Popularity Potion
It was really just an accident. It wasn’t like I was TRYING to find it; I just sort of accidentally dropped cherry cola in my chemistry project after school.
I’ve never exactly been the most popular guy in school. Quite the opposite, in fact. I suppose I’m a nerd; I hate it, but there you are. Science and math are the only things that I find really interesting, and between that and the hair of Carrot Top on the muscular structure of Woody Allen, I don’t exactly qualify as a jock.
So I was able to figure out just what had happened when my Sulfur phosphate base turned from yellow-green to a deep maroon red. I could follow the chemical reaction, figure out its pH and chemical structure, and all that. I even knew just why it exploded and covered me in sticky pink liquid.
What I wasn’t able to figure out was why Laura Schlissinger started talking to me in the hallway immediately afterwards when I went to go clean up.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
And I admit that I did the most impossibly uncool thing in the world and stared at her tits. In my defense, I couldn’t really help it. Laura Schlissinger is mostly tits. They compose like 96% of her body mass. The only mystery in her becoming a cheerleader is how she’s able to jump without inertia pulling them off.
Anyway, finally I was able to mumble something, and she seemed to take it as an introduction. “I’m Laura. Nice to meet you. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
We’ll ignore the fact that I’ve been in her English class for three years running.
“Um, hi.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she smiles, and tosses her hair. Now, I admit that I don’t have much, or to be more precise any, experience with women, but even I’m qualified to realize that the hottest girl in school is flirting with me. “Did you just start going here? I could show you around.”
“Um, I’ve been going here since freshman year.” Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She’s taken aback, but only for a second. “Oh. That’s strange. You’d think I’d have noticed someone as hot as you.” And she actually reaches over and touches my bicep. Or where a bicep would be on the normal guy she would normally flirt with.
I have a 142 I.Q. I’m smart enough to figure out that something peculiar is going on. Laura has never shown the slightest interest in me or anybody else remotely like me, and she’s hot enough that she knows she doesn’t have to work this hard to get guys to help her with her homework. The only alternative is that either I have slipped into some bizarre but perfectly amenable parallel universe, or something has happened to either her or me in the time between sixth period (English) and now. And what have I done in the last hour and a half? Well, I had some M&Ms, studied the structure of crystals under a microscope, and, oh yes, got drenched in an accidentally created unknown chemical. Of these, I opt for Occam’s razor and choose the simplest solution.
She asks, kind of desperately I notice (I guess she’s not very used to guys being too confused to hit on her), “Say, what are you doing now? Would you like to go out?” I don’t know how it’s possible to arch one’s back as far back as she does; her back makes a perfect curve and her breasts, my god those breasts, look like they’re going to push her backwards. I am quite certain that my crotch is about to explode, and if it does, the way I’m feeling it would leave shotgun-sized holes in both of us. But now I am torn: do I stay and figure out what this chemical is, or do I go with her. On the one hand, if I’m right and I can recreate this, I’ll have a love potion. On the other hand, if I’m wrong, then I’m blowing off Laura Schlissinger, and from what I’ve heard the blowing works better in reverse.
My silence saves me. She fumbles, and reaches over and grabs my crotch, pulling me toward her, “Cause if you’re pressed, we could just fuck right here.”
That solves both problems nicely. “Chemistry lab. Now,” I state, not wishing to say something wrong and break the spell.
She follows me, and fucking deep throats me outside door, in front of EVERYBODY, though since its after school everybody constitutes about twelve people. Greg Thompson, QB of the football team and the guy who beat me up in elementary school (the guy, for that matter, who is DATING Laura) passes, and gives me a high-five and shouts, “Dude!”
Before I can ponder this latest change, Laura drags me inside by my belt.
She’s inside for two seconds before she goes insane. My suspicion that the explosion created a chemical attractant is strengthened as she sniffs, yells, practically rips off her clothes and tears at my zipper. “How do you like it, hot stuff?”
“Um...” I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, “I’ve heard you give the world’s best BJ.”
Fuck me if she doesn’t smile. She whips out my whatnot, practically creaming herself in pleasure, and slides my dick into her mouth.
And Jesus wept! It’s like every part of my body shuts down and all that’s left is the cock. I’m floating in an all-encompassing sea that ebbs and flows as her head moves back and forth. She’s got the hugest lips in the world, Tammy Faye Baker could inject collagen into her lips for ten years and still have smaller lips, and they fit around my dick like they were coming home. And the things she does with her tongue...God in Heaven! It flicks and swirls and rolls and at one point somehow vibrates and all the time she’s either sucking like a vacuum or blowing like a hairdryer...
I think at some point I blacked out. But when I came it was with an explosive force that felt so good that it hurt, and just kept going as she expertly moved her tongue toward the tip again and again, coaxing every last drop of sperm and taking it all down, sucking on it like the antidote was in there. I screamed and my body racked with exquisite agony.
I lay back, panting desperately, naming saints off in my head and thanking every one of them for this twist of fate.
I’m on about St. Germane when she gets up, wiping off her mouth with satisfaction. “Will that do, hot stuff?” I nod, wordless. “Okay, well I’ve got to get to cheerleading practice. I’ll hook up with you later.”
After I catch my breath and zip up my trousers I have a chance to think up on the whole experience. I collect all the chemical off the walls and floor that I can find while I’m pondering. I’m exposed to this big-ass chemical boom. Laura suddenly thinks I’m the greatest thing since vibrating dildos and begs for the chance to suck my cock like a lollipop. Which would lead me to think this was an aphrodisiac of some kind, except there’s Greg Thompson’s behavior to account for. I don’t believe in coincidence, let alone two coincidences in one day, and Greg supporting this girlfriend clearly dragging someone he hates off to have sex is one pretty big fucking coincidence. Ergo, this chemical must have affected Greg too. But that seems peculiar for two reasons. First, if it were an aphrodisiac that affected both sexes, why didn’t Greg lust after me too? Not that I’m not grateful he didn’t, but it makes no sense for a sex-inducing chemical to affect both genders in different ways. Second, if it can affect men too, however differently, why wasn’t I affected too?
It’s time to get some rats.
I finish cleaning up the lab, grab all my notes and samples so I can recreate this, and race to the pet store to buy some albinos rats.
When I get home I grimace to see that my stepdad is already there. Mom remarried six years ago, and in those six years I’ve never understood why. It’s not that Dick and I dislike each other, per se, it’s just that we have absolutely nothing to say to each other. He’s a meat-and-potatoes, Monday-night football, military school-educated, beer-drinking kind of guy. Real man’s man, and all that. And I’m...well...me, a kid who plays with his chemistry lab in the basement and who once broke his thumb playing tetherball. He’s not a bad guy, but we’re just too different to relate to one another and both of us have stopped trying.
But today he greets me like an old friend and asks if I want to watch the game with him tonight? When I decline he checks if there’s anything he can help with, and on his way out gives me a twenty and a loose salute and tells me to go out tonight and have some fun, I deserve it.
So now I’m definitely creeped out and my groin, which hasn’t been so stimulated since that Xena marathon, is getting kind of sore after Laura’s BJ, and I have to go inject rats with glorified cherry Coke.
At first I try just coating the stuff on them, but that doesn’t seem to have any effect, nor did I expect it too, for the same reason Laura didn’t try to fuck the floor of the lab. So then I try feeding some to the little rat, and pretty soon all the other rats are clustered around it and practically giving it a tickertape parade. That’s really more in keeping with what I’d concluded; I must have swallowed some when it exploded. Furthermore, when two or more rats both have some in equal amounts, they pretty much ignore each other, although if one has it in bigger amounts than the other than the weaker one acts the same as the regulars. It works if injected or swallowed, and seems to have a lasting time of about eight hours.
I figured that last part out because eight hours after the explosion (I hadn’t stopped for dinner and my family’s used to me occasionally missing meals for study; Dick says it’s good that I have such focus even if it’s only for test tubes and beakers) I started finding myself affected by the rats. I looked at them and they were SO FUCKING COOL! They were the absolute coolest rats I’d ever seen in my life! I just stopped everything and watched them, studied them, everything about them was fascinating and I found myself wishing that I could be like them.
It seemed to wear off faster on the rats, because after about midnight I came to my senses. These rats weren’t in any real way special, but the chemical made them utterly fascinating.
Having determined the what, I turn to the microscope to study the why and how. After another two hours I’m ready to venture the guess that this chemical molecule looks a lot like Carbidopal and activates seratonine and emotomine, chemicals which reduce rationality and promote bonding, respectively.
I have lots more study to do, but by morning I’m fairly sure what I have, however accidentally, created.
Popularity in a bottle.
I ran a few experiments over the next week. I toyed with strengths and found that at smaller doses, 5 ml, people said hi and smiled a lot more. At 10 ml people actively sought out to engage me in conversation and did nice things for me. 20 ml and women (and, statistically, a few guys) began flirting and men acted like I was a good friend. 30 brought girls to actively going out of their way to compliment me and hit on me and made guys invited me to parties. Laura and Greg hit me when I had about 50 ml in me; I didn’t make it past the front doorstep with 100 ml because Mom and Dick were throwing themselves over me and acting like I was God, the president, and Paul McCartney all rolled into one. It lasted about eight hours no matter what. I’d decided to officially call this popularity potion Voguimide (cute, no?) but personally just referred to it as “the stuff.”
Most of these tests I did at home or in my neighborhood; I didn’t want to test at school. However, I seemed to be becoming more popular regardless; my guess was, and a blood sample backed me up, that the Voguimide tended to build up and dissipate slowly. The cool become cooler, and all that.
But by the end of the week, I had come to the most important discovery of all: no one affected by the stuff ever remembered acting weirdly. Which I suppose makes sense. People don’t realize when they act stupid around popular people, who probably have a bit more natural Voguimide in them than others or start producing more (apparently, being around a lot makes you start producing more, which is in part why dating and hanging out with cool people can make you cool too). Laura, for example, had not hit on me again despite her promise, but neither had she talked to me about our little romp in the chem. lab. Greg seemed no nicer, but did not seem to be compensating for the moment of comradely, either. Neither my mom or my stepfather noticed anything unusual, nor remembered doing anything out of the ordinary, even after going out and buying me a new car (okay, perhaps power corrupts, but it was just an Alpha Romeo and they seemed so happy).
That discovered, I decided that it was time to change my life.
On Monday I went to school dressed and acting like any other day. Except that I had 40 ml of Voguimide in my veins.
Everybody wanted to be my friend. To the popular kids I was Billy Holiday. To the Rastas I was Bob Marley, to the Goths I was Johnen Vasquez, to the Academics I was Einstein, to the jocks I was the Rock. Girls saw Brad Pitt and guys saw Fred Dirst.
In history I got three love notes and nine invitations to parties that weekend. In gym class Greg Thompson and Alicia Ronald almost got into a fistfight over who got to pick me. Band brought the teacher complimenting my outstanding trumpet performance and giving me first chair, which I politely declined. At lunch I was jostled to the popular kids’ table while everybody else clustered around. At math the teacher kept calling on me until I politely asked her not to; the moment I did she got all flustered and apologized as profusely as if she’d just killed my family. In english Laura opted to sit behind me to give me a massage “because I looked tense,” although I’d never felt more relaxed in class. It was as if school was just a background, just something you DID, like going to the mall, with only occasional interruptions to keep you from otherwise spending your day chatting with buddies or flirting with chicks. Shit, for the first time in my life I didn’t begrudge going to school!
I arranged with Laura to go out after school, then slept through chemistry. Everyone was infatuated with me enough not to give me trouble about it.
By the time I met Laura and had pulled into my driveway (thanks again, mom and stepdad), the stuff was just about wearing off. Laura seemed bored and I had to actively coax her into my house, and she went in mostly because to shut me up.
Which was fine. Because inside was my stash of Voguimide. I made Laura comfortable and went to go run an experiment, chugging 500 ml of the sweet syrupy chemical, which made a good-sized mugs-worth of Vogimide.
It started working immediately. When I walked back into the living room Laura didn’t even talk. She jumped off the couch and raced to my feet, bowing like the Pope seeing God and professing her love and devotion and eternal allegiance to me. When I gave consent she undressed me, as delicately as if I were porcelain, and actually wept at the beauty of me she saw.
It was a long eight hours, and I don’t know how to describe it in any way that could do it justice. But I learned three things. One: 500 ml of Vogimide and you’re worshipped like a god. Two: the male body can orgasm an average of four point six times an hour. Three: cheerleaders know ways to use whipped cream that would make Caligula blush.
So as accidents go, this chemical explosion wasn’t nearly as bad as the time I singed off my eyebrows in seventh grade. But I’m getting kind of bored now. I’m thinking that I may run for office one day; I’m not entirely sure why, but Voguimide affects people even over television and telephones. Perhaps it alters the voice in some way...whatever. Besides, I’ve got lots of time to study it. I was able to meet with several rich businessmen and I’ve received enough grants to study the stuff until Doomsday, if I so desire.
But I think instead, for now at least, that I’m going to take a break from studying. Chemistry’s been good for me, but I want to branch out.
I’m thinking of going to Hollywood. With the stuff, it’ll be a cinch to become everybody’s favorite actor. And I read in the tabloids that Pamela Anderson just broke up with her last boyfriend.
The moral of the story, kids: stay in school. Because I ain’t never gonna tell what’s in Voguimide, but since its ingredients are accessible in any high school chemistry lab, even one as under-funded as mine was, you might get lucky.