Nobody quite knew what to expect on the outing to an R-rated hypnotist,but what ever it was, we got more than we bargained for. A potent mix of schadenfreude and voyeurism drew us, and a sell-out crowd to the Comedy Club in Faneuil Hall, Boston, and our eyes were opened.
Going to a hypnotist is for many right-thinking people a preposterous idea – handing over the levers of control over their psyche to a stranger seems in itself an act of madness. To do so to a doctor bound by the Hipocratic oath is one thing – but to submit to a jovial stranger on stage with hundreds laughing, videotaping and remembering, is quite another. There were not many volunteers from HBS rushing to debase themselves on stage, however Minnie (who else?) gave it a try. Unfortunately the compere saw though her pretence of being under his spell, and sent her back to the stalls.
We were seated, comfortably, next to a sorority from the University of New Hampshire (UNH) – approximately 40 girls with an average age of 12. Half of them bolted for the stage at the first opportunity, and three were deemed to have `got what it takes’ to be guinea pigs. It is not clear what criteria were used to judge the suitability of the subjects – they did seem to be meek and submissive, and were all, coincidentally perhaps, attractive (well, for 12 year olds).
After a little bit of counting down, and some zany music, the corpulent mind-manager clicked his fingers and the 15 people on stage checked into Weirdness Hotel. Few of us could believe that these people were really in another state – after all we’ve all sat through Finance classes with similar soporific effects, without becoming a patsy. However, as the night progressed, few of us had any doubt that this was the Real Thing.
Of the victims on stage, the majority were women, and the evening was geared towards male rather than female fantasy. Girls cavorted and frolicked, onanised and copulated with heart stopping alacrity – we looked on open mouthed, having abandoned perspective and decorum, as the victims simulated sex with aliens, educated the world on the intricacies of fellatio, and did passable Britney Spears impersonations. (This was suspicious, they could all sing, and they knew the words.) The male star of the show was transformed into an all-conquering superhero: Super Dick Man, dressed up in stockings, cape and condom-hat, and sent out into the chilly Boston night to fetch a glass of water from a neighboring night club. He came back in one piece, impervious to the fact that his stockings and dignity were in tatters, but triumphant, with a glass of water.
No discussion of the event can ignore UNH’s Beth (pictured above). The men in the audience all shared very special moments, thanks to Beth, and words can not do justice to our shared emotions. A public appeal – wherever you are Beth, we all love you, and you should come to HBS very soon.
A
fter a while the novelty of people acting like Babylonian whores wore off, and a slightly unsatisfying taste was left – like when you gorge on Hersheys’. Some substance would have been good – a smoker or stutterer cured for example, but this is the age of excess consumption, and we consumed.
The climax of the evening, in so many ways, was when the victims were lined up at the end in states of ectstasy – wailing and gnashing teeth like ally cats on acid. I felt bad for the girl who’s name he had changed, and seemed to forget to change it back. If you ever meet a girl in Boston who introduces herself as Fuck Me, you’ll know it’s her.
