The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Livia finally gets done the script with the rowdy frat boys; it takes an hour and twenty-two minutes, leaving her just under forty minutes to work with in the First Decan. Nonetheless, as planned, she pulls out some rope and asks for an audience volunteer. Half the auditorium raises their hands, but Livia finally settles on a formally-dressed woman and pulls her out of the audience. She’s really pretty but not model-gorgeous — a bit awkward-looking and older than most of the revelers, being in her mid-forties.

When prompted by Livia, she tells the audience her name is Janet, and she’s a TA to Professor Livingstone in the Molecular Sciences department. In fact, this is bullshit — it’s Moira, our designated ringer. She’s a local tradeswoman experimenting with boudoir photography that I pegged as an exhibitionist, picked up and charmed into joining the show — my first formal seduction for the Trips. She knows exactly what’s going to go down; we rehearsed with her extensively. The university is big enough, though, that pretty much everyone thinks a member of the faculty is actually on stage — and that, to many students, is pretty hot.

Livia holds out a hand to her. “May I take your jacket?”

Wordlessly but slightly nervously, Moira strips off her formal blazer and hands it to Livia. Losing the linebacker shoulder pads in her business jacket instantly makes Moira look less formidable and more vulnerable — and cuter. She’s got a nice, tight blouse over nice, tight D-cups, though, and would get a lot of interest from younger guys at any party that didn’t have the clustered masses of tube-topped sorority babes.

Livia stares at Moira’s breasts, distractedly tossing her blazer to the edge of the stage rather than setting it aside properly. (A stagehand returns it to her seat.) Moira laughs nervously, but the BRO dudes are far more sincerely amused at Livia’s antics.

“I must say,” Moira tells Livia awkwardly. “I love your hair.”

“Oh, possum, yours too. It’s just gorgeous.”

The compliment seems to put her at ease. Moira’s got short blonde hair, but with a magnificent perm — straight and upswept a good two inches above her head. It’s more a formidable career girl look, in contrast to Livia’s unrepentant pinup glamour. She goes in for style, though, by contrasting the body with two symmetric corkscrew locks hanging down on opposite sides of her face. I imagine she tucks them away when she wants to look more professional and brings them back out when — like today — she wants a bit more glamour and flirty pizzaz. The faint resemblance to pigtails makes her look younger than she actually is. “Thanks. Does your boyfriend ever give you shit about how long it takes you to get ready when going out?”

Livia laughs. “Guys always wanna be seen with a perfect stunner on their arm, but they have no patience at all for the hard work involved in actually being said stunner. Well, if your stud du jour wants to grouse, just handle him like I handle mine. I just stare him in the eye and I say: look at this, baby.”

Livia points at her head. “Do you see what this is, on my head? This is high-maintenance hair, and it is fucking glorious. I don’t have time in my life for both high-maintenance hair and a high-maintenance boyfriend — and you’re not going to be pleased with the results if you force me to pick one or the other.”

That gets a solid laugh from the ladies in the crowd. The frat guys, of course, are bored and rolling their eyes — but Livia’s hot enough, and they’re intrigued enough by the cute alleged TA on stage, that we’re not in any danger of losing their interest.

Livia continues on. “Speaking of out-there hair, have you heard that the police are claiming they found LSD at Mike Score’s residence? It’s a total frame-up, though, if you ask me. He claims he has no idea how it got there, and I’m inclined to believe him. I mean, anyone that has a reason to be in his house could have left it there.”

Mimi brings up a publicity photo of Score on the overhead projector, with his famously weird haircut, to emphasize the punchline. “Clearly, his hairdresser ought to be suspect number one — and if it turns out said hairdresser went to the same school as the ones working for Boy George, Cindy Lauper and Milli Vanilli, well, let’s just say I predict a landmark case redefining the boundaries of the RICO Act.”

Mimi flicks through a slideshow of tragically surreal celebrity hairstyles (and one pic of Sabrina Salerno dancing on stage, proudly flaunting one of the nipple slips she built a career out of), getting laughs and groans from the audience. “So many inexplicable things would all suddenly make sense if a bunch of Hollywood hairdressers were all in a secret LSD syndicate, wouldn’t they? ‘He’s the front man for Flock of Seagulls, so of course his hair needs to make people think there’s a seagull perched on his head. That’s just common sense.’

“Of course, this is just a bit. You all knew that, right? No drug charges against Mr. Score that I know of — just sweet tunes and one fuckin’ loopy hairdo. And Sabrina Salerno’s hair is more than just okay, it’s every bit as delicious as all the other parts of her body! I just threw that pic in there since I figured this crowd would appreciate a bit of gratuitous titty in the weird hair joke routine. Guys, if you didn’t catch the nip-slip, well, that just gives you yet another motive to add the tape of this show to you home video library! And girls, if you did find your eyes mysteriously drawn to the nip-slip, well...”

With perfect timing, Livia makes the ‘call me’ hand gesture exactly as Mimi calls up an overhead of one of Debbie Harry’s more regrettable hair experiments. The crowd laughs, and a few girls visibly blush. Moira covers her mouth, trying to conceal her giggles — she pointedly did notice the Salerno pic. Livia’s energy is winning her over, bit by bit.

“You know, I think every hairstyle can be ranked on a spectrum somewhere between wanting respect at any cost and wanting attention at any cost. The best hair is always in the middle. Go too fair to one side, and you look like a gibbering loon. Go too far on the other, and you look as boring as the world’s most unfuckable certified accountant.”

Mimi flashes a rather lurid picture of a really hot babe sitting topless on a cluttered desk, wearing ‘sexy-smart’ librarian glasses, with her legs spread wide — but holding a thick manila folder full of financial papers over her crotch with a flirty grin to keep the image merely saucy as opposed to gynecological. “Mimi, you bimbo! Wrong slide! That’s the world’s most fuckable certified accountant!”

Yes, we took that photo. It was fun. The hottie is one of the YBYB girls, and yes — she does plan to go into accounting.

Mimi’s voice crackles over the sound system. “Sorry, boss lady!”

“Anyway, where was I? Really great hair is elaborately styled, but it also needs to look naturalistic. You need to be casual about it, like it’s something you don’t expect other people to notice — like everyone is just born with hair as glorious as mine or Janet’s. The fantastic do can be over the top, but it need to also make sense in the context of your daily life —”

Mimi cues up another photograph. This one has Livia with her clothing all torn up, a stunned expression and cartoon soot all over her face, like she just opened a package sent to her by Wile E. Coyote. Her hair is standing up impossibly straight, like a cartoon character sticking their finger in a light socket or that one Yahoo Serious poster. It’s like a huge round orb stretching a full meter off her head. “No, Mimi! Not that kind of daily life! Way too casual there!”

“Eep! Sorry again — blonde moment!”

We also took this photo. It was... less fun. Challenging, I guess. I was the heavy lifter and studio support, Mimi was the photog and technician and Livia the model martinet. (Pun intended.) That’s not just Aqua Net. Livia’s hair is too long to stand straight out like that with just Aqua Net. We built a huge wood sphere covered with aluminum foil, like some frost giant’s 1950s helmet-hairdryer, and used static electricity. We ended up electrocuting Livia. And then she curtly demanded we do it again. And again. And again, until we got to the image in her mind’s eye. It was not precisely how I imagined a BDSM session with Livia would play out, though I guess it does qualify.

And that didn’t work perfectly either, so we had to use invisible threading to hold some of it up. Livia’s demanding, perfectionist side really came to the forefront there. The shoot ended up being a twenty-six hour day, after already working on it for two days prior. And all for a three-second visual sight gag. I guess that’s what you do, when you’re trying to be the best and don’t have a Hollywood studio in your corner.

It gets a solid belly laugh from the audience — and then it’s over, and Livia moves on smoothly. It doesn’t even land that hard, because this is an early show and Livia’s persona as a nerdy lesbian maniac isn’t well established to the audience yet, so the ‘mad scientist’ image is a bit out of left field. None of us really thought of that during the rehearsals, as obvious as it is in retrospect.

Moira looks vaguely disturbed, and delivers her scripted line. “Are... are we done with the hair jokes now?”

Livia turns to her. “Done? DONE?! She asks if I’m done! Possum, I’ve got more bad hair jokes than Jack Nicholson has kids!”

That, ironically, gets a bigger laugh from the rowdy frat boys. Livia senses this, and rushes through some more celebrity hair jokes, segueing smoothly into asking Moira wildly inappropriate questions about the state and quantity of her pubic hair (and being rewarded with a very cute blush) and then tries to sell both Moira and the audience rainbow novelty merkins through a 1-900 number. Finally, Livia loops back around to the reason Moira was originally brought on stage — a magic trick. Moira actually seems pretty enthusiastic about that.

They’re going to do a suggestive trick with the rope Livia brought out earlier. Livia cuts the rope and ties the pieces back together, and then she asks Moira to blow on the knots and they fall off, impossibly making the rope intact again. It’s a fairly common trick.

Of course, Livia peppers her stage patter with sexual innuendo, and the alleged TA blushes convincingly but goes on with the show in cheerful good candor — acting out gradually being won over and charmed by Livia’s incessant flirtation. When Moira blows on a knot, Livia gives a body-language reaction as if Moira was blowing directly on her clit, and drops a suggestive compliment when the knot finally falls off. The audience loves this, and Livia is succeeding at building up some real sexual anticipation. A few tube-topped sorority girls look pretty sour that a woman twenty years their senior is getting more sexual focus than they are, however. Don’t worry, ladies, I think, you’ll get your turn.

As planned, Moira isn’t able to blow the last knot off despite a sustained effort. Finally, Livia asks if she could borrow just a small thread from Moira, and tugs what was supposedly a thread from one of the straps of her navy tank top. The strap rises up visibly, and the crowd cheers aggressively. When a self-proclaimed “naughty magician” plays with a woman’s top straps, you don’t have to be a genius to figure out where the act’s going to go. That’s actually the point — it’s all about building anticipation. Moira is obviously wearing a lacy blue bra under the tank top — the straps are plainly visible — but the crowd is still eager to see faculty knockers, even in a bra. So Livia ties the imaginary thread into the recalcitrant knot, and asks Moira to grip the knot firmly with both hands. She does so, and as rehearsed holds it directly to her chest.

Livia takes hold of her microphone in one hand and the opposite end of the rope in the other, and walks away from Moira until the rope is nearly taut. “Now, boys,” she purrs, really playing up her sexy accent, “there’s two ladies on this stage with their hands tightly gripping a long, thick rope. And that rope has been largely limp for most of the night, but now it looks like it’s getting pretty firm. And there’s unfortunately a right awkward knot stuck innit thanks to some built-up tension. But I think I know how we can get rid of it, and I’m hopin’ all you mad lads can give us some encouragement, so we can get to that one special moment where we all release the tension together. So why don’t we all count down from five, and when we get to zero, I’mma gonna give this rope the rough and vigorous kind of tugging I think we all know it deserves.”

There is a moment of silence. Of course, some drunk frat asshole takes the opportunity to shout out, “Tug my rope, sweet stuff! I want you to tug my rope!”

But Livia gracefully ignores him, starting the countdown. Each number gets louder as the audience’s enthusiasm grows. Mimi focuses the camera in tightly on Moira’s face as the countdown continues. She’s blushing and nervous, convincingly so, but I can see she’s also aroused and thrilled. She’s likely bought into the fantasy where she’s Janet the TA, a girl who’d never strip off for an audience, “living the role” for the sake of verisimilitude, or her own sexual thrills, or both.

Livia reaches zero, and then delays a second longer, as rehearsed, running her clenched left hand up and down her section of the rope increasingly rapidly in an obvious visual metaphor for male masturbation. Her over-the-top, crude grunting and gasping is both strangely titillating to see from a women whose demeanor, even when being obscene, is often so refined — and also a perfect fit for our audience tonight. Finally, of course, she grabs the rope with both hands and gives it a forceful tug, stepping three feet further from Moira in the process.

Needless to say, Moira’s tank top gets torn off. Her bra, more surprisingly to some, comes with it. In reality, she was wearing a tearaway shirt only loosely stitched together in the back, and the bra was never actually clasped — it was glued to the shirt, but never fastened in the back and with pre-cut straps, being held in place only by the shirt. She stands for a moment in well-feigned shock before clasping her hands protectively in front of her chest. Moira’s ta-tas are not model-perfect, though they are large. Seeing them is tremendously fun, however, because the girl they are attached to is so obviously enjoying showing them off. Moira, I am pleased to say, has much in common with Desiree vis-a-vis the psychology of fake tits. Her nipples are erect, her eyes are gleaming and I can see she’s riding a wave of adrenaline.

I must also compliment Mimi’s camera work; the lady obviously knows how eroticism works. Most male camera guys would tight-focus on the exposed cans, but Mimi gets a sustained tracking shot keeping Moira dead-center from the waist up from before the pull to a good twenty seconds after. You can see the shock on her face, the mischief in her eyes, the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks and the final acceptance when she gives into the crowd’s enthusiasm and throws up her arms, letting her ta-tas be seen and riding the euphoria of the moment in embarrassed good cheer.

The crowd roars deafeningly for the duration, drowning out Livia’s attempts at patter. When they are finally out of breath, she holds up the microphone and says, “You know, that may not have gone quite as planned, but I think we were really quite successful in releasing some tension here. In fact, I bet there’s a few guys in the audience who feel a lot less tense than they did a minute ago... although they might also be wanting a change of Jockeys. Am I right? Am I right?”

That gets an uproarious laugh from the crowd. Based on Livia’s earlier hypno-tease of the pledges, though, I wonder if it’s also a literal truth.

Here’s a fun easter egg for the folks that have our tapes. Moira is supposed to run offstage with her arms covering her chest, just as one would expect a woman suddenly stripped to realistically do. What she actually does, however, is throw up her hands after about a minute, give the audience a nice good look at her chest and walk back to her original seat brazenly flaunting her nudity. Then she takes the formal blazer she had come in with and puts it on, and sits there for the next two Decans watching the show.

She never buttons the blazer, so most of the time it covers her tits but is still open down the front, and whenever she waves her arms or cheers she also ends up flashing. You can spot her in the audience reaction shots if you look, and she even gets a few closeups. Livia will be a bit cross at her going off-script, but ultimately we agree she’s sexy and having fun, and we can’t be too angry at that.

“Folks, we’re ten minutes over for the First Decan, so we’re gonna have a fifteen minute intermission. When we get back, we’ve got a very special guest to introduce that we hope fans of our show will get a big kick out of!”

During the break, I review the footage of Cathy while Mimi finalizes the list of ideal volunteers. The original plan was for three women, one of whom would be Cathy. I can see, however, that there is a good reason to be adaptable at this point, and Mimi and I get together a full top thirty list. We think, at this point, that if three of those women actually volunteer we’ll do a four-girl show. Cathy has no idea there is a camera on the ceiling specifically tracking her, of course.

During the countdown, her eyes glitter with delight and anticipation. Mimi thinks this is a sign that she’s into girls, but I actually have a different theory. She’s projecting herself onto Moira, living out her act of exposure vicariously. When the Decan break is called, she turns and says something to a nebblish-looking friend with extremely enthusiastic body language. We don’t have a parabolic mike (yet... big oversight), but watching her lips, I can swear she says “Oh my god! I wish I was that lady soo much!”

I’m no stranger to public speaking, and of course I hosted the You Bet Your Bikini tapes beside Livia — but there were like ten people tops when we filmed those, and they’re not out yet. This really is my big debut with the Trips, in front of well over a hundred people. I’m cool and confident, of course — I’m always cool and confident. But I feel it inside. It’s not even like I have that much to do this show, anyway! My big thing is selecting, reading and tempting the volunteers. I realize, in this moment, how much I care about being a part of a show like the Sexy Scandal Spectacular — and how much it excites me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the hot new co-host of the Sexy Scandal Spectacular!”

I step out on stage, wearing a swishy, almost pirate-esque costume with a low-cut white silk shirt and crimson balloon pants. I’m carrying an elegant black walking cane with a ornate lingham design on the handle. “Hello, everyone! It’s a real pleasure to be here with you all tonight! My name is Marcelo Ambrose Knight, and my To Do List is getting unmanageably long despite not having any chores on it! Come see me if you’re hot, female and want to make it — or anything else of mine — a little bit longer!”

What a fantastic, cheesy debut. I grin shamelessly and bow. I carry off the ridiculous line with my smarm and confidence, and the audience laughs and cheers.

“Mister Knight,” Livia says, “I understand some people have been saying that you’re one of the foremost pickup artists in the world.”

“Well, I wouldn’t take their word for it. I mean, if I ran a show like this, I’d want to check the credentials of anyone claiming such a thing personally. And intimately.”

The crowd laughs, and Livia gives a stock comedic eye-roll. “I’m sure you would, Marcelo. I’m sure you would. But we’ll just have to take your qualifications as a given for tonight. I understand that you’ve got some advice to give for any would-be players — or just for those hard-done guys that have a bit of trouble hooking up — tonight?”

“I sure do, Miss Livia. I sure do.”

Livia moves toward the back of the stage and sits down, and I take central mike. I actually do have a pickup workshop lecture prepared for the frat boys — it’s nothing overly innovative, mostly just a compilation of the greatest hits from past seminars I’ve done. There isn’t time to train anyone in one night anyway, but there are lots of rubes that just think listening to a single speech will make them into a bit more of a ladykiller — and if it gives them confidence, really, it just might. Famous pickup artists love the Placebo Effect, you know! I start out with a fairly standard intro.

“So, when people first meet a pickup artist, their first question is always whether the cheesy pickup lines actually work. You know — are you going to give me a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you. Are you a Pepsi kind of girl or a Coke girl? It’s gotta be one or the other, cause you look soda-licious! Those jugs look really heavy — want me to hold them for you? Do you have a fever or are you always this hot?

“Well, I’ll tell you this: if you look good in a suit and can drop a pickup line with confidence, nine out of ten babes will still toss their drinks in your face — and the tenth will polish your pole with her tongue like it was made out of goddamn licorice! So, decide for yourself if the costs outweigh the benefits. Personally, I carry this handy hair dryer wired to plug into a car’s cigarette lighter socket for just this reason. Drop a line, get doused, run outside, dry off and go back in to try another line one the next hottie to catch your eye!”

I pull out the comically tiny hair dryer prop Livia made me for this specific monologue and do an exaggerated, silly impression of speed-drying my hair and shirt, acting like the gust of air from the dryer is way stronger than it is. The prop’s got a real motor and battery, and really blows — my hair rustles, and my flouncy pirate shirt billows out every which way. People chortle in spite of themselves, and I catch a few girls staring at my torso. I even open my mouth so my cheeks flap around a bit like I’m a caricature fighter pilot.

It’s satisfying, getting a laugh out of the crowd. I’m fairly new to this kind of physical comedy, and Livia made me go over the whole monologue again and again, until it was perfect.

“Seriously, though, pickup lines work a lot better on a second date — or midway through a successful first one — then they do as a first impression. Girls like guys who make them laugh, but they don’t like guys to hit on them until they feel comfortable with the guy in question. Strangers need to act natural, like when facing a wild tiger — which, in a sense, you are. Beware the ferocious claws of the Perfect Ten! Grr! Meow! Still, if you can drop a pickup line dry and still score, you know you’ve definitely made it as an epic player!”

After the comedy intro, I get a bit more solemn. “That’s not your only question, though, is it? There’s bigger things you want ask a professional pickup artist. Do I really need to be a callous dickhead to score wicked pussy? Does wanting to score wicked pussy mean I already am a callous dickhead? Does it work like in that one Ringwald-Downey Jr. flick? Are women really like finite state machines, programmable by simple formulas? Do I need to look good to pick up girls? Should I even bother if I wasn’t born with a strong jawline and broad shoulders?

“Well, folks, the answers are no, no, no (and don’t hassle girls on the street like that!), no, somewhat and yes. Anyone can pick up girls — or boys, as the case may be — but learning to do so takes a fair bit of effort and a dose of self respect. I’ve helped all kinds of guys become sexual winners, and once even taught a shy lesbian how to pull chicks for herself! It doesn’t matter — plump guys, nerdy guys, Asian guys, introverts, wimps, dudes with a lisp or a cleft lip, even one guy with only one eye. That last one is James, by the way.”

Mimi helpfully cues up a photo of James and me posing together on the projector, with an inset picture of a much younger, much dorkier-looking James in the corner. “I gotta tell you — that kid went from being the weird quiet scarred boy that everyone pitied in high school to a stoic badass with the black leather eyepatch who looked like he sauntered off the set of a B-grade action movie with a hot babe hanging off each arm! I can’t say I’m the sole source of his transformation, but it really shows you all what’s possible, doesn’t it? Whatever you were born with doesn’t matter as long as you know how you want to frame it and work on the things you can actually fix, you know?”

I go on, talking about some of the philosophy I’ve already shared with you. It’s pretty obvious and basic life improvement stuff (“Stop standing there like a weedy little chump with a bowling ball stuck on his wiener hoping the hot chicks will help you out of pity! If you don’t want big regrets later in life, learn to let girls know how you feel about them without being a sex pest...”), but filled with sexy acronyms and pickup technobabble. That sciency gloss is actually really important — one of the hooks commercial pickup uses is the idea that analytical thinkers can learn systems to get girls that are just as effective as what natural charismatics have intuitively.

This kind of lecture is very rote territory for me — though it is a bit surreal, giving it to a coed crowd. Lots of the BRO guys seem to almost worship me, fixating on my words. My eyes are naturally drawn to the ladies in the crowd, though. Few seem really offended — I have a way of presenting pickup that makes it seem less creepy and more charming, hopefully because my form is like that. Some girls cultivate carefully disdainful expressions, but others are giggling, blushing and whispering to their friends. They’re laughing at me, but without malice — even the ladies who can’t help staring a bit at my half-exposed chest.

That’s understandable. I do look a bit like the typical doofus on a Harlequin cover; it’s pretty over the top. The laughter is actually fine. If you have the confidence to embrace it, getting women laughing at you in good humor (and laughing with them) is actually a productive step toward getting them spread, wet and moaning. Weird but true: dopey charm opens legs. The audience isn’t sure whether to take me as a parody of a stud or an actual stud — in reality I’m both, and that gives me a freedom to be flamboyant I wouldn’t have any other way. I guess you could say I’m being ironically unironic about being a pickup artist in front of a mixed audience — and it works.

I’m not going to recite my whole lecture here — get the tape or my other books if you want it — but there is one sneaky bit I add in for this show that contributes to the immediate narrative.

“Now, the third big trick in opening a set is filtering out the girls who don’t. There’s lots of women you’ll just be a nuisance to — we can be polite and call them the marrying kind, or blunt and just say prudes. The value judgement doesn’t matter — the point is, we’re looking for girls that, in their heart, want to get stuffed just as much as we want to stuff them. They’re more common than you might have been raised to expect! They’re also often friends with the prudes, who may also be gossips — and thus, they act as inhibitors to our target demographic letting their inner bad girls out. They’re chaperones that don’t realize they’re chaperones.

“And, guys, I’m sure you all know what you need to do to kick a party into hot gear, right? You gotta ditch the chaperones! So here’s a few simple tricks I can teach you tonight, to put the minds of the marrying kind at ease — and make them more comfortable leaving you alone with their cooler, more open-minded and — most importantly — looser friends.”

The crowd laughs. I’m being pretty clever with this bit — giving some hypothetical advice to the guys, but also sending a message to the girls when they don’t think I’m talking to them — yeah, you bet guys notice when girls act puritanical with each other. Which side do you want to be on? Honestly? Are you sure? I think some ladies in the audience who value their social standing will be a little less quick to get self-righteous with their friends this evening, which is exactly what we want.

The speech goes on, and it’s really just a very abbreviated version of what you’ve already read in my books. I carry it off well, I think. Inside I’m nearly robotic. My mind is clouded by sexual anticipation. I need to fill the planned time, however. Mimi dims the lights in the auditorium and focuses a spotlight on me. As I teach frat dorks cheesy pickup lines, Mimi and Livia industriously set things up in the shadows.

They quickly set up a large, long inflatable pool about three meters by five meters, and half a meter deep, with an electrical air pump, then use an industrial water pump to fill it with the specific material we’ve previously selected. They then affix a box to the wall directly above it, and set up our custom neon sign about ten meters offset from it on the same wall — currently obscured by a black curtain hanging from some auto-drop servos. Directly between the pool and the north wall they place a giant-size, ten-foot tall plushie “NewBee” — the cartoon rooster mascot of the Noodle’s premier football team, the Fighting Cocks.

They choose the position of the pool spontaneously, putting it directly beside four stylish-looking and quite sexy ladies in some fairly risqué clubwear. I’ve been allowed to name three of the four, so let’s call them Karen, Charlene, Macy and R—. Pay attention, folks: these ladies are going to become relevant right near the end of the night.

They obviously see Livia and Mimi set up the pool, but Mimi goes up to each of them, makes a “shh” gesture holding her finger to her lips and shakes their hands as she works. (I guess I haven’t mentioned this before — Mimi can be absolutely adorable when she turns her bimbo persona all the way up; people want to please her and will often do surprising things to avoid disappointing her. She’s almost like a puppy dog at times.)

As a result, these “club girls” do not draw attention to what Livia and Mimi are doing, instead giggling among themselves and whispering — wondering what the punchline is going to be and pleased that they apparently have front-row seats. Mimi’s conspiratorial body language and infectious personality convince them they will be complicit in an exciting and naughty prank — as opposed to the victims of one.

Karen is a very cute, slender blonde wearing what could be described as a spandex bodysuit. It looks like aerobics wear adapted into clubwear. It’s tight, and dyed in splashes of pastel colors, and it’s fairly easy to tell there’s no underwear beneath it. She also has hoop earrings, big coiffed hair styled like Rhonda Shear’s, pink lipstick and thigh-high boots. Charlene is a petite Thai girl with piercing blue eyes, who absolutely rocks the archetypal “little black cocktail dress” look despite her B-cup chest; she manages to look both vacuous and sophisticated at the same time. Macy is a black lady with frilly, asymmetric hair, tight jeans and a strapless top worn in imitation of the sorority girls despite lacking the Greek letters. She has a sensuality to her, ogling Livia with unabashed desire as she sets up the pool. (I don’t see any of them until I review the footage later, of course.)

The two girls scutter away and give be the good-to-go signal via my earpiece, and I quickly wrap up the tedious pickup speech. “But really, folks, you don’t want me to tell you how I pick up girls, you want to see me pull some! Right? Right! Yes, folks, it’s that time of the night you’ve all been waiting for. We’re looking for some viewers of the female persuasion to be volunteers for a little off-color hypnotic action. Come on, ladies, it’s time to let out your inner bad girl with the help of hypnosis! Who wants to live life on the wild side for once?”

Now, that’s an intentionally bad sell. It’s supposed to be cheesy, and the script calls for Livia to come on stage and ‘rescue’ me in a bit that’s supposed to make the girls feel safe to come on stage. We set up the first Decan act specifically as a warning to any potential volunteers about what might happen to girls who come on stage. We want them to know what they are getting into. Having set it up that way, it was then expected that we would need some ‘carrot’ to get a few to actually do it; Livia had a speech about how good it feels to do something wild every now and then prepared for the occasion.

We also have seven ringers planted in the crowd — women who would throw up their hands first, after about a minute of ambiguity, and not be chosen — the fact that they were volunteering was supposed to make the first “real” volunteer feel more comfortable. Unlike Moira, none of them would be picked. However, this proves to be gloriously gratuitous — our ringers were all pre-empted by real, eager volunteers. The theory about female psychology Livia expressed to me the night we met turns out to be wildly, awesomely correct. There are a lot of gorgeous, fresh-faced exhibitionists and thrill-seekers out there; they just need a bit of glamour and a handy excuse to run wild.

We want four girls for the hypnosis routine, in the hopes that two can actually be tranced. Fifteen of the girls on Mimi’s top thirty list instantly wave their hands in an unconditional hope of being chosen, along with about a hundred other ladies big and small, young and old, cute and ugly. I whisper to Livia, “How many can you do at once?”

She grins back, “Let’s find out!”

Livia takes the mike and admonishes the crowd. “You know, schoolgirls are getting started earlier than you expect these days. Why just this Saturday I saw a sweet little junior high crumpet arguing viciously with a boy her age. I asked her if that was her boyfriend and she just gives me a droll look, snuffs out her bifter and says, sweetie... that’s my ex-husband, and I need my goddamn alimony for lunch money today!”

Everyone laughs. “Well, say what you like about her, but I’m still not sure junior high is the right time to be getting started. College, on the other hand? College is a great time to get started, and we’ve got a great opportunity for that — so let’s get some collegiate cuties up on stage and start their engines!”

So I begin escorting fifteen cute girls up to the stage, nine of whom are well-endowed sorority chicks in tube tops. I am on the third when Mimi says from her booth, “I can see Cathy is deeply tempted, guys. She’s struggling.”

By the time I get the fourth and fifth girls on stage, Mimi says “Okay, I think Cathy just made a choice. She’s raised her hand. She’s blushing furiously, and not drawing attention to herself, but she does have her hand up.”

I can hear the giddiness in Mimi’s voice, but I ignore Cathy for now. Let her decide fully. Livia and I escort hot babes six and seven up to the stage. Mimi doesn’t need to tell me what Cathy was doing at this point — I can actually see her in the back, jumping up and down and waving her hand energetically. I go up to collect her next, kneeling and offering her my hand like a Victorian gentleman. She rolls her eyes, but she also blushes, and I escort her down the bleachers to the auditorium floor. She actively thinks about her jacket, wondering whether to take it with her, and decides to leave it in her seat. That leaves her a bit more exposed, which is nice, and probably her intention — though her dress was still normal for a student, and chaste in comparison to most of the other girls. We pass the inflatable pool on the way down.

“Be careful to step around that as you get on stage,” I tell her as I had told two other girls from the same section. “We’ve set up a pool full of hot fudge topping that we’re going to use in one of the later acts.”

Once all fifteen girls are gathered on stage, Livia makes them all hold up their left hand like a crowd of immigrants swearing the American citizenship oath. They repeat the disclaimer after her: “I’m a volunteer for the Sexy Scandal Spectacular. I’m game for a giggle. I will probably lose my dignity, and I may lose my modesty, but I’m going to have an amazing time and leave with an awesome story to tell!”

The crowd cheers uproariously at that. “Anyone want to bail? Last chance, ladies.”

I’m surprised no one takes her up on it.

We sit the girls in two rows, making sure that Cathy, a few of the bustier tube-top girls and one very excited-looking girl in a short skirt are in the front. We pass out sleek, sci-fi looking headphones, painted orange and navy, and ask every girl to put them on. They’re the padded kind that fully cover the ears, shutting out foreign sounds. I suppose this is a good time to explain a bit more about Livia’s hypnosis. She’s a good mundane hypnotist, but when she uses Mimi’s understanding of audio-visual technology she becomes amazing.

I’ve already described her stone, though for this group show she uses a novelty assembly in its place. You’ve seen a Newton’s cradle, right? They’re common in offices; it’s a set of four suspended steel balls that form a serial pendulum. And you’ve seen the kind of orb a stereotypical wizard in a fantasy film stares into to watch distant places or utter prophecies, right? Well, combine those two things in an aluminum frame about seven feet tall — actually one of those wheeled metal coat-racks you see in hotels — and fill the four swinging orbs with flowing colors like a home-made lava lamp. That’s what Livia’s using for a group hypnosis visual focus; it’s pretty flash.

The headphones are important for three reasons. First of all, they deliver a special proprietary hypnotic rhythm Livia and Mimi created using binaural beats — and no, I’m not going to say anything more about it than that, as it’s actually one of the show’s more valuable trade secrets. Secondly, they let her talk to the audience without the marks hearing, or to the marks without the audience hearing — both are valuable when setting the marks up for an erotic pratfall or stoking the audience’s anticipation.

The third purpose is to put the marks into a silent environment, and avoid them hearing catcalls or other shouts from the audience — it’s a lot easier to get nervous or inhibited but otherwise willing people to do racy things under hypnosis if their senses tell them they’re alone, even if somewhere in their minds they know they aren’t.

“This is a Newton’s cradle,” Livia explains. “You’ve probably seen a smaller version in office buildings. We live in a neurotic society, and they’re one of many things prestigious executives use to gain brief, soothing moments of relaxation. Everyone, no matter how elite, needs to relax now and then, to cease feeling the pressures of rules and stigmas and proper conduct. When we set these orbs in motion, they’re going to click and clack, back and forth, in the most relaxing and hypnotic matter. I want you all to focus fully on the moving orbs, to allow them to entrance you, alright?”

Our volunteers nod eagerly, some laughing and whispering to each other nervously. They’re excited — a bit scared, perhaps, but mostly game. I pull back the leftmost orb and let it swing back to strike into the others. The rightmost jumps away as the leftmost strikes, forming the distinctive back-and-forth pattern.

“Look at the orbs. Follow them with your eyes. Their pattern is so rhythmic, isn’t it? Clack, clack, clack, clack. So constant and regular. It’s relaxing, isn’t it? Just like my voice. Let yourself relax. Let my voice soothe you. Look at the flowing colors inside the orbs as they strike in time. Try to follow the flowing colors with your eyes, and the movement of the orbs, and their sounds, and my voice. Allow yourself to be lost inside the orbs. Let them absorb you. Clack, clack, clack, clack. Surrender yourself to the rhythmic motion. Close your eyes and forget where you are. Feel perfectly alone and perfectly relaxed. Clack, clack, clack, clack. So rhythmic, so geometric, so soothing — just like my voice. Let your mind be captivated by the orbs.”

Fun little trivia bit: after building this contraption, Livia practiced so hard in order to learn to say “clack, clack, clack, clack” in perfect time with the impact-sounds of the orbs. She nails it perfectly, though, and the synchronicity definitely adds to the induction.

“Surrender to the orbs, and take pleasure in the act of surrendering. Yes, good, close your eyes now. You can still see the orbs inside your mind, can’t you, with all their swirling colors? Back and forth, back and forth. Clack, clack, clack, clack. Know that the more the orbs captivate you, the more you will fall under my power. When you yield to me, things that were unthinkable to you before will now seem unexceptional and everyday. Trust my voice, and know that whether it speaks truth or lies, believing what it tells you will always lead you into a greater and greater variety of stronger and stronger sensual pleasures.

“You will find that the deeper you fall under my power, the wilder and freer you will feel. Deeper and deeper, wilder and wilder. Deeper and deeper, freer and freer. It won’t be your fault, of course, because your mind and body will be wholly under my dominion. You will never need to take accountability for the things you do when I am in control. You will find you are unable to feel nervous or ashamed. Those sorts of feelings are simply gone. You will find you have forgotten they even exist. You no longer feel any obligation to be or act respectable. All you have to do, all you want to do, is surrender, and enjoy the sweet fruits of pleasure that result from this surrender. Give yourself over to me, to the hypnotic trance and the power of my voice, and be inhabited by my perversion, and you will know only the highest of all delights...”

The induction routine takes about fifteen minutes. Livia takes them fairly deep, I think. She sets up several standard trigger words. One girl can’t get into the trance, so I ask her if she’d like to leave and quietly escort her off stage. That leaves us with fourteen girls, two even rows, all in a deep trance state.

We start with the less risqué stuff, which is still risqué. It’s hot in here. You feel so hot. One girl actually takes her shirt off at the suggestion, leaving her in a lacy bra. Then it’s ‘you are a stripper, dance for us’. The girls all have nice moves, and know how to grind sexy — except Cathy, who is awkward and has limited skill despite surprisingly enthusiasm. That’s good — it establishes to the audience visually that Cathy is a genuine Good Girl Who Would Never Do Naughty Stuff™, which will make the climax all the more exciting.

Of course, a lot of the audience already knows that by her reputation on campus — but the reminder is still a nice touch. Overall, the erotic dance and grind segment is big-time popular. We then tell the girls in the front to give the girls in the back private dances. It gets heated. One girl, a frilly-haired blonde with wide-brimmed glasses and a stunning blue cocktail dress, grinds her partner really vigorously. She seems to be trying to get off for real. I worry she could make the other girls uncomfortable and break trances.

We tell her to stand up in front of all the other girls. We tell her she has been very naughty. We tell her that as a punishment, for the rest of the night whenever she shakes someone’s hand, she will have the most amazing, body-wracking orgasm. It would only stop if she feels threatened or hurt, not if she gets embarrassed. We tell her to remember this when she comes out of trance. Then Livia snaps her fingers in the girl’s face, and she — and only that one girl — comes out of trance.

“Hi, hon, what’s your name?”

“Blair,” she says.

“Do you remember the last suggestion I just gave you?”

“Umm. Yes. I think so.”

“Would you like Marcelo to walk you to the exit? You won’t have to shake anyone’s hand. Alternatively, you can walk back through the bleachers, but there are probably a few cute guys in there who are going to want to introduce themselves.”

Blair blushes furiously. “Um. Oh, wow, this is a hard choice.”

She walks over to me. She’s wearing a stylish, tight blue dress. She’s flat and plain-featured, but has an incredibly cute smile and a rather nice ass. “Mister Knight. Um. I volunteered, so I think everyone would be a bit disappointed if I didn’t go back through the bleachers — and I wanted a bit of an adventure. But you’re really cute, and I hope you’ll be willing to congratulate me for coming up here. Er, I mean, by shaking my hand.”

Dear God, I love my life. I have the best possible life any guy could ever want. I’m so glad I decided to trust Livia.

I grasp the young coed’s proffered hand firmly and shake it vigorously. Her mouth forms into a broad ‘O’, and her face suggests that she’s feeling every up-and-down shake of her hand like a cock slamming into her pussy. She lets out a very loud, obscene moan, which is quickly drowned out by the roaring cheer of the crowd. She stumbles backward, and would fall over as her legs buckle. Instead, I keep a firm grasp on her sweat-slicked hand and wrap my other arm around her waist, pulling her close to me.

She grinds her body against mine like the world’s horniest lap dancer (which is how she got in this predicament to begin with) and moans more, and I just let her keep doing this for a good two minutes until I’m pretty sure there’s a new damp spot on that lovely blue dress. I feel her hard nipples poking against my chest, even through our clothes. Finally when she’s exhausted, I let go of her hand and give her a few seconds to reorient. “I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did,” I say.

“More,” I think she says back, though its hard to tell over the roaring crowd. “Way, way more.”

She makes a stumbling path toward the bleachers. I have to admire her tenacity, desire to please a crowd and raw sexual appetite. We’re going to look her up later for sure. I guide her safely to the hungry crowd without shaking her hand again. Glassy eyes smile up at a hot frat jock, and she proffers her hand with a sly, thirsty smile.

She ends up making quite a commotion as she slowly makes her way through the crowd, more being carried than walking since she can rarely stand up. More that just her hand gets felt up by people near her — and while it’s mostly men, the women aren’t wholly innocent — but she seems to be enjoying it a lot. I think we just invented something like erotic crowd-surfing. Livia seems absolutely transfixed by all the different hands on Blair’s young body.

“Look at the other girls, Marc,” Mimi says in my earpiece. “Blair really turned up the heat, and they’re feeling it. They can sense it even in trance.”

Meanwhile, Livia leans over to all the other girls and puts on her huskiest voice.

“Okay, birdies, listen to me. I’m going to give you a very special order. In a minute you’re going to come back to full consciousness, and act exactly the way you normally would. However, when you hear Marcelo here say the word ‘hot’, you’re all going to imagine that your clothing gets ripped off by an invisible force and you are all completely naked on the stage. When you hear him say the word ‘cold’, your clothes will all be back and you’ll realize it was just hypnosis and you were never naked, and the act is over, and feel free to talk about it with candor.”

The crowd laughs. They’re not as interested in this as they were in Blair the Orgasm Girl, but they’re still pretty interested. The girls come out of trance gradually. “Wow,” one brunette says, “I think we were doing some pretty racy dancing.”

“Yeah,” I agree into the microphone, “you definitely raised the temperature.”

I do a bit more back and forth with the girls, teasing the audience by forcing prompts where I could say the big word but don’t. It’s a good test of Livia’s hypnosis — the girls never seem to show signs of anticipation before the trigger drops, so I can tell they are really hypnotized rather than just going along with the act. Finally, I decide to drop the bomb. “You know, I hope this doesn’t come off as inappropriate, but I just need to say it: you girls are all just incredibly... blazingly... incandescently... solar-core-grade... hot.”

The reaction is immediate and cataclysmic. Thirteen girls shift from casual or even flaunting poses to immediate shock and embarrassment, mouths wide, hands blurring to cover their imaginary nudity, cheeks turning brilliant crimson. Well, except for the one lady with a kind of bubbly bimbo demeanor who just puts her hands on her hips and flaunts it. Two pairs of girls hug each over, crushing their bodies against each other to cover their nudity and using their hands to cover each other’s asses — which does involve grabbing another girl’s ass in public.

I wish I could say we came up with that particular sexy twist, but the truth is it just happened. I wonder if the pairs are lovers or just friends. One set is definitely lovers, I decide — the brunette gives the redhead a startled look and the redhead shoots her a mischievous, “roll with it” look back. Some girls are hiding behind chairs. One crouches behind a chair, realizes she spread her legs wide in doing so and curls into a mortified ball. The flaunting girl looks at her peers with mild annoyance. “Really, girls, what did you think was going to happen when you came up here?”

It’s a great line, but it does defuse the taboo tension of the whole act a bit. It gets an uproarious cheer from the crowd, though. I think Confidence Babe just upped her social standing a grade or two. I bet her answering machine will be full when she gets home. She might also get a message from us, wondering if she has any interest in being a pervy magician’s assistant after she graduates. (I’m not mentioning her name, because sadly it turns out she doesn’t want to be involved or named — but I can say that her current work at the time I write this memoir is... not dependent on a deep sense of modesty.)

Livia and I study the group carefully, and not just for the pervy reasons. We put this in as a kind of screening. We look for any girls that look truly terrorized, or traumatized, or near crying, or just bored and disinterested, or angry without an aroused under-layer to the anger. In this case, we have a whole bunch of good sports — all the planning was around the idea that Cathy was our primary mark and getting one other true exhibitionist would be a big bonus. But of the thirteen girls, we agree only three are unsuitable. The remaining ten are Cathy and the nine tube-top girls. Go figure — girls who dress in revealing clothing that looks like it can fall off are the girls who are “game for a giggle” in terms of public nudity when given a good excuse. It sounds obvious, of course, but we couldn’t just strip them without testing. It would have too much potential to end badly.

And Cathy... Cathy is mortified, aroused, confused and excited, all at the same time — the perfect mark for what we have planned for later.

This specific act is what Livia means with the phrase, “Peeling a Peach”. We hypnotize girls, convince them they are naked in public, then reveal the trick and interview them about it. We ask them questions and gauge their responses. They think the hypnosis is all over and they’re safe — and we lead the ones who clearly enjoyed it to think about why they enjoyed the feeling of being naked in public. They’re just in the process of mentally working through the realization that they have an exhibitionist streak when... Bang! Livia says her trigger word and they’re tranced again — and this time, the stripping won’t be an illusion. It’s a wonderful system of suggestion, setting up the context that makes the girl realize she’s capable of really enjoying being stripped under hypnosis before it actually happens.

Anyway, I finally say, “What’s wrong, girls? You look a little chilly. Are you perhaps cold?”

The change is immediate. Hands drop away from breasts and crotches. The pairs stop hugging, though the two I suspect are lovers take a bit longer to separate. Most of the girls are chuckling to themselves. There’s relief and amusement, but a lot of them are still hopped up on adrenaline-euphoria. Confident Babe looks genuinely disappointed. One of the sorority sisters shouts at me, “You are a very sexy man, but you are also a total bastard!”

Everyone laughs. There’s no malice in her accusation. Livia goes over to the three girls we deemed unsuitable, has whispered exchanges with each and escorts them offstage.

Meanwhile, I start asking the other girls the prepared questions. “So how did that feel?”

We get back exactly the answers we wanted to hear:

“It was so exciting.”

“That was amazing.”

“It felt almost euphoric.”

“I almost wet myself.”

“That was, wow, that was a thing. A new thing. Kind of a kinky thing.”

“Is it bad if I got a bit turned on?”

Finally, I come to Cathy. Her Aura is cataclysmic and pulsating, and I doubt I’m the only one who can tell she’s aroused. “You look a bit peaked.”

“That was pretty wild to experience. I got really embarrassed. I’ve never been naked in public, so it was a real shock.”

“Can I ask you a bit of a personal question?”

“Okay.”

“Do you ever find you get aroused when you get embarrassed?”

“Um,” she said and flushes crimson. “Maybe a little bit. That’s not too weird, is it?”

Total bullshit. There’s nothing little about her arousal, but I’m not going to call her on that. “No, no, it’s actually quite common. Doctor Andrea Graves and the University of Liverpool did a study showing that there’s a correlation between non-traumatic embarrassment and sexual arousal in about 31% of all women.”

“That’s... really interesting,” she says in a tone that suggests that yes, she does find it really interesting and isn’t just giving a polite response.

“Tell me, would you ever consider signing up for a show like this again, if real nudity were involved?”

Behind me, I hear the sorority girls whispering. (“Why’s he paying so much attention to her? She’s a priss.” “Yeah, he’s cute. I want him to come over and ask me these questions.”) I tune them out. To encourage a more candid answer, I give Cathy a bit of light Eyefucking.

“Um,” Cathy says. “Maybe. It was a lot of fun, but I’m also really shy. I don’t think I could go through with it, even hypnotized... but it’s really nice to think about.”

I look at her eyes and they say, Yes! Yes! So much yes! Just don’t make me admit I want it! Interview successful. I have all the answers I need, and I make a subtle hand-sign to Livia indicating this.

Livia cranks up the volume and addresses the girls. “All right. Enough chit-chat. We have one more routine. Everyone still game?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Confident Babe says. “Bring it!”

No one contradicts her and the girls all line up again. Livia snaps her fingers and says authoritatively, “Trance!”

Immediately, the jovial, whispering, adrenaline-hyped crowd of girls immediately goes slack, their arms falling to their sides and their eyes taking on a dead forward stare.

As Livia works them, Mimi rushes out on stage. “I found the mats,” she says and starts setting out the school’s padded gymnastics mats in front of the girls. We do care about their safety, after all.

Livia, meanwhile, sets up the scenario. “Ladies, you will all believe the world is what I say it is. First, all of you, take off your shoes and socks.”

The ten girls comply. “You have an amazing social opportunity in front of you, one you’ve worked very hard to earn and could represent a huge increase in your social standing. You are in tryouts for the role of the Head Cheerleader in the Noodle Cheer Team. This position would bring with it immense popularity, social influence, recognition and... oh yeah, nearly free access to your pick of the school’s hunky Fighting Cock athletes. Whether you want them as long-term boyfriends or one-night stands is up to you.”

Several of the girls get dreamy smiles on their faces when Livia says this. I think she has a solid handle on motivating them.

“But you need to prove you’re worthy of the Cheer Team, and the first test is in front of you right now. You’ve in the school gymnasium. The only people here other than you are the gymnastics coach and a few of the graduating cheerleaders to evaluate you. You are in your normal gym clothes. In fact, for the sake of focusing on performance, it’s best that you not think about anything you’re wearing at all. You’re just magnificently hyped up! You’ve got school spirit! You’re sure you can do this thing! You’re going to be the winner!”

Livia flicks off the control on the mike that let the marks hear her and turns to face the audience, fixing them with her most diabolical smile. “Boys, you’re going to love this next bit, I promise you. Really, you’re in for a treat. If you want to see what’s going to happen next, give me a ‘hell yeah’!”

The crowd repeats the words to her in unison, so loudly that the whole building shakes. I’m surprised to see how many girls in the crowd seem just as enthusiastic and hyped-up as the boys — I don’t know if they are into girls, just like humiliating their peers, are imagining themselves in the marks’ place or are just caught up in the energy of the moment. Maybe it’s all these things.

“Cheerleader candidates,” Livia says, turning back to the hypnotized girls. “You need to prove you can do fifty jumping jacks in two minutes! You need to jump at least six inches into the air each time, so no slacking! Slacking will get you disqualified! You can’t stop for any reason, or you’ll be disqualified! When I say the word ‘now’, you are all going to run up to the mats we’ve set out, stand at least two meters away from each of your peers, and start competing. Go get em, tigers, now!”

Let’s take a second to review the ingredients of the magnificent sexual alchemy we are about to unleash on our audience: stacked sorority sisters with sweat-slicked skin from the heightened, hallucinatory hypnotic heat. Tight tube tops trapping bountiful bouncy breasts above taut toned tummies. Jubilant jumping jacks with joyful jiggling. Oh, and, in case you didn’t see it coming a mile away, wardrobe malfunctions. The latter lacks alliteration, but it can spark the imagination none the less.

Permit me a brief tangent here. I did not come of age during the Golden Age of the Teen Sex Comedy — Animal House came out when I was 17 (and caught my imagination instantly), and I was in my second year of college when Ridgemont, Porky’s and Zapped! all dropped, then Screwballs and Private School a year later. I’d already graduated when Revenge of the Nerds perfected the form — if you want to go all pop-psych on me, I guess you could say these films gave me a kind of vicarious second youth — a happier one than the reality. I latched on to them as I came to define myself more and more as a pickup artist of the cheesy, self-deprecating variety: a man who believes, above all else, that sex ought to be fun. In my actual early teens, however, my fantasy fuel was rather different.

There was a drive-in theatre in my area that I snuck out to in order to catch the likes of The Swinging Cheerleaders, I Like the Girls Who Do and Emmanuelle — and one might attribute my interest in the female sexual perspective to following up the latter with Arsan’s actual book. That was rare, though — this was before video rental was a big thing.

What really helped me survive my turbulent, hormonal early teen years was the dawn of Jiggle TV: Police Woman, Wonder Woman, The Love Boat and — above all others — Charlie’s Angels. At my junior high, the boys on the playground at recess all talked feverishly about Cheryl Ladd, Farrah Fawcett and Lynda Carter, and what we’d all like to do with (and to) them. These women, and their habit of running and jumping while not wearing bras, sparked and heightened the sexual awakening of my whole age bracket. So, in that context, O Bemused Reader, you can perhaps sympathize with how rapt this live-action jiggle-fest is holding me.

The girls run up and start doing jumping jacks. Sweat drips down their sensual necks and fit, exposed midriffs. Breasts in tube tops gyrate and jiggle transfixingly. The most erotic part is how gradual it is. Tops slide down ever so slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Sweat makes them wet and clingy. Strapless bras get mis-adjusted. It’s about twenty-five seconds in that the first nipple shows itself. The girls are still wearing our special headphones, so they never hear the jubilant shouts responding to the nipslip. Then more nipples — big nipples, small nipples, brown nipples, pink nipples, perky nipples, erect nipples, subtle nipples, blatant nipples. Finally one delicious sister’s tube top falls fully down to her waist. Another girl with exceptionally heavy tits has her bra snap and shake out of her top entirely, leaving her with a wet t-shirt effect and a gradually sliding top.

Cathy, wearing far more sensible clothes, isn’t being exposed — she’s dancing and flailing comically, lacking the athletic skills of the other girls, and her chest gyrates visibly in the striped top, but she isn’t compromised per se.

The jigglefest goes on. Mimi gives the audience some wonderful closeups from the overhead projector in double-frame slow motion. By a minute in, most of the girls are having some kind of top trouble and the exposed breasts are gyrating wildly (or staying firmly in place, for two of the girls with a cheaper grade of enhancements). By the time a trim, athletic black girl shouts “Woohoo! That’s fifty! I did it!”, we are at two minutes twenty-two seconds and everyone except Cathy is flapping in the open air — really, why would we stop such a glorious jiggle-fest on an exact clock?

The girls stop jumping. Livia snaps her fingers and says “Trance!”

“Nooo!” someone in the crowd shouts. “Get Cathy naked!”

A large chorus of agreement backs him, but Livia ignores it.

The girls all fall back into their trance state. “When I snap my fingers and say the word ‘Awake’, you will all come out of your trance state.”

Without pausing, Livia flicked a special button on her microphone, which mutes specifically and only Cathy’s headphones. “All the triggers, keywords and post-hypnotic suggestions I’ve given you will no longer affect you. You will be perfectly aware of who and where you are, and the wonderful goodies you’ve just put on such wanton display.”

She switches Cathy’s headphones back on, keeping the audience oblivious. “Awake!”

There are a lot of embarrassed yelps, and girls raise their hands to cover their chests protectively. No one seems angry or hurt, though. Cathy looks around and realizes she’s the only one not compromised. Disappointment flashes briefly over her face, but she conceals it quickly and covers her chest with her arms for no practical reason beyond fitting in.

“Ladies,” Livia says, “thank you for giving us such a raw and exciting show. We have gym towels and Sexy Scandal Spectacular-branded shirts for you if you’d like to clean up.”

The girls take the towels and shirts, quickly put them on with their backs to the audience and scurry off stage. I don’t get any feeling of rancor from them, just vulnerability.

Livia catches Cathy and says, “Please go backstage, over there. I’d like to interview you in the third Decan.”

Cathy does so. Shouts of “Get Cathy naked!” “Get Cathy naked!” hound her on the way out.

Livia turns to the crowd. “We’re going to take a fifteen minute break before the third Decan. We have some complementary Sexy Scandal Spectacular briefs for the blokes if anyone is feeling a bit, ah... sticky and would like to change.”

That gets a raucous laugh from the crowd. Livia knows how to play to frat boys, that’s for sure.