He was a senior in high school, and his life was not pleasant. Every day was the same: he woke up miserable and alone, spent his day miserable and alone, went to sleep miserable and alone. His 18 years on earth had consisted entirely of variations on this theme. Mr. Smith had no friends, much less a girlfriend. His only relationship was with the jocks, and that the relationship between tormenters and the tormented. So it was unremarkable that one chilly fall morning he was being chased through a fresh cut hayfield by a pickup truck full of football players.
Mr. Smith ran as fast as he could and by some rare stroke of luck made it to the treeline. The jocks got out of the truck and kept up the chase. They hurled “fag” and “queer” and “pussy” like stones as they pursued him. Mr. Smith was tired, his legs like water. He tripped, rolled down a small hill, and hit his head on a rock. Something warm and wet started running down his face. He heard some laughter as the jock caught up to him, then “fuck” and “oh shit” and “lets get out of here” when they saw the blood. And then Mr. Smith passed out.
When he woke up, Mr. Smith’s head was throbbing. From the sun, he guessed it was almost noon. He decided to go to school to get his cut bandaged. As he walked along the road, anytime a car passed by he would get a hum in his head that became louder as the car approached and more quiet as the car passed by. Mr. Smith knew this was odd. Once he arrived at school, the hum would not stop. Mr. Smith knew this too was strange.
A lot of fuss was made in the office when Mr. Smith showed up. Instead of the school nurse bandaging his head, they called an ambulance and took him to the town clinic. Just as well. The school nurse was old and ugly, but the doctor at the clinic was pretty and young and female. He didn’t look forward to being around once Father got the bill though.
At the clinic another shriveled up old hag had to take his information before pretty Dr. Farmer could stitch him up. She tried to make small talk, but Mr. Smith couldn’t focus. He couldnt keep his attention on her pretty brown eyes, or her soft tresses of brown hair, or even on her succulent lips. The way she stood in front of the seated Mr. Smith put her breasts right in front of his face. He couldn’t ignore the tiny hint of cleavage she showed, the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath, the smell of some tropical perfume she was wearing. He also couldn’t get that damn humming out of his head. Sometimes it was almost like static on an old TV set, he could almost make out . . . something. It occurred to Mr. Smith that these must me thoughts.
He tried to focus the picture. It was muddled, not the neat words and pictures like in the movies. It was like piecing together a story out of vanity plates at a busy intersection. The words were there—he knew that in his gut—but they were out of order and jumbled together and passing by too fast to put together. He could see-feel—“horny” “cock” “cute” “poor-thing.” And all of the sudden, the story clicked together, just for an instant.
Dr. Fields was desperate, lonely. She didn’t have the time for a man. She liked the attention Mr. Smith was giving her. She felt bad for him, could sense his loneliness. She knew he was a virgin, and wondered what a virgin would fuck like. She pushed that though away, and contented herself teasing. She wondered how she could make this encounter last longer. . .
All of this in less than two seconds. Mr. Smith was so surprised he lost the picture. Then it occurred to him that if he could read her thoughts, maybe he could control them. I wouldn’t mind seeing more of those titties Mr. Smith thought to himself. Rather than revealing her big beautiful tits though, Dr. Fields blushed and took a step back.
“All done. Leave the bandage on for the rest of the day, and keep the cut clean and dry. Let me know if you have any dizziness, distorted vision, any perceptions that you think are unusual. Come in next week and we’ll see about taking out those stitches.”
Mr. Smith agreed and signed out, then went home to ponder his next move.
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