Hyper

by Lawrence Ambrose

  I breathed in, swallowing saliva. I felt burning in my chest. I was way too young to have acid reflux.

  It wasn't so much that the feeling itself hurt, I thought. It was not being able to satisfy the feeling...a terrible itch I couldn't scratch.

  I rushed out of English Lit with Keith Horner hot on my trail. Thank Zeus it was the lunch hour.

  "Hold on, dude!" he gasped after me. "Where's the freakin' fire?"

  Not far behind my best friend, I noticed, four or five girls hurried after us while trying to appear casual. I picked up my pace. Keith broke into a jog to pull abreast of me.

  "Where are we going?" he wheezed.

  "Someplace where no one else is."

  I continued my desperate march for freedom beyond the school grounds into the adjoining park. My female pursuers had dropped off when we'd reached the outer buildings.

  I flopped down on the side of a hill facing Jefferson Davis High, feeling queasy.

  "Oh crap," I said, "I forgot to get my lunch."

  "Me, too. But considering how fast we were goose-stepping out of there, that's not surprising."

  "I just had to get away."

  "Away from all your female admirers? Heck, even Mrs. Miller was giving you the eye."

  "So you can see it? It's not just my imagination?"

  "A blind person could see it."

  I fell back on the grass. The cumulus clouds overhead performed unwanted pareidolia tricks. I thought I could see Mrs. Miller's ample boobs shifting in the breeze. I closed my eyes.

  "Are you okay, dude?"

  "I don't know. I thought my 'special time' would be tapering off, as the books say it should, but it seems to be getting stronger. I didn't even feel much desire until today."

  "You said you first noticed it on Friday afternoon?"

  "Yeah."

  "But now it's Tuesday. That's like four days, right?"

  "Right."

  "I had my first rut about three years ago, and the usual number since then, and I can assure you, bro', that no girls were going all Ogle-eyed over me. At my peak I got a few extra smiles."

  "I don't have an explanation, Keith."

  "But there is an explanation."

  Our gazes locked. My queasiness increased.

  "Hyper," he near-whispered the word.

  "Come on, Keith. You know the odds against that?"

  "Somewhere between incredibly low and astronomically low?"

  I rubbed my temples. The pain of my desire had receded, but in its place was a throbbing headache of logical possibility.

  "Out of the current U.S. population of 320 million, there are approximately two thousand hypers. Care to do the math, Keith?"

  "That's more your thing." Keith sighed and tugged out his calculator, tapping in the figures. ".00000625."

  "Six ten thousandths of a percent. That's about one male in every one hundred and sixty thousand."

  "Long odds, true, but hey, someone actually does win the lottery, despite millions to one odds."

  "But that someone isn't going to be me."

  "Still, maybe you should be tested?"

  I reached into my body in search of answers. Surely on some level I'd know? I still felt like the same old me, but it was impossible to deny that things had changed.

  "Jeez, Keith." I rubbed the back of my neck, shaking my head. "You know, if I test positive, my whole life changes. Everything changes."

  "Dude, I know. But let's not leap ahead of ourselves. Talk to your mom, see what she thinks. She oughta know better than almost anybody."

  "Yeah, that's true." A small comfort. "I'll talk to her about it."

  Classes continued with me feeling more and more like every girl in the school had me in her sights, until I finally got a break in P.E. Normally the last place I'd ever expect a break, especially on a "fitness testing day."

  On today's torture menu was pushups, pull-ups, and the much-dreaded "rope climb." No one paid much attention to one guy among dozens doing (or not doing) pushups or pull-ups, but the rope-climb was P.E.'s premier exposé of weakness, performed one person at a time in front of the whole class.

  Surprisingly, I did six pull-ups instead of my usual one or two. Almost respectable! The surprises continued with twenty pushups – about fourteen more than my previous max. And most surprising of all – I even managed to make it about halfway up the rope!

  "Someone's been working out," remarked Mr. Gregory, our PE teacher.

  In my last class – Mr. Rhineman's calculus – my good luck ran out. I could handle a few salacious looks or annoying giggles, but the burning ache of desire that was growing in my body – like some weird kind of stomach flu that wasn't in my stomach – threatened to take me down.

  When the class finally ended, I was afraid to rise from my seat since the pony-tailed, bespectacled girl in front of me had inspired a series of tawdry images.

  Mr. Rhineman eyed me from behind his desk as the class cleared. When I stayed put, he walked over.

  "Something wrong, Aiden?"

  "No, just taking a moment."

  "A moment for what, exactly?" Mr. Rhineman's stern grey eyes bore down on me from on high.

  "It's uh, just been a long day, sir."

  Mr. Rhineman was the type of person you felt compelled to call "sir." I had no idea if he'd been in the military, but his straight posture, six-three height, and gruff drill-sergeant's voice made him seem like someone who ought to command troops.

  "I noticed that you appear to be distracted," he said. "In fact, I noticed that a good portion of the class – a portion composed mostly of females – appeared distracted as well."

  I just sat there avoiding his eyes.

  "I'm thinking that perhaps a session with Dr. Landon might be in order."

  Stephanie Landon was the school psychologist. School psychologists – psychologists and psychiatrists everywhere, really – were in huge demand since "The Outbreak." People had to make a lot of adjustments when 99.999% of men lost over 90% of their sex drive. Not that so-called "talk therapy" helped much, but the therapists could prescribe drugs like Melatin, which by some coincidence my mom had famously co-invented. Melatin was a popular medication for a variety of male estrus-related symptoms. Sexually frustrated women used it to suppress sexual desire, men used it to temper their estrus period (plus it served as a reliable male birth control measure), and it was standard treatment for Male Hypersexual Syndrome.

  "Why are you thinking that, Mr. Rhineman?" I asked, looking up at him with what I hoped were guileless eyes.

  "What do you think I'm thinking?" His smile was thin, knowing.

  "That I'm in rut?"

  "I've seen lots of kids in rut. I've never seen anything like what happened in class today." He perched on a desk across from me, his smile still sharp but leaning toward sympathetic. "Dr. Landon is probably still in her office. I'm headed that way, if you'd care to join me. Assuming it's safe for you to rise now?"

  "I'm all right." Talking to Mr. Rhineman had done wonders for knocking down my libido. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to talk to her."

  We walked to the office. I really appreciated him coming with me. I guessed this was one of those times it would have been nice to have a father around.

  Dr. Stephanie Landon was in her office. She peered up at me over glasses perched halfway down her nose. I'd only glimpsed her before – a slim, dark-haired, thirty-something woman rumored to be attractive. This was the first time I'd seen her up close.

  I knew I was in big trouble from the moment she adjusted her glasses and smiled at me.

  "Hi," she said, and looked up at Mr. Rhineman. "Art, what do you have for me here?"

  "I would suggest you discuss that with this young man," he said. "His name is Aiden Stevens."

  "If you don't have time now, I understand," I said quickly.

  "I have a few minutes." She smiled up at Mr. Rhineman. "Thanks, Art."

  "Good luck," said my math teacher.

  As he left, she pointed to a
chair beside her desk. "Take a seat, and tell me what's on your mind, Aiden."

  I sat down and crossed my legs, squeezing them hard enough that it hurt. "I've been having this problem" – which I was having right now! – "with, uh, girls..."

  Dr. Landon rolled away from her desk to have a better look at me. "What kind of problem?"

  "Well, the last couple of days, girls seem...unnaturally drawn to me, I guess. And I'm starting to have some really strong feelings myself."

  "You just noticed this two days ago?"

  "No. I think I had the first feelings last Friday, after school."

  "That's four days. Does this female attraction to you – and your own feelings – seem to be waning?"

  "No. If anything they're getting stronger."

  Dr. Landon pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, as though hoping to bring me better into focus. I noticed a bead of sweat on her forehead. She reached for a tissue and wiped it away.

  "Hmmm," she said. "Could you tell me a little about what's been going on?"

  I described the wolf-whistle, the general behavior of my female classmates, and even Gertie's makeup malfunction. Dr. Landon – I didn't dare think of her as "Stephanie" – dabbed at her forehead again, and rolled up the tissue paper before tossing it into the trash can by her desk.

  "You can feel it, too, can't you?" I asked, hoping she didn't notice how hopeful I sounded.

  "I'm definitely feeling something." Her smile faltered.

  I couldn't help thinking how beautiful she was. Her clean, ivory skin, small but luminescent grey-blue eyes, pale red lips, and the super-cute way she was biting the corner of her mouth.

  I swallowed and closed my eyes.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "Not really."

  "I'm not sure I am, either." She fanned herself with a large pamphlet and laughed. "I've never experienced anything quite like this. What you're putting out is quite amazing."

  "Thanks?"

  She laughed again. She made another motion to fan herself, but with a rueful smile placed the pamphlet on the table.

  "I'm sorry, Aiden," she said. "I admit this is new to me. I've encountered many young men – and even a few not so young – who were in estrus, but I've never experienced symptoms like these before."

  "Do you think I might be" – I coughed – "uh, hyper?"

  "I don't want to rush to judgment, but I think that's not impossible." Dr. Landon turned toward her computer, which she jarred to life with her mouse. She clicked a few keys. "You live in town, with your sister and mother. Your parents are divorced?"

  "Yes."

  "Your mom is Dr. Alyssa Stevens." She sounded startled. "She's one of the pioneers in the research and treatment of Male Estrus Syndrome."

  "Yes."

  Dr. Landon tapped some more keys. "There are currently less than two thousand reported cases of Male Hypersexual Syndrome in the U.S. I wouldn't even want to calculate the odds on someone with MHS having a scientist parent dedicated to curing it."

  I stopped myself from attempting to calculate those odds.

  "I'll need to contact the Reproductive Safety Agency," she said. "They'll test you, and should you test positive, will assign you an agent who will oversee your options, including treatment."

  "Would I be able to stay in school?" I asked.

  "I'm sure that would be an option, if you accepted treatment," said Dr. Landon. "I'm not qualified to go into all the details. Your RSA agent will handle that for you."

  "I don't think I'm ready to deal with that yet," I said. "I should probably talk to my mom, first."

  "You should talk to her. She'll know much more about this situation than I do. I know it's a lot to take in, Aiden, but if you test positive – a big 'if' – you'll get all the help you need to handle this."

  Chapter 3

  THE DRIVE TO SACRAMENTO was only thirty miles, but my life flashing slowed it to the turtle in Zeno's Paradox. Every mile seemed to subdivide infinitely, until it was as if we weren't moving at all.

  I caught my mom smiling at me.

  "It will be okay, Aiden." Yet I could see the tightness in her eyes. "Whatever you decide, we'll get through this."

  It was official: I was hyper. My blood sample, taken at a local Reproductive Safety Agency-approved clinic, had been analyzed at the Sacramento branch of the RSA, and found chock-full of hypersexual DNA and hormone markers. Until those results, I'd been hoping it was all a mistake – even knowing all the supposed wondrous rewards of being hyper. I detested being the center of attention, disliked feeling as if I were walking a tightrope where I might explode with one wrong step, and hated the idea of being isolated or on drugs.

  My destiny was to be a scientist quietly but brilliantly laboring away in a pristine lab – hopefully with some really cute lab assistants – not a satyr on steroids.

  My mom stayed behind in the lobby while a female RSA employee led me to an office on the second floor.

  The man who rose from behind his desk to shake my hand was like a physical composite of every terrible teacher or annoying adult I'd ever come across: tall, bony, and wearing a prim inquisitor's smile on his thin lips.

  "Hello, Aiden," he said. "I'm Dr. Jenkins. Please have a seat."

  He returned to his desk and eyed his computer monitor. "You attend Jefferson High, eleventh grade. I see you've skipped a grade?"

  "Yes."

  "That's fairly typical. Hypers are commonly well above average in intelligence."

  "Are there other hyper kids in the area?"

  "We're presently supervising three underage hypers in the greater Sacramento area. We know of eleven other adults."

  Dr. Jenkins rolled away from his monitor to face me. "Would you prefer to continue attending Jefferson High?"

  "Yes."

  "As I'm sure you know, attending school in your current state would be disruptive – for both the students and yourself. As a consequence, federal law requires some form of drug therapy, as well as ongoing conventional counseling, for those choosing to attend a public school."

  I nodded.

  "The most commonly prescribed drug for this condition is Melatin. Since your mother was one of its inventors, I would expect she's apprised you of its effects?"

  "Yes, and I've Ogled it on my own."

  "No doubt. A bright young man such as yourself." He smiled in a self-satisfied way, as though congratulating himself on his insight. "Have you decided to continue attending school, or would you like to discuss the alternatives?"

  "I could be home-schooled?"

  "That is the main alternative. There is a class for MHS students being conducted here that you could attend."

  "Even if I did do home-schooling or some special class, it wouldn't change the frustration," I said.

  "Exactly. Also, living unmedicated with other non-medicated female family members is not advisable. I would like to start out with a moderate dosage of Melatin, and see how that works. If necessary, we can lessen or increase the dosage."

  "I've read that Melatin has some side effects – aside from making males temporarily infertile – like not being able to concentrate or depression. I would hate to not be able to focus on things."

  "Every drug has side effects," said Dr. Jenkins. "We can modify the dose or prescribe other medications as needed. You'll be carefully monitored by me, your school psychologist, and of course your mother, who is more than familiar with Melatin's side effects."

  "Okay."

  "Good. We'll send you home with a prescription right now. I'll have the pharmacy bring it to the front desk. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

  "Thank you."

  "Good luck. We'll be in touch."

  I walked back to the lobby in a daze. I thought Dr. Jenkins was slightly understating Melatin's side-effects. Aside from messing with your sperm, Melatin was legendary for causing loss of concentration, mental fogginess, mood swings, and depression, among others – though it supposedly affected men and hypers more s
trongly than women. For many women it was actually prescribed as an anti-depressant.

  "It's not a death sentence, Aiden," my mom said as we crossed the parking lot to her Prius. "Neither Melatin nor any other known therapy is without side effects, but don't worry, they're usually mild, and we'll figure out the right dose."

  "If you say so, Mom."

  I stared at the window, clutching the prescription bottle in my hand, trying to envision my future as we drove out of the parking lot. If it was possible for a future to be brilliantly murky – a bunch of grey silhouettes lit up by porno neon lights – that was how mine looked to me now.

  "Penny for your thoughts?"

  I didn't turn from the window. "I was just thinking about what happens to hypers...you know, all the tabloid/internet stories about suicides, depression, even though most of them make tons of money."

  "Anyone who's different from the norm faces challenges, Aiden. You were already facing them before this came along as an exceptionally bright individual. Now you have the added challenge of being exceptionally attractive to women – which I'm sure you'll agree isn't exactly tragic" – she flashed me a dry smile – "along with being far more capable sexually than the vast majority of men. Most individuals with MHS enjoy better health and overall vitality. They heal faster, and build muscles faster. Hypers are over-represented in the elite levels of politics, education, business, and athletics. They may enjoy longer lives. The world is truly their oyster in many ways."

  "But?"

  She smiled. "But there are pressures and some social complications. Other men may find you threatening. The MES virus may have reduced most men's sex drive, but it did not eradicate many of men's most primitive drives and responses."

  "I've noticed that kids still get crushes on girls, and that hot girls still seem to rule the roost in high school."

  "Men still perceive value in attractive women. Beautiful female movie stars and newscasters are still in demand. Many of the changes over the last four decades since The Outbreak have been gradual and subtle, but statistically significant – for example, the number of women in executive positions has risen, and women are starting more businesses. About half as many marriages survive. Female prostitution barely exists, while male prostitution – featuring hypers or men with minimal MES – has dramatically increased. Scientific and technological innovation are down a significant percentage for men, but up for women."