid jacket anywhere else around campus, you could bet I’d carve the absolute widest path possible to avoid him. The only exception, ironically, was in class itself, where by the end of the quarter I had doubled my focus on the readings if only to provide some counterpoint to all the bullshit he would start spouting. I got the feeling the teacher appreciated it, and I knew the few friends I had in there did as well, and by the end of the quarter I was wearing it as a badge of honor. You could tell it was getting under Paul’s skin, as he always gave me the stink eye when I was about to speak—and even outside, if we’d happen to notice each other around campus.

And what about me? My name’s Eric, and I’m a regular guy, I guess. I’m actually planning on studying Theater Arts, and am in college on a scholarship. As a result, money’s kinda tight, and I have to make do as much as I can. You won’t see me strutting around in a designer jacket and boots—just jeans and a t-shirt, or whatever I can find at the local thrift that looks hip. Most of my friends come out of the Drama program, either rising or anticipated, and generally I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky guy when I’m not dealing with The World’s Most Annoying Human every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Girls say I’m handsome, and as one of the few straight guys in the Drama program, I actually get a lot of dates. I’ve been meeting some really cool girls, but nothing steady yet. It is college after all. Time to sow my wild oats.

Anyway, this story really begins at the end of first semester. It was the dead of winter (though it doesn’t get too cold here, unlike where I’m from originally) and I had just finished some shitty take-home final for a Lit. class that was due at 5 PM instead of something more reasonable like midnight. Grabbing dinner with a couple friends in the dining hall after, our discussion quickly turned to how to celebrate, since I’d been the last one to wrap up finals and we were heading into a week of debauchery over break.

“I think they’re doing a bar night at Beta Kappa,” my friend Clarissa suggested, taking a sip of her passionfruit smoothie.

“Man, I could use a drink, but I’m completely tapped out,” I said. Unfortunately, it was looking like the ends of semesters were going to be pretty tight, unless I decided to start taking out more in loans. It bummed me out since I wanted to let loose, but I was really trying to remain responsible.

“I’ve still got half a handle of Skol at my place,” said Jack, my other friend. He’s a black guy, rather scrawny and definitely gay. Total theater geek, just like me. We get along great, and his roommate always has the hookup for illicit substances. “We can grab some OJ, go back to my place and chill. The Oscars are coming, and I’m super behind.”

“Works for me,” I shrugged.

“You know, there is that Winterfest stuff at the Union, too,” said Clarissa. “Not that I don’t wanna get drunk with you, Jacky, but we could swing by.”

“Yeah, I think they got free shakes, right?” I said. In keeping with my frugality, I was always on the hunt for free calories—something it usually isn’t too hard to find on a college campus.

“Yeah, I think there’s like a casino night, bingo, a hypnotist,” she said.

“Oh man, I’ve always wanted to see one of those shows! Watch someone cluck like a chicken,” laughed Jack.

“Sure, let’s go!” I volunteered. “After all, we are Connoisseurs of the Stage. If it sucks, we’ll just go back to Jack’s place and get wasted.”

The whole Winterfest thing was about what I’d expected. They’d converted one of the gyms in the fieldhouse into a makeshift casino, and had all the games you’d anticipate. At the door, you received a bunch of tokens and could try to win more to get prizes. We tried a few games, but it got sorta boring with nothing actually at stake, and it wasn’t long before we were heading back outside.

Across the way, at the Union, the yogurt stand was the place serving milkshakes (“milkshakes”—really yogurt shakes—yech!), and in the auditorium was where they were having this comedian, a magician, and the hypnotist. The pub downstairs was open too, and people 21 and over could bring up drinks in Dixie cups if they wanted, with a wristband. Otherwise, the show was 18+, which I didn’t really think about going in, but in retrospect wish I had.

We got to the theater right as the show was starting and took seats toward the back, figuring there was a high probability we’d split before things ended. Up front, this young guy was talking about the subject of hypnotism. The three of us snickered, wondering how long he’d been up to this and whether he actually knew what he was doing. For all we knew, he was some grad student in the Psych department trying to make some supplementary income. But like everyone else, we were attending more to see public shenanigans than for a lesson in psychology.

I had to admit, the subject of hypnosis had always interested me. It just seemed so crazy and weird that you could make someone cluck like a chicken or dance around like Elvis just by swinging a watch in front of their face. I couldn’t really believe it worked, and part of me wondered if it wasn’t just people getting up there and acting, using it as an excuse to have fun.

As the guy started calling for volunteers, suddenly and quite spontaneously I decided this was probably the only chance I’d have to find out, that college was for making poor decisions, and that I might as well take the opportunity now. I think Clarissa and Jack were totally shocked when I bid them adieu and bounded down to the stage, but whatever. I could report back later, and I figured my experience would make for something to laugh about while hanging in Jack’s room. Besides, it might give me an opportunity to practice some of my improv skills and ham it up in front of an audience. Like I said, I’m a theater person—once a performer, always a performer.

Up onstage with a bunch of other awkward looking kids, I took a seat between this pretty girl in sweats and this Latino guy in jeans and a baggy t-shirt. The hypnotist started talking, and began by telling us to close our eyes and concentrate on the sound of his voice. He started talking about the different parts of our body, telling us to breathe deeply and relax each and every one. It was easy enough to do, and felt really nice—actually, it was quite similar to a meditation I remembered doing one summer at theater camp. As the guy continued with his ramble, I didn’t even notice my shoulders slumping, my head melting sideways toward my chest, or, eventually, my entire body collapsing, straight on top of the guy next to me.

With our eyes still closed, the hypnotist came around, tapping each of us on a particular wrist and saying it had a string tied to it that was connected to a balloon slowly filling with helium. This seemed like some kind of improv exercise, but I swear I could feel the balloon rising, the helium pulling my arm into the air, higher and higher, ’til it was eventually dragging me straight out of my chair and had me hovering on my tiptoes, straining to keep myself grounded.

Eventually, the guy told us he was going to snap his fingers and we could open our eyes and see how well we had done, because our hand would remain stuck there. I just stood, swaying, as he counted from one to three and snapped, then finally I could open my eyes and blink.

Holy shit! I couldn’t believe it. My left arm was floating straight above my head! And for some reason, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring it down. Looking around, I noticed the guy to my left had a similar reaction, and even though he was still sitting, his arm was floating up in the air too. The cute girl on the other side of me only had hers about halfway up, and up and down the row I saw a bunch of other people who had their hands in the air.

What’s more, it wasn’t just us onstage. Looking out at the auditorium, I could see a few people scattered through the crowd that had their hands up. There were a couple cute girls, some Asian dude I think I recognized from my math class, and- Fuck! This had to be a joke. There was Mr. Smartass himself, as always in his stupid fucking jacket, standing with his hand raised like he was trying to volunteer too. I couldn’t believe it. I never would’ve gone up if I’d known that asshole was in the audience, able to watch me make a fool of myself. If I was expected to be in a show with him—no fucking way. I was outta here.

“All right, you, you, you, and you, I think we’re going to let you head back to your seats in the audience and enjoy the show. Thank you for giving it a shot, it doesn’t always work on everybody,” said the hypnotist, indicating a number of people onstage who were just sitting or only had their arm barely raised. That sexy girl beside me was one of them. Damn it! I was looking forward to sitting next to her.

“And the rest of you onstage, why don’t you just sit back down?” he continued, and I found myself sitting. I wanted to raise my hand and tell him I didn’t want to be here anymore, but unfortunately it was already stuck in the air. I was trying to figure out how to interrupt him without looking like a total spaz when he started going down the line, rapidly putting everybody under.

“All right, young lady, why don’t you look deeply into my eyes… and SLEEP!” he said, already leaning down and grabbing the free hand of a girl at the end of the row. She collapsed like a ragdoll, arm crumpling into her lap with the rest of her, and he continued down the line, at a breakneck pace, grabbing each person’s arm and yelling “SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!” while yanking them down.

As he finished with a guy two seats over and got to me, I barely had time to open my mouth before he did the same thing. As he stooped down and stared me right in the eye, I suddenly found my gaze locked with his, felt him grab my free wrist, yank it forward, and yell a powerful “SLEEP” as my eyes rolled up and my body collapsed into blackness.

After a long time just lying there, waiting for something to happen, I finally became aware of the guy talking again, and he was describing a beautiful summer’s day, how we were all outside and just relaxing in the park. How nice it would be to sit up, lean back and take a stretch. I did and it felt good. I could feel the hot sun and the gentle breeze on my neck. I had a delicious ice cream cone in my hand, and I didn’t even need to open my eyes, I could just enjoy it. I held it up and licked it and it tasted delicious—chocolate raspberry.

Then he said the sun was continuing to beat down and it was getting hotter and hotter. Now it didn’t seem like one of those relaxation exercises anymore. Fuck, I was sweating. It had to be 100 degrees—105, 110! I began fanning my sweater to try and cool off. Why had I worn a sweater when it was such a hot day??

Feeling dumb, I whipped the sweater over my head and tossed it away in an instant. 115, 120… the temperature was still climbing. I grabbed my undershirt and started tugging it, trying to get a breeze before just yanking it off too! The sweat was dripping down my forehead.

Thankfully, some cool air finally started to blow and take the temperature down. Down, and down… 90, 85, 75, 70… It was finally nice again, and just on the cusp of getting cold. 65, 60, 55, 45. Holy shit it was freezing! 35, 30… It was literally freezing now! I was going to freeze to death! Why had I thrown away that sweater? What was I going to do??

Suddenly, it occurred to me that The Person Beside Me was Warm. The Person Beside Me was Warm. That’s right! The person beside me was warm! I would have to huddle up to stay warm! Leaning to the side, I wrapped myself around their body, and felt their arms wrapping around me too, and more coming in from the other side. Our bodies were pulling together in a tight ball, desperate to retain our heat, to survive this sudden cold snap. I shivered. Cuddle the Person Tighter! I did. Hold Them Tight as You Can! I did that too. At the Count of Three, No Longer Cold, Wide Awake. What did that mean?

One, two…

“Three.” Snap.

I blinked. Where the fuck was- Oh, no.

I could not fucking believe it. I was sitting onstage, shirtless for some reason, with my arms wrapped around Asshole Paul. His were around me, too, and I could feel the sticky fabric of his leather jacket clinging to my torso. Our eyes connected for a second and we both yanked away, yelling “Ew!”

I cast a sideways glance at him in disgust, reaching down to the floor to grab my undershirt. I had no idea where my sweater had gone—must’ve tossed it behind me.

I vaguely remembered noticing Paul earlier standing in the audience, but it was just my luck he would end up here with me—sitting right next to me, at that, particularly in the place of that hot girl. The last fucking thing I wanted was to be stuck sitting next to this douchebag for the next hour-and-a-half. Of course, I reasoned, it was probably better he was here than in the audience, as I didn’t want him using this as fuel for his next self-important ramble about how my participation made me the antithesis of the ubermensch, but the optimal situation was obviously to be back in my chair, watching the show and having the chance to laugh at him. I was sure a snob like him hadn’t come up of his own accord.

Before I could protest or do much of anything, however, the hypnotist came around and asked Paul what he was doing, and he said he didn’t know. The hypnotist said he seemed like he was confused, so confused he probably didn’t even remember his own name, then snapped right in Paul’s face and Paul just blinked, sitting there stupidly as the guy kept asking him, “What’s your name? What’s your name, man?”

Finally tired of that game, he tapped him on the forehead and Paul sprawled back in his chair, leather jacket and all, looking like he’d just passed out. “Let’s give him a name he’ll remember,” smirked the hypnotist, before instructing him that for the rest of the show he would think his name was “Dickhead.”

I laughed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. If it involved making the biggest dickhead I knew call himself as much, then part of me was glad to have a front row seat.

Soon after, the hypnotist woke Paul, and they had a lively, several-minute discussion where Paul kept insisting his name was Dickhead, spelling it out and everything. The rest of us were laughing hysterically. It was great to see the all-time campus prick get his ass handed to him.

The show continued from there, and honestly, I lost track of a lot of the other stuff going on. People just kept getting up and doing weird and ridiculous shit. One guy started sneezing whenever the hypnotist would say something, and then the girls around him would start having these loud, violent orgasms. At one point, another guy—actually that Asian guy from my class—ran around the room looking for his dog, which I guess the hypnotist made him think was named “I’ll Suck Dick for Quarters.” For some reason, I thought it would be funny if I got up and yelled “I’ll suck that dick for a quarter!” every time he said that, so I guess I did manage to get in some improv.

I definitely remember the hypnotist tapping out that Latino guy next to me and telling him that picking his nose felt like touching his prostate, because at various points throughout the show I recall him sticking his finger up there and starting to moan like a bitch. Honestly, that might’ve been funnier if I hadn’t been next to it, because it was also pretty gross.

I don’t remember why this happened, but at some point, that same guy next to me started getting out of his chair whenever the audience would yell the name of our school, and he would walk up to the front of the stage, turn around, and moon everybody as they laughed and applauded. After a few times of this happening, I started getting annoyed because I realized he was doing it wrong, so I stormed up to the front of the stage, yelling at him in Chinese so he would understand (I was surprised he only spoke Chinese since he was Latino, but either way, I was glad I spoke it too), and then showing him how to really moon an audience, which involved a lot more butt shaking and slapping yourself.

I do remember the hypnotist knocking me out and telling me I was Lady Gaga, and I recall thinking that seemed silly but I could probably wing it. When he woke us up, he played a couple other songs first, one of which was some pop song I didn’t know (I mostly listen to showtunes) that a girl danced to, while the other was Bruno Mars, which the nose-picker next to me performed and brought down the house.

Of course, when the Lady Gaga song came on, I leapt out of my seat and gave the performance of a lifetime. When the music stopped, I acted like I didn’t know what was going on as the hypnotist interrogated me, asking if I knew what I was doing and why I was interrupting his show. Of course, I said I didn’t have any idea, but I knew I was helping him out and making the performance special. Then the music started again and I had to dance some more, before he finally had me sit back down and knocked me out.

I heard from some people in between I missed Paul getting turned into a chicken while one of the girls did “the universe’s dirtiest stand-up routine—in Moon Language,” complete with obscene hand gestures. I regretted missing that, as the idea of Mr. Macho strutting around stage in his tight jeans and leather jacket clucking like an idiot was exactly the kind of comeuppance I’d hoped for.

Unfortunately, the next time I woke up the hypnotist had told Paul and me that we were beautiful Playboy bunnies that would model together. For some reason, while the idea of being anywhere near Paul would normally have revolted me, in this case, I was so in my head for the roleplay, it didn’t really matter. I still recognized Paul, of course, but somehow, I just sort of painted over him with the emotions I was supposed to be feeling, which was that I was a naughty little sexpot and so was he. We crawled down near the foot of the stage, which had carpeted stairs leading up to it rather than a sharp drop, and posed for some people in the front rows with cameras, rubbing our crotches, shaking our butts, and basically doing anything we figured a slutty model would do as several of them moved forward and climbed a step or two to get a better angle.

As things progressed, the hypnotist told us we needed to be together, and so we crawled into each other’s arms, still on the ground, and I reached a hand up under his leather jacket, cupping his pec through his designer tee. After that, we even leaned in and started to kiss, drawing a huge reaction from the audience, before the hypnotist told us we should actually be in a sixty-nine, so I lay on my back and let Paul crawl on top of me.

I was spanking Paul’s butt from underneath and leaning up to lick the rough crotch of his raw denim when the hypnotist finally snapped and said “wide awake,” bringing me back to my senses. Both of us crying out in shock, we leapt to our feet, yelling that we didn’t wanna be anywhere near each other.

The hypnotist told us to take our seats and that we were giving The School a bad name, and so of course the guy from next to me got up, marched to the front of the stage and once again started airing out his buns. By the time I’d finished yelling and showing him once again how to properly moon, I saw that Paul was already back in his chair asleep, which thankfully got me out of having to deal with him for the moment.

I tried to get the Latino guy to switch seats with me, but for some reason he kept acting like he couldn’t understand what I was saying, so I ended up stuck next to King Douchebag once more, hoping the show would wrap up soon as I was getting tired of goofing off for everyone’s amusement. The hypnotist walked by and tapped me on the forehead and I slumped down again, not caring that I was tumbling straight into the lap of The World’s Biggest Asshole. Then the hypnotist spent quite a while giving me instructions and placing something in my hand.

After a while, the guy moved on to someone else, which I really didn’t care about or listen to, and then finally finished with, “One, two, three… wide awake.”

When he snapped his fingers, I discovered I had been slumped over in the lap of the most ridiculously handsome person I’d ever seen. And of course, why wouldn’t he be? We had been boyfriends for the past five years. Every day I felt more and more in love with him, and every day I tried to find new and better ways to show it.

Realizing today was finally the day, I slid out of the chair and turned around, getting down on one knee. Glancing down at my hands, I realized I had exactly what I needed for this moment. I looked up with adoration, like I was seeing my love for the first time: his sandy blond hair parted over his forehead, his beautiful blue eyes shining beneath his glasses. His whole body looked so strong and masculine, broad shoulders and stout frame emphasized by the well contoured shoulders of his jacket. I loved the way he could pull it off with just a t-shirt and jeans—he was so effortlessly stylish.

“Paul, will you make me the hap—”

“My name is Dickhead!!” he screamed, startling me. What the hell? What kind of name was that? But I would do anything to make my darling happy.

“Dickhead! Dickhead, will you do me the honor of making me the happiest man alive?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes. I held out the ring I’d been saving for forever—hand-crafted out of the finest silicone, an inch-and-a-half in diameter…

“Yes!” he yelped, reaching out his hand. Heart hammering in my chest, I slipped the ring around three of his fingers, which seemed like a tight enough fit. He burst into a grin and I crawled in his lap, kneeling higher so we could kiss.

“Congratulations, you two! And, deep asleep…” the hypnotist cooed, snapping next to my ear and pressing down on my shoulder. I sank back to my knees and lowered my head, awaiting instructions.

The hypnotist kept going on about something relating to a honeymoon, how I was madly, head-over-heels in love with my partner and just wanted to give him as much pleasure as I could, and, to Paul, about how he was very horny and a selfish lover who loved getting head. Before I knew it, the guy was snapping his fingers and I was awake again, just married, in our wedding suite, and ready to show my partner how much he meant to me.

Leaning forward, I saw that he had his hard penis—which for some reason looked like a beer-bottle—sticking out between his legs, and I quickly wrapped my lips around it and started to suck. I looked up at him hungrily, slopping my tongue up and down the length of the longneck, as I heard someone droning on in the background: “That’s it… more in love than ever before. The love of your life. All you want to do is please him…”

“Come on, suck it harder, bitch,” Paul said, roughly grabbing the back of my head and forcing me down on his cock, the long, stiff rod sliding deep down my throat and causing me to gag. Nevertheless, I powered through, and he kept forcing me down, deeper and deeper, spit running down the length of his shaft as I gave a blowjob for the ages.

“And Dickhead, ready to blow your load right… now,” I heard someone snap, and Paul started moaning and groaning, thrashing his hips around and pummeling my throat with his cock even harder than before. He let out a thunderous cry and collapsed back in his chair as someone behind him kept snapping by his ear, telling him to sleep.

“And you’re mighty proud of that blowjob, ready to sit back down and return to a nice, deep state of relaxation,” the voice droned, and I knew it was right—I had just given the most amazing oral sex in history to the love of my life, and I felt phenomenal. Rising to my feet and wiping the spit from my lips, I turned around and sat back down just as I heard some voices in the audience yelling out the name of our school and saw the guy next to me go trotting toward the front of the stage. I felt like that meant I was going to have to do something, but a firm hand pressed down on my shoulder and I heard a sharp snap next to my ear and the whispered command of “Sleep,” and I simply collapsed, not bothering to worry about it.

If any one of a number of variables had changed that night, things could have turned out a lot differently. Of course, I could have not ended up onstage, or not going under, and the same thing could’ve happened with Paul. The hypnotist could have picked one or either or us differently for the modeling and blowjob routine, which I eventually learned go hand-in-hand. And even if nothing had changed, if the guy next to me had simply stuck to his instructions, everything probably would’ve turned out all right. From people who saw the show, I later learned that after I’d been put under, the guy had gone back up to moon, and, responding to catcalls based on the previous command that he was doing it wrong, had ended up dropping his pants entirely and turning around, swinging his dick for the audience. In the mad rush to get the guy’s pants back on, the hypnotist had missed a section of his act where he explicitly removed his prior (and very raunchy) commands to the honeymoon couple. Instead, with my neighbor finally seated and all the commotion subsided, the hypnotist simply began bringing us out of trance. It was a nice, long, relaxing visualization, involving rising out of a pool, feeling refreshed and renewed, and experiencing a massive orgasm as we opened our eyes.

After we finally woke, he dismissed us and we trotted offstage, out toward the chattering crowd and looking to find our friends. Yet for some reason, instead of making a beeline away from Paul and back toward Clarissa and Jack, I felt myself drawn to him, and I sensed he felt the same about me.

“That was crazy, huh?” I asked, not quite sure what had happened but knowing it had been an experience.

“It’s a normal and well-documented psychological process. There’s no need to mysticize it,” he said, and I nodded. Paul was so smart. I’d never thought of hypnosis that way. I felt like I had just had a religious experience, and here he was bringing me back to Earth. I was humbled by his intellect.

“I don’t know if… you have any plans tonight…” I started bashfully, on a lark hoping he might be willing to give me the time of day.

“I was supposed to go to this jazz bar with some guys, but if you want to come and get coffee after, that’d be cool.”

“Hell yeah!” I said, thrilled I finally had something exciting to do. Crashing in Jack’s dorm and getting loaded off rotgut vodka suddenly seemed so infantile.

“Hey Eric, you wanna go? Man, you were really fucked up up there!” exclaimed Jack, striding in from behind and handing me my sweater. Leaning in closer, he whispered so only I could hear, “What the hell are you doing talking to Paul? I thought you hated that guy.”

“Nah man, I’m good. I’m actually gonna go with him and check out this jazz bar. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You serious? Isn’t this the guy you told me you couldn’t stand?”

“You must be thinking of someone else,” I lied. “This guy was in my Soc. class. He’s really cool.” How could I ever explain how suddenly I’d realized just how wrong I’d been about Paul? I had the feeling Jack couldn’t possibly understand, and it just made more sense to cover my ass.

“All right, man… We’ll catch you later,” Jack said, giving me the side-eye. I watched him walk away with a feeling of relief, back toward Clarissa at the top of the auditorium. Of course, I still loved my friends, but right now I couldn’t wait to have them out of my hair. Anything else was a distraction in the way of a date with my dream man.

“You ready to go?” asked Paul, finally flanked by his usual posse. I nodded and trotted off, heart thrumming only for the moment we could be alone together.

All that happened a year ago, and Paul and I have been inseparable ever since. That first night at the club, we ended up talking for hours after the set, long after the rest of Paul’s friends headed home, and eventually we went back to Paul’s apartment. I’d never had such a fascinating conversation. I learned so much about jazz, and rhythm, and meter, that I had never known or only thought I knew after all my years of vocal coaching. Paul was just so well educated and worldly.

I was so sad that class with him had ended, but thankfully I was able to switch early next semester out of Intro. to History of Theater—a class I’d been anticipating all year—and into Philosophy in Western Civ., an optional extension of the pre-req we’d been in. I always sat right next to Paul and was so excited to hear to him talk, even if it was about something we’d already discussed—or really, that he’d explained as we did the reading, since he always understood it better.

Being from a wealthier background, Paul’s habits were more spendthrift-y than mine, and I found myself dropping out of the plays I’d signed up for and taking part-time jobs around campus to keep up. And of course, I had to buy gifts for my special guy, which didn’t come cheap. There was just no money in theater. Paul convinced me to transfer into something more sensible, Pre-Business, so I could build a career and help support him while he continued his studies.

Paul introduced me to his friends, and I soon realized I’d misjudged them too. Sometimes, they still struck me as pretentious, but I knew if Paul liked them, they had to be worthwhile, so I just kept looking until I could see what he saw in them. A lot of the gay guys in particular seemed catty, loving to take digs at my clothes (at least until I updated my wardrobe, per Paul’s instruction) as well as making comments about my body, though those tended to be more objectifying than derogatory. Paul explained that his friends were just more liberated than I was and that I should take it as a compliment, adding that if I wanted to show them I was okay with it, he wouldn’t mind, since he considered fidelity an outdated and naïve notion. This led to the revelation Paul was still fucking women (and lots of them!). At first, I was hurt, though eventually Paul got me to see he couldn’t change his sexual being, and if I wanted to be with him, this was a price I had to pay. In time, I came to understand, and though it took a lot of fighting against what Paul called my “ingrained prosaic ideals,” eventually I began to see past my hang-ups. I even began blowing most of his friends, just to show how open-minded I’d become.

Of course, none of them could hold a candle to Paul, and I still consider myself the luckiest guy in the world getting to come home to him. A lot sure has changed in the past year. I’ve ditched my old friends, my old wardrobe—hell, even my old life—and finally realized how completely, utterly, ridiculously wrong I was about Paul. Every day we’re together, I’m newly astonished what an intelligent, sophisticated, handsome, and goddamn sexy man he is. And every night, he proves to me again that I was right about one thing all along: Paul Westfield is definitely the biggest prick on campus.