All My Dreams Pass Before My Eyes
By Jack Lynch
Author's Note: Readers of my past work on Nifty will recognize some portions of this work drawn from other stories. They have been recast here to tell a different narrative. I welcome your feedback. Write to me: jacklynch945@proton.me.
As always, I greatly appreciate Nifty. I hope you'll join me in supporting them so that free expression can continue to be enjoyed by all.
Chapter 10.
OxyStat.
Numb. What an idiot, Carey thought. Why had he fallen so hard for this guy? A boy. Not even a man. Really, get your head screwed on right, he admonished himself. How could he get so emotionally sucked in after a hook-up? Well...more than a hook-up. From the moment he first saw Apollo sitting on the grass with his head tucked into his arms in that traffic median, there was some kind of primal emotional connection. He needed to be close to this...guy, boy, whatever. Mentally, he plotted what it would take if he booked a flight to Portland.
Realistically, he wasn't going to dump summer school. Two weeks until the term was over. Apollo was gone. Probably forever. It was almost as if he had died. As he lay there, he let out one giant sob.
Dragging himself out of bed, he robotically went through the motions. His usual Saturday routine.
What a sorry life of bizarre random sexual encounters he'd had. Going way back, watching two of his friends jerk each other off when he was just a kid. Obsessing over his high school lab partner in Chemistry, their legs knee fucking each other. Then, his first encounter with Apollo. Crazy, crazy Harper and her even crazier brother, Campbell. The Palace. Rikk's. How did this all happen? When he looked in the mirror, he looked positively straight, clean cut. Like someone who was a member of the Young Republicans. Or, as he chuckled to himself, a Mormon Elder.
After slogging through the day and eating only a handful of cereal and a couple of swallows of water, he lay in bed and shrugged his shoulders. I guess the only thing to do was to keep going.
He sat up in bed. Gain new purpose. Apply yourself. Work hard. No, work harder. Look straight ahead. Don't look left; don't look right. About ten pm, he showered, brushed his teeth, got dressed and went to the sub shop on the corner. He ate ravenously. When he returned to his room, he reviewed his course notes, saw what he needed to do, and buckled down. For the next three hours, he concentrated on his home work. About two am, he fell into bed and slept hard for the next twelve hours, right through two classes.
The final weeks of summer school, he powered through his courses, studied voraciously, took his finals, and aced both courses. Returning home, he kicked back, enjoyed the warm summer days, and got ready for the fall semester.
Sophomore year. Carey returned to campus with the same determination he had at the end of summer school. He attacked his course work with vigor. Spending hours in the library, he did research for class assignments and papers, poured over his lecture notes, and crammed for the inevitable quizzes.
Outside of having to deal with morning wood each day, he managed to tamp down most of his sexual feelings.
The only course that frustrated him was OxyStat. Named in part for the brutal and unyielding professor who taught it, Statistics was reputed to be the toughest course in the Poly Sci curriculum. Other kids joked about the name, likening it to some kind of opioid. To Carey, there was nothing funny about it. Sometimes he had to struggle through a single page of text or a problem ten or fifteen times until it finally sunk in.
About a third of the way through the fall semester and completely blocked, he decided to seek counsel from the source: Dr. Oxydahl. He made an appointment to see him during his posted office hours. One never dropped in on the professor; an appointment made in advance was required.
Taking characteristically long strides, Harper booked it down the campus walk. She was late for her next class. And she hated being late. As she turned left toward the entrance to the Lippincott Fine Arts Building, she happened to glance to her right.
There he was, sitting on a low wall. She slowed her gait for a moment, not to get his attention but more to just see how he was doing. Carey's head was bent down as he poured over some notes, looking back and forth from his notebook to a textbook, laid open to one side. For a brief instant, Harper thought about going up to him. Make the peace, reconnect. No time now, she thought. Class!
When she entered the darkened lecture hall, the only seats left were in the front row. As inconspicuously as possible, she slid into a chair and brought the collapsible desk up to a horizontal position.
She tried to concentrate on what the professor was talking about but her mind's eye went back to Carey. He looked good, she thought. Maybe a bit thinner but still cute to the max. He still had that innocent school boy look.
They had been a good fit in a lot of ways. Both sharp as a tack, glib, constantly jabbing at each other in fun, especially when it came to the intimate stuff. Harper loved being the dominant one. Carey was so compliant, letting her take control, more like giving in to her. Her favorite position was on top. Harper knew she was practically crushing him but that gave her even more of a rush. When she occasionally let Carey be on top, she enjoyed kind of twisting around so she could watch his hips thrusting back and forth as he fucked her. If she lifted her head up a bit, she could thoroughly enjoy the sight of his delightfully cute ass and the one simple mole in the middle of his back, just above his butt crack. Harper had a long list of sexual positions she had wanted to try with him. It was so unfortunate things had to end the way they did. She was barely through half the list.
It was different now with Reggie. She'd met him when she was in Britain for her semester abroad. He was in a management development program with an affiliate of one of the big Wall Street investment firms. They hit it off immediately, quickly became an item, and were soon sharing a bed. With Reggie, it was harder for her to satisfy her dominant inclinations. He was just as big as she was, totally ripped, and wanting control as much as she did. Their sex was more of a fight than anything else. Carey's cock, all six inches or so of him, fit her so nicely. Not too thick, not too thin. Just right. And, he knew how to use it. Reggie, on the other hand, true to his African American heritage, was a good eight inches, if not more. That thing was thick and mean. Getting it into her was always a challenge. They were constantly trying some new kind of lube.
Back to the lecture. Visual Thinking II. Harper took both of her hands, spread her fingers and pushed them up the sides of her head, fluffing out her long honey blonde hair, letting it fall gracefully around her shoulders. She looked at the professor with her cat like blue eyes, her full lips opening slightly.
Dr. Miranda Hathaway stopped in mid-sentence, the girl in the front row completely erasing her next thought. For a moment, time stopped. Their eyes locked onto each other. And, just like that, it was over. Dr. Hathaway quickly recovered, resuming the lecture as if nothing had happened.
After class, Harper was gathering her papers and her book bag, when the Professor sauntered over.
"I don't recall seeing you before," she said. "Are you enrolled in this class?"
"Oh yes!" Harper replied, immediately blushing. "I usually sit in the back."
"Mmmm, ok," she replied, crossing an arm across her stomach, using it to support the elbow of her other arm, her fingers lightly touching her lips.
Harper looked off in the distance for a moment, then down at Dr. Hathaway. Down, as in she was 6'2" and the Professor couldn't have been more than 5'5" or 5'6." She had medium length dark brown hair, shot through with streaks of gray, parted on the side. A thin face, sunken cheeks, thin pale lips, a narrow chin, and a diminutive body. Striking, really. During class, she wore eyeglasses with thick black round frames which she'd now taken off, holding them open in her hand. Black shirt and black slacks, a variation of which she wore for every class.
They proceeded to talk for a few minutes, Hathaway pushing for some details about Harper's background and the courses she was either taking or had taken.
"You know, my work is concentrated in photography."
"Yes," Harper replied, nodding. "I've seen some of it. It's fantastic!"
"Perhaps you might want to come over to my studio sometime. I can show you what I'm currently working on."
"Wow! That would be incredible."
"Mmm," Dr. Hathaway purred. "How about tomorrow night? Say about seven?"
"Oh, ok," Harper responded hesitantly, mentally trying to remember if she had any other plans."
"Here's my address," the Professor said, handing her a card that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "We'll have a bite to eat."
Harper's Gaydar was running at full speed. What was it about her? Her height or stature? Or, did she give off some kind of vibe? Even though she wasn't Gay, she'd been hit on enough by other women to know the article. And this was the real article.
Getting into her fire engine red Miata the next evening, Harper wondered if she'd overdressed. Silky blouse that seemed to float around her torso, a new pair of double dark blue jeans, and low heels. A long gold chain around her neck. Oh well, she thought, I'm strong enough to fight her off, if I have to.
The centerpiece of Dr. Hathaway's huge warehouse like studio was a pussy. And, not the feline type. A sixty-inch square photograph, suspended from the ceiling, of a bald vagina. It had been shot so close-up that it was more geometric than anything else. A straight vertical line intersected by two diagonal lines, with barely a shadow of the model's mons veneris visible.
"What do you think?"
"Amazing!" Harper replied, not knowing if she should elaborate for fear of falling into some kind of trap.
The studio tour included other large pieces depicting various body parts, including an image of the genitals of a Black guy. His long drooping penis, shot from a side view, looked disturbingly like Reggie's.
In the middle of the room, a small table covered by a white linen table cloth, simple white china, and lit candles.
As she sat down, Harper leaned forward as Miranda took her place opposite.
"Am I on a date?" She half whispered.
Dr. Hathaway just smiled.
Later, lying flat on her back, on a Murphy bed that had appeared out of nowhere, now naked except for that long gold chain, Harper closed her eyes and sighed, holding Miranda's head firmly as she expertly ate her out.
A day earlier, sitting across the desk from Dr. Oxydahl, Carey realized this was the closest he'd ever been to him physically. He always conducted his classes from the stage of a lecture bowl, remaining some distance from most of the students. The professor sat with his elbows on the arms of his office chair, hands lightly clasped in front of his chest. The man was probably in his mid-to-late forties. Short, straight, dark, almost black hair. Dark piercing eyes. Narrow face, square jaw.
Speaking in a clear, deep voice, he patiently walked Carey through one of the problems he had been struggling with. As they talked, more the Professor talking and Carey listening, he turned his chair to the side and gazed out the window. In an almost rote fashion, he recited the concept and explained how to apply it to the problem. Carey studied his notes, alternately referring to the open text book in front of him. His knee bounced up and down as he frowned at the page. All of a sudden, it clicked in. He got it! A sense of relief washed over him.
"Oh, Professor Oxydahl. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Oxydahl didn't smile back but nodded his head with satisfaction.
Carey was folding his notebook shut when he happened to glance up at the book shelf to the left of the professor's desk. Sitting on top of it was a hat. Black. Wide brim. Flat top. A Zorro hat. His mouth literally fell open. His face reddened; his breath caught in his throat. Then he turned to Dr. Oxydahl.
Oxydahl stared back at Carey, dropping his hands and resting them on the arms of his chair. Nothing was said for several seconds.
An almost imperceptible smile formed on Oxydahl's face. "So-o-o-o," he said slowly.
Carey just sat frozen in the chair.
"I don't understand."
He couldn't think of the next thing to say. Oxydahl continued to appraise him silently.
Finally, "Have you been stalking me or something?"
A subtle shake of the head.
"No." A pause. "But, I've been keeping track of you, in a manner of speaking."
"Since when?"
"Freshman orientation."
Carey could feel his face burning. He started breathing harder.
"I look for students who have a certain potential."
"Potential for what?"
Oxydahl didn't answer. He just stared at Carey with a serious expression.
"You were watching me at the movie theatre. I saw you."
Oxydahl nodded, smiling again ever so slightly.
"Yes, that was rather...interesting."
Carey's embarrassment was almost complete.
"Did you follow me there?"
"No. I just check that theater out once in awhile. I figured I might see you there eventually."
Carey thought of that old guy who had jerked him off.
"Did you...?" He was going to say, set me up.
Before Carey could complete the sentence, Oxydahl interrupted.
"Yes. I did."
Carey leaned forward in his chair and gasped.
"What if I never went there?"
"I guess I would have been wrong about you." Pause. "But I wasn't."
Another small smile.
"So, you saw everything?"
Carey could feel his voice getting somewhat shrill.
"I saw enough." Then, as if to clarify, "To know."
Carey slumped into the back of the chair.
Now, more quietly, "And, at the dance club. The same thing?"
"Yes."
Carey looked down. He didn't have a clue as to what to say or do.
Using measured words, Oxydahl said, "I saw you with that young man. I was standing outside the frat house when he showed up."
Carey's head was pounding all of a sudden. He rubbed his temples with his fingers, continuing to look down. The office was silent for several moments. The only sound came from a clock on the wall ticking off the seconds.
"Look," Oxydahl continued. "I am a member of an organization, a very discreet society, if you will," stepping hard on the word discreet, "comprised of men and women who," pausing, "have an interest in certain young people." pausing again, "Like you."
Carey looked up at Oxydahl. He realized his mouth and lips were completely dry. He cleared his throat but was unable to speak.
"I'd like to invite you to meet with us," Oxydahl continued at the same, slow, even pace. "For an interview about some of your...interests."
Carey cleared his throat again and then answered in a small voice, "Ok."
Oxydahl turned his chair to the side and stared up at the hat on the book shelf.
"Good. That's good," in a straight voice revealing a tiny bit of relief.
Turning back to Carey, "Now that I have your agreement to meet, I'd like to give you some instructions."
He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a business card.
"We'll be meeting on Tuesday at nine pm at this address," he said as he handed it to Carey.
It looked like a calling card of some sort but it had no name on it; just an address.
"Listen carefully," Oxydahl continued. "When you arrive, go around to the back door. Use your watch or cell phone. Knock on the door at precisely nine o'clock. Watch the second hand; not a second before or a second after. You won't be admitted if you are either early or late."
"Nine o'clock," Carey repeated.
Reaching into another drawer, Oxydahl pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Carey.
"There's a suppository in this envelope. Do you know what a suppository is?"
Carey nodded, looking down at the envelope.
"Follow the instructions. Insert it at 6 pm. Don't eat or drink anything after that time. And, be sure you're freshly showered."
Carey opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. He had lots of questions but he didn't know where to begin. He was also afraid of what the answers might be.
"If that's it, I have another student coming in shortly. Thank you for coming by," Oxydahl said curtly.
Looking down, he made some notes.
Silently, Carey closed his notebook and dropped it into his book bag along with the envelope.
He got up and softly said, "Thank you." As he pulled on the door to leave he turned and said, "When I saw you...there...you had a mustache."
Oxydahl smirked, "Just part of the costume."
Later, his work spread out on a table in the library, Carey grabbed his laptop and looked up Dr. Oxydahl's CV. No family, no interests listed. Undergrad at a select East Coast college, grad school and PhD. from a prestigious university on the West Coast. A long list of published papers and awards. Authored or co-authored several books, none sounding like page turners unless you were into complex mathematics. Carey grunted. Maybe he should ask Oxydahl to autograph one of his books for Apollo.
He punched in a search: secret societies at his school. Nothing except a listing for "The Dead Poet's Society," one of which had seemed to pop up at every university. Not so secret. Same thing for the school where Oxydahl had done his post grad work.
A curious entry appeared when Carey punched in Oxydahl's college, a smallish liberal arts school in a quaint rural setting. Some kind of a scandal, years ago. Faculty had been accused of forming and perpetuating a secret society. Apparently, the purpose of the group had been to exploit, sexually and otherwise, undergraduate students, both male and female. Accusations had been made, vehemently denied, a hearing was held. And then, the whole thing just seemed to die away. Outside of a couple of articles, there was nothing. It was as if the whole thing had gotten scrubbed.
Carey rubbed his temple, grabbed a notebook, and tried to make sense of yet another Stat problem.