The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following was submitted for publication in the Blackburn Weekly, though was never run. It has, however, remained an object of fascination and amusement for editorial staff. The author quit soon after submitting this piece.

Some would say our Campus Activities Board has tried everything under the sun to keep Blackburn students entertained, but those people would be wrong—at least until last Friday, when hypnotist Logan Jackson put on his show at The Underground, Blackburn’s favorite campus pub. I’ve seen plenty of acts come and go at The Underground, but it struck me that CAB was truly scraping the bottom of the barrel this time. So naturally I strapped on my parka and braved the winter cold to check it out—all in the name of journalism!

Now, before I get rolling, readers should know Mr. Jackson is not any old carny huckster. A quick Google search reveals he’s been building a name for himself on the college circuit these last few years with a supposed “X-Rated” show targeted specifically to campus audiences. There are some pretty bawdy photos online, for those into that sort of thing, but after witnessing last Friday’s performance, I’m inclined to discourage anyone from wasting their time on this garbage.

Things started off with a decent set by local comic Amanda Bresford. Some of her material seemed a bit rough around the edges, and occasionally leaned too hard into the “I’m talking about my vagina!” type of shock-schtick that’s grown so tiresome in standup these days, but overall she got a few yuks out of me while I enjoyed a brew, so what else can you ask on a Friday night?

Unfortunately, things tanked with the appearance of Mr. Jackson. Not at all what you’d expect—a handsome, well-built dude probably in his early 30s, rather than some mustache-twirler in a top hat—Jackson seemed like he was trying to hip the subject up substantially from the dusty nonsense most of us are familiar with from Saturday morning cartoons. Most of the audience seemed to eat it up, but color me unimpressed.

Jackson started his show with a pro forma spiel about hypnotism—all you have to do is focus and relax, anyone can be hypnotized, he can’t make you do anything you don’t want (unless he really gets ya good!), yadda yadda. Fine enough for calming the leery and drawing in volunteers, but dull as stage presence goes.

Next, he asked the audience to clasp its hands or focus on a spot as he talked through a “hypnotic induction,” which was supposed to place the willing (or unwary) in a trance. Obviously, in the interest of objectivity, this reviewer declined to participate.

It was at this point I began to get the sinking feeling Mr. Jackson really had no clue what he was doing. Not that I’m exactly familiar with hypnosis shows, but his patter seemed to go on and on, a droning and dull ramble that completely sucked the energy out of the room. In all honestly, I totally lost track of what he was talking about after a while, preferring to focus on the floor, my tabletop, or really almost anything nearby that might keep me better entertained.

Apparently at some point the audience outed me as a reviewer, and Mr. Jackson, in what I can only imagine was an attempt to salvage my opinion of his performance, offered me a seat onstage with a better view. I don’t know that vantage had much effect on my experience of his show—stupid antics are stupid antics—but I had to admire his instinct for self-promotion.

Again, I’m not too familiar with hypnotism shows, but from what little research I’ve done, it seems Mr. Jackson’s opening stuck close to the standards. He began by running the participants through hot-and-cold exercises, where they were asked to pretend the temperature in the room was shifting in various directions. The obliging staff at The Underground seemed to be in on the joke, throttling the thermostat at points to give him extra mileage. I’m here to tell you, however, that while you may indeed have noticed volunteers alternately shivering and stripping down, the supposed meteorological mirage was more a result of stagecraft than psychological trickery. Even I was shivering and cuddling up with my neighbor by the end (Titans QB Dave Roth, for those jealous), and I was merely an observer.

A similar routine involved imagining good and bad smells coming from your neighbor. While this did seem to leave a number of participants alternately gagging and sniffing each other like dogs, I can once more aver that the Underground staff was in on the joke. If a few stink bombs and a bottle of perfume in the vents are what it takes to get some kids to put on a show, I guess that’s Mr. Jackson’s affair, but I can confirm I discreetly sniffed our campus’ favorite signal-caller during both routines and never noticed anything amiss.

After this warm-up, Mr. Jackson finally began to introduce his famous “X-Rated” material. Beginning with having the participants imagine and act out that they were receiving oral sex, Jackson eventually went down the line, telling each volunteer they would have a screaming orgasm as he touched their shoulder. While one woman center stage threatened to bring the house down with her cries, it was Blackburn’s all-state champ who got the biggest reaction, when Jackson told him he would climax like a donkey. The crowd went nuts, though despite Jackson’s suggestion that the next volunteer would do the same and remember nothing, he for some reason abandoned the skit, suggesting he really needs to focus more on his script.

Apparently feeding off the reaction to the solo stunts, Mr. Jackson began singling out more participants for individual treatment. One sophomore female was “put to sleep” and told whenever she heard Jackson say her name, she’d feel the need to call out and see if anyone could find her missing hairless cat. Of course, her loud cries of “Has anyone seen my bald pussy?” left the audience in stitches, though I suspect she was playing along for attention.

A male at the opposite end of the stage was told he would dance like a ballerina whenever Jackson said “performance” (and played along gamely), while junior Ricky Martinez, correspondent for our Sports page, and an unidentified sophomore were placed in the far more compromising position of “modelling together like Hustler porn stars” whenever a piece of music played. The two were certainly put through their paces, and Ricky swears up and down he wasn’t acting, though I remain skeptical. You never will believe what people will do for attention, though even I thought Jackson was pushing it when he had the guys strip to their underwear (not to mention introducing whipped cream and a third participant!).

Speaking of exposure, our gridiron gladiator got a lot more than his standard post-game interview when Mr. Jackson told him anytime he heard someone say “Blackburn Titans” he would feel compelled to stand up, turn around, and moon the audience (let’s hope no one reads him this column!). You’d better believe cries of that phrase were heard steadily for the rest of the evening, ensuring everything Mr. Roth can be seen keeping in shape at Markham Fieldhouse remained on regular display for his peers throughout the night.

Never a huge fan of the male physique or public humiliation, I have to say I didn’t find a whole lot of entertainment in these routines. Couple that with the fact that by this time I had realized I was way overdressed, and you can see why my patience was waning. While Mr. Jackson was kind enough to hold onto my excess garments (who wears a shirt, shoes and jeans to a pub show?), I can’t say his good humor particularly elevated his performance in my regard.

Following an extended interlude in which he got the tremendously obliging volunteers to hump their chairs (seriously, it’s not that fun or funny—I tried it), Mr. Jackson called both me and our star QB to center stage—I assume to engender some goodwill (and word-of-mouth) from each of us with a little extra time in the spotlight.

After the inevitable chorus of “Blackburn Titans” died down (to the frat dudes in back: seriously, grow up), Jackson revealed his great plan for quid pro quo was offering your correspondent a beer. That it was located between the powerful thighs of Blackburn’s BMOC was I guess that famous “X-rated” humor again (it looks like a penis—har har), but in the end the joke was on me, since after several minutes of sucking it became obvious the bottle was empty.

The night concluded with what I guess were local celebrity interviews. Mr. Jackson asked if I was a fan of Mr. Roth’s and I said I was (what self-respecting Titan isn’t?), then asked Mr. Roth if he enjoyed playing for the “Blackburn Titans”—one more trip to that well for good measure, I guess. The show concluded with Jackson letting me give his beautiful assistant Asstrid—no [sic], there’s two S’s—a big wet smooch on the cheek as a thank-you for publicizing his performance.

After that anti-climax, Jackson called an end to the event and let the participants collect their things, though not before “re-inducing” the volunteers and specifying that every man onstage would head to the restroom and put his underwear on his head like a hat before leaving the pub (talk about a fashion statement!). As I gathered my clothes, Jackson even had the gall to ask me (in front of the audience!) if I intended to give him a good write-up. After I informed him I didn’t, we had a few final words and parted ways.

After hitting the men’s room to get dressed, I hopped on the campus C-bus and headed home. Getting some weird looks along the way, it was as though everyone could tell what an embarrassing event I had come from, and I couldn’t help ruminating on the evening. If cajoling a bunch of good-natured students to make sex sounds and get naked in front of their peers was supposed to be “entertainment,” I guess Mr. Jackson delivered. And if getting our star quarterback to moon a roomful of his fans is exemplary of Titan Pride, then I guess the evening was a touchdown.

For my part, however, I couldn’t help but feel the entire performance was hollow and degrading, little more than cheap chicanery and a chance for attention-seekers to grab a moment in the spotlight. I take no pleasure in saying it, but CAB can and must do better. Still fired up as I walked through my door, I sat down to write this review as soon as possible, right after calling all my friends to tell them how much fun I’d had at the hypnotist show.