"Sounds like men kind of suck now."
"Not all men," my mom said with a sad smile.
SPEAKING OF sucking, Melatin totally did.
After two weeks, I wandered through my classes like a zombie, my mind drifting off into inconsequential thoughts as I strained to listen to my teachers or read a book. Math equations appeared fuzzy and improbable. I had to work about twice as hard to solve anything.
I was tired and irritable, and I missed my new strength. I could barely manage ten pushups.
I was invisible again in the hallways. I didn't exactly shine in my classes, either. Answers that had once been on the tip of my tongue now lodged in the back of my throat.
"Man, you are so out of it," Keith lamented during our lunch break. "Half the time I could swear you were asleep in class."
"I'd say you've lost about forty I.Q. points," Gertie chipped in.
"Thanks," I said. "Now I feel officially reborn as a norm."
"Seriously, Aiden, you're worrying me, man," said Keith.
"I know. I'm worrying myself." I breathed in deeply, and bit into my grilled cheese sandwich. "It's like someone poured dullness over every particle of my being. Even food tastes dull. Novocain for the soul as that old song went."
"Have you talked to your mom about changing up your medication?" Keith asked.
"Yeah. I'm already on the lowest allowable dose, so the alternatives are other drugs or going off medications completely."
"But then you'd have to drop out of public school," said Gertie. "You'd have to home school or attend a special class."
"Or spray myself with Andrydox," I said, "and tough out my 'urges'."
"The spray that's supposed to block out the pheromones?" Keith asked.
"Yup."
"So he can be around girls without all the hussies throwing themselves at him," said Gertie.
"Seriously, that's where I'm leaning at the moment," I said. "I'm tired of spending my days in a mental cloud."
"But what about your 'hyper desires,' dude? Andrydox doesn't affect those, does it?"
Keith's chuckle fell short when I glared at him.
"Isn't there, ah, something you can do to release the tension?" Gertie asked.
"Maybe," I said. "But I'm not having that conversation with you guys."
I thought about it more walking home. Normex, Melatin's closest competitor, had ads that speed-talked the last few seconds ("Normex may cause bleeding in the brain. If you have a severe headache lasting more than three days, or experience hallucinations or homicidal urges, see your doctor..."). It was almost like a joke. I couldn't see why anyone would touch that stuff. So with Melatin off the table, that left Andrydox and eternal vigilance against my impulses.
"You're sure you want to do this?" my mom asked, her dark blue eyes skewering me with skepticism. "You don't want to even attempt adjusting the dose?"
"I don't see the point," I said. "I don't want my brain or body compromised in any way."
My sister, who'd been sitting on a couch nearby pretending to read one of her romance novels, released a loud raspberry.
"In other words," she snickered, "you don't want to give up having girls paw all over you."
"What's the point of that if you can't legally do anything with anyone until you're eighteen?"
"Just because it's illegal..."
Mom cut her off with a look.
"I doubt very much that Aiden has any aspirations to be pawed over," she said. "Aiden, I don't blame you for wanting to keep your mind at full strength. And yes, there are some unpleasant side effects. But there are going to be side effects of being off any medication as well."
"Yeah, like what's he going to do for the next two and a half years?" my sister asked. "Watch porn 24/7?"
"That really isn't helpful, Mel," said my mom.
"But it's a valid question, isn't it?" Melanie met Mom's chilly gaze head on.
"We'll find a way to get through this." My mom was speaking to me, mostly. "Two years may seem like an eternity, but believe me, it will go by faster than you think."
LATER THAT evening, Dr. Gerald Jenkins was not pleased by my decision to go off Melatin.
"I understand your frustrations, Aiden," he said, "but – and I cannot emphasize this enough – I believe your decision is premature and unwise. You should at least try a lower dose or alternative medications before quitting altogether."
"I've read that Andrydox spray works pretty well."
"It has to be applied very thoroughly in order to be effective. In any case, you need to taper off Melatin over the course of a week in order to avoid possible negative withdrawal symptoms."
I wouldn't be putting even one more dose in my body, but I saw no need to argue about that with Dr. Jenkins.
"And I'm afraid that I cannot okay your continuing to attend school without any internal medication. The risks of disruption are too great. If you persist in this ill-advised course, you will need to attend the special classes I mentioned or do home schooling."
I really didn't want to get on this Reproductive Safety Agency official's bad side, but I couldn't let this stand. "My mom and I talked about it, and she said that as long as I was under a doctor's supervision I was good to go school-wise."
"In this case, I am your official physician, Aiden."
"But I do get to choose my official physician, don't I?"
"With all due respect to your mother, she may be unaware of recent changes in the law that requires official approval by the RSA of the primary supervisory doctor. Those changes were made in response to certain individuals attempting to bypass the law."
"But if I chose a qualified doctor...?"
"I will certainly take that into consideration." Dr. Jenkins's words grew more clipped with every sentence. "Have your mother fill out the proper forms and fax them to me."
I already had a pretty good idea who I wanted to be my "supervisory physician."
Chapter 4
MY MOM AND I met with Dr. Stephanie Landon in her downtown office two days later after school. Stephanie thought that might offer a 'more private atmosphere' than meeting at school, where she spent only ten or so hours a week in any case.
"It's good to finally meet you, Dr. Stevens," said Stephanie. As they shook hands, I was surprised to see how similar they were physically – both slim and tall and brunette. They could've been sisters.
My mom's smile and greeting were perfunctory. She wasn't sold on using a lowly school psychologist. Not that she said "lowly," but I heard it in her voice when we talked about her.
"This may be somewhat premature," my mom said. "I'm not sure about the likelihood of Aiden's RSA agent signing off on you, but Aiden was adamant about it, so..."
Stephanie's welcoming smile contracted. "It's true, I have no experience dealing with MHS."
"Who around here does?" I asked. "It's not like there's much to do now but keep an eye on me. And who can do that better than the school counselor?"
"Perhaps," my mom replied. "This is more about pacifying the RSA in any case."
Stephanie nodded. "I agree."
I was happy to see my mom regarding the school psychologist with an expression approximating respect. The tension in the room dissipated a bit.
"But would you be comfortable in a monitor role?" my mom asked.
"I'm fine doing whatever I can to help your son."
"Okay," said my mom. "We'll send in the application and see what happens."
As we drove home, my mom asked me how I was feeling.
"Better," I said. "It's great to be able to concentrate for more than five minutes without a grey fog setting in."
"I can imagine. But I meant about your, well, urges – for lack of a better word."
"I probably will need more, uh, alone time, for lack of a better phrase."
She laughed. "I think that can be arranged. My days of barging into your bedroom are past."
"Maybe a lock on the door would be good."
She smiled
at me as if I was joking, but when I didn't smile back, she said: "Done. Whatever you need to get through this."
PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT was not just a book to me. It had become a blueprint for living. I "self-medicated" twice before school, twice afterward, and – if I felt daring and spotted an opportunity – once during the day. On weekends, it was carte blanche, as my mom would say.
I remembered an episode of Familyhood where the Quiller's boy was constantly masturbating in the shower. I thought he was a complete idiot. Even when the show later revealed he was "hyper," I was still skeptical. Now I chastised myself for being the idiot. No one who hadn't experienced it could understand the unbelievable and crazed imperatives of being hyper. It was like being Alexander Portnoy cubed. It was way beyond fantasizing or getting off: it was about staying sane.
Dosing myself thoroughly with Andrydox every morning after showering was a total pain in the butt. I couldn't skip showering, because Andrydox only worked if your skin was clean. So I was committed to being clean every morning without fail. Among the many things I missed from my old life, skuzziness was high on the list. Especially on the weekends.
I found some relief from my "urges," but no satisfaction. Thanks to online porn and my overactive imagination, I had plenty of grist for my fantasy mill. But as my mom pointed out, hypersexuality was, at base, "an extreme variant of the urge to reproduce." You couldn't address that urge by yourself, no matter how many fantasy partners played luridly in your head.
On the bright side, my head was as clear as a Colorado Rocky Mountain stream, and about twice as fast. My body seemed supercharged. I was exercising hard – practicing basketball on our driveway court after school and experimenting with the free weight set my ever-helpful mother had purchased – and it was paying dividends. I was getting stronger and looking more buff every day (or so I wanted to believe when I stood before my door mirror). The drawback was that Keith had zero interest in sports, so I ended up playing with myself even outside my bedroom. Had to be something ironic in that.
Besides being fun, exercise did take some of the edge off. If I worked out hard enough, I could sometimes fall into a peaceful slumber at night without legions of horny women and the occasional succubus haunting my dreams.
In honor of my newfound interest in sports, my mom purchased tickets for the Sacramento Kings versus the Los Angeles Lakers at the Kings' new downtown arena. I'd just started watching a few games recently, and their explosive guard Ragnar Thorvalt ("Thor") Norquist – maybe the world's most infamous hyper – was already my semi-hero. Not because of his alleged womanizing, but because of his heroism on the court. He was like Michael Jordan or Julius Erving as a blond Viking, sailing across the court to pillage the opponent's basket. His most popular nickname was "Thor," and his slam-dunks were often described as "Thor's Hammer."
Ragnar liked to mix his aerial displays with nifty no-look passes, a spectacular blocked shot of much taller opponents, and the occasional three-point bomb. He seemed to be buzzing around everywhere at once like a supercharged 6'2" fly among tall, slow-trotting beasts. Even my mom, watching a game with me for a few minutes, allowed that he was "impressive."
My mom got us mid-row seats. I didn't ask the price, but I guessed it had been steep. Since Ragnar "Thor" Norquist's arrival in the draft three years ago, seats had been hard to come by in the Golden West Stadium.
People swarmed outside and inside the arena, which was conveniently located in a mall. Normally, I hated crowds, but today I was mesmerized. I could've sworn, despite the improbability, that every beautiful woman in the world had been transported or perhaps teleported in for the game. The variety of stunning females was mind-boggling. Everywhere I looked some gorgeous woman was sashaying past. Soaked in Andrydox, I went unnoticed.
"Are you okay?" my mom asked.
"Uh, I guess so. Why?"
"You look like a drunken diabetic stumbling around in a candy store?"
I laughed. "Nice image, Mom. No, I'm just a little dazed, that's all."
"You did apply the Andrydox this morning, didn't you?"
"Sure. Why – do you think people are reacting differently to me?"
"I don't know." A frown crept in to her amused expression. "I'm probably just being paranoid. And you are a good-looking boy apart from your 'miasma.'"
"You're my mom. You have to say I'm good-looking."
"True." She ruffled my hair. "But I'm speaking as an objective scientist, not your mom."
"Oh. Right."
The funny thing was that it probably didn't matter how good-looking or not I was. All women needed to do was smell me. Vision was optional.
The crowd oooed and ahhhed during the warm-ups whenever Ragnar got the ball. The "ooo's" became playful "boo's when he delivered standard lay-ups for most of lay-up drill – until he finished with a whirling dervish slam dunk eight feet out from the basket. The crowd roared. My mom watched with a tolerant smile.
The game got underway. The women and girls around us were shrieking so loud that I longed for earplugs. A few fans even rang the old Kings' cowbells – thankfully a good distance away.
The players were amazing. Seeing their cat-like grace and leaping ability in person was nothing like watching it on TV. The players seemed revved up to racecar speed. It was as if I were watching a speeded-up film.
The Lakers under Kobe Bryant in his first year of coaching were, according to a local sports columnist, "a ragtag crew of misfits whose resemblance to the Lakers of the past makes one long for a time machine." In the fourth quarter, they lived up to that description as Ragnar and the other Kings stole their balls, blocked their shots, grabbed uncontested rebounds, and seemingly scored at will. The game ended in a Sacramento rout.
After the game, Ragnar lingered by the bench, chatting with a mob of fans.
"This is your chance, Aiden," said my mom.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Here." She handed me the game program and pen from her purse. "It's Saturday. I'm in no rush to get home."
"Down there fighting with all those people?" I shook my head.
"He'll notice you," she assured me. "I don't see anyone your age there. You'll stand out."
My mom edged me out of my seat, and I reluctantly began my descent toward possible humiliation. She followed me part of the way, settling down in the seats four or five rows up from the court while I joined the ranks of the worshipful.
Ragnar signed autographs and traded banter with a smile, as if enjoying himself and having all the time in the world. Soon even the security people started glancing at their watches.
Gradually, the crowd thinned, and I shuffled toward the front. For the first time our eyes met. I'd heard the "eye of the tiger" somewhere before, but that was a metaphor. This seemed literal, as Ragnar's large green eyes shone with an apex carnivore's light.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi."
I stood like a statue – or a deer in the headlights. I doubted I could lift my arms. Ragnar smiled, and reached down to ease the program from my clutching hand.
"Easy, dude," he said. "So what's your name?"
"Aiden."
He scribbled something on the program. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed my mom nod and smile.
"Your mom?"
To my surprise, Ragnar was nodding to the bleachers. My mom's hand, starting to rise in a triumphant fist, dropped back into her lap.
"Ah...yes."
"Cool."
"I'm like you."
I hadn't meant to blurt that. In fact, that was probably the last thing in the world I ever meant to say. But with all these people crowding around him, his millions of fans, I had this sudden, desperate urge to set myself apart.
Ragnar looked up from the program and smiled. "You have a 47" vertical leap?"
"Uh, no. Not in that way."
His green eyes met mine, flashing with big cat intensity again. His smile narrowed. People pushed in around me, thrusting papers at the superstar guard as if the
y were process servers.
Ragnar finished writing on my program, and handed it back to me. Our gazes held for another instant before the crowd brushed me aside and he moved on to his next fan. I shambled away, not realizing that I hadn't thanked him until I was halfway back to my mom.
With Ragnar surrounded by his fans, my mom dared to give me a discreet medium-high five when I reached her.
"I told you," she said.
I didn't read what Ragnar Norquist wrote until we were back in the car. I was afraid that if I looked at it before we got out of the building it might turn into a pumpkin or something.
"Aiden, best of luck for 2020, Ragnar." Beneath that he'd written a phone number. No, I thought. I must be imagining it.
"My God," my mom said, staring at my face. "What did he say?"
I handed her the program. A furrow formed between her eyes.
"Is that his phone number?"
"I don't know."
"Why would he give you – a fifteen year old boy, a complete stranger – his personal phone number?"
"Maybe he wants me to try out for the team?"
"Not funny." Suspicion glowed in her eyes. "Did he say anything to you?"
"He asked if you were my mom."
"He...noticed me?" My mom sat up straighter, tugging a lock of hair from her forehead. "Did he say anything else?"
"Not really." I drew in a shaky breath. "But I said something to him."
My mom raised her fine eyebrows into neat little triangular points. "What?"
"I told him I was like him. I didn't intend to – it just sort of slipped out."
"Do you think he knew what you meant?"
"I didn't think so. Not until now."
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