Chapter 3

JOHN

I decided that the best strategy would be to deal with the gym stuff first. Ironically, it was one of the very few classes I would have to dress for. Ever since Brad Harrison and his bruised testicle, jocks were mandatory safety equipment again. Not the most stylish thing to represent your only clothes above the ankle, but such is life.

A memory came unbidden. One of the conversations I hadn't paid attention to in the conference room. Apparently, my "automatics" had filed it for later use. One of the other guys had been wondering how to get to his gym clothes and move them to the girls' side. Perry brought forth one of his usual gems. The Program rules said that we had to use the opposite sex locker room to change and shower, and the opposite sex bathrooms for "waste disposal" (his term). They did not say that we had to stay out of our own locker rooms. As long as we do not shower, change, use the toilet, or try to hide, we should be able to freely come and go. Therefore, we had two choices. We could do the most program like thing, by going in and getting our things from our gym locker then arranging one on the girls' side. Or we could simply carry our clothes back and forth each day, keeping them in our old locker when we are not using them.

With that in mind, I went to my gym locker and got my clothes. Then I went to the gym office, which opened into both sides, to get a locker assigned. And there she was, eating her lunch. The same track coach who had helped strip me that morning. I moved deeper into my safe place, and then moved to the counter. She must have caught the motion out of the corner of her eyes, because she started talking before she looked up. "What can I do for you? Oh, it's you."

I shrugged and lifted my clothes. "Locker."

She looked puzzled for a second, then figured it out. "Oh, right. You need a locker on the girls' side for the week." She went to get the locker assignment book, then hesitated. "Hey, wait a minute. You just came in from the boys' locker room."

"Yes." A little deeper into the safe place.

"You weren't supposed to be in there!"

"The Pamphlet says 'All bathroom use and all gym preparation (showering, removal of jewelry, shoes, et cetera for participation in physical education or athletic activities) shall be performed in the facilities provided for the opposite sex.'" I said as though mechanically reading it. "Nothing about staying out of same sex facilities. Locker?"

She looked thoughtful as she got the book and gave him the number. "I'm going to have to talk to the administration about this. It sounds like something Perry would come up with."

"He did." I turned and walked into the Forbidden Territory, the girls' locker room. It mostly looked like a mirror image of the boys'. The biggest difference was the showers. They were divided up into individual stalls instead of the open layout on the boys' side. There were curtain rods, but no shower curtains. I assumed they had been removed due to the Program. Other than that, there were a couple of vending machines on the wall and an odd looking, lidded trash can with a foot pedal. I found my locker, and locked my stuff inside.

On the way out, I took a brief look at the restroom area. More stalls, no urinals, another pair of vending machines, and a small, covered receptacle in each stall. So much for the mystery. I was a little disappointed.

As I went from the locker room to the hall, I heard a commotion behind me. Some of the girls with fifth period PE were streaming into the locker room. The door closing behind me cut off most of the noise. I had not heard anything to indicate they saw me.

I used the OBL to get to Mr. Brown's office. He wasn't there. I checked the slip beside the door. Sure enough, he had a class fifth period. I took off for Dr. Burns' office. When I got there, I found a lot of people talking and looking at his door. No, not at. In front of. I walked into his office, and found him there. He looked upset.

"Oh, Mr. Whittaker. How is she? Have you heard anything?"

I admitted that I didn't know what he was talking about.

"It was right outside my door, and I didn't see or hear anything. Right there." He shook his head.

After a couple minutes of verbal dancing, I got him to tell me what happened. Emily had been attacked, just outside his closed door. He was in with a pupil at the time. He didn't see or hear anything, until there was a shout of "She bit me!" After that, chaos. Emily and the boys all took off in the direction of the nurse's office. I had a pretty good idea what had happened: a field test of the VaZap. If that was the case, she would be there for a while.

I assured him she was probably fine. I asked whether she had gotten the handouts and assignments (if any) for his class. He said she hadn't, and gave me a couple of photocopied sheets. Just then, the bell rang. We both headed out to the Chemistry lab. His presence put a damper on any Requests for the moment.

Since we would be working with chemicals today, we needed to wear the protective equipment. With my lab coat on, I was feeling more dressed than when I came to school. Most of class was making things change color, and then comparing the colors with references. Thrilling.

There were so many ways the thing with Emily could play out, and I had no way of knowing what really happened.

Toward the end of class, when we were cleaning up, I half wondered whether I could "forget" to take off the lab coat. It was so tempting. When the bell rang, I went up to Dr. Burns' desk to swap information. What we heard, just outside the door, stopped us both.

"... was right in front of a teacher's office!..."

"... two police cars, and three cops got out and went to the nurse's office..."

"... said she poisoned him, but the nurse had an antidote! What a..."

"... and they're still in there..."

Dr. Burns looked very worried. I pulled him away from the door, to the back of the room. I explained the VaZap, and the planned claim that it was a poisoned needle inside. And the business with the nurse. As I was talking, he went from worried, to pleased, to amused.

I took off for my next class. It was only a few doors down, so I had time. but even that short a walk was enough to drive me deeper into my safe place. I had heard all the stories about the sophomore HHS class, but I never thought I would be the first in my class to be selected for the Program. Yet here I was, walking naked into the lions' den of Health and Human Sexuality. Each step took me deeper into my safe place. Each breath took me deeper into my safe place.

Ms. Prothrow was an ardent supporter of the Program. She was certain that it was an effective gateway to rapid personal growth. She was very experienced with using exercises in classes such as this one to open those gates. And she may well have met her match.

"I was beginning to wonder whether we would ever get a model. Class, I know we were scheduled to finish up with STDs this week, but we are going to skip ahead to the next chapter, instead." She looked around the room. We seem to be missing one participant, however. Does anyone know where Miss Donnache is?"

One of the girls near the front spoke up. "She went home, fully dressed. Word is, she was supposed to be exempt in the first place."

"Well, that is disappointing. However, we do have one live model. John, would you please come up here?" I don't know what she was expecting. Probably either some emotional outburst or a confident strut. But from her reaction, it was clear that she was not expecting the emotionless zombie that came to her. Taking it for a superficial mask, she pressed on. When I was close to her, she quietly tried to reassure me. "Don't worry, John. We will try to make this as painless as possible. By the end of the week, you may even find yourself enjoying it."

She had me turn and face the class. I had the recorders in my room going, and the screen and sound turned way down. I was so deeply in my safe place, that I was no longer really there. I had temporarily disconnected my emotional responses. Even my automatic reactions were toned way down. I took the opportunity to fool around with ideas for the magic show, confident that I would recognize when I was being addressed in a way that required a response.

She gave a brief overview of the coming lesson in sexual anatomy and sexual response. She pointed out that my penis was flaccid, indicating that I was not aroused. She spoke briefly about the kinds of things that often caused arousal in males, especially teenaged males. I suspect she was trying to get some hint of a physical reaction from me.

She went on to point out that sometimes, especially when the man has enjoyed a recent climax, the penis needs a recovery period before it can grow again. She turned and asked me how many times I had gotten relief today in or out of class. I told her I had not done so. There was no emotion in my voice. She briefly looked puzzled.

She asked how many times I had gotten an erection since I had started my time in the Program. Again, my emotionless voice answered "None."

"One?" she responded.

"Zero."

"Alright. Class, we have two basic possibilities here, neither entirely uncommon. Mr. Whittaker has been under stress, and still is. He may have had erections without being aware of them, or he may have not had an erection today. Normally, that would be none of our business. But because of the Program and this class, it is an educational opportunity."

Huh. She still seemed to think she was dealing with an ordinary situation. Unfortunate. The sooner she gave up, the sooner she would start leaving me alone again.

"There is one possible way to quickly clear this up. How many of you have seen Mr. Whittaker today, between the end of first period and the beginning of this class? Show of hands, please." About half the hands in the class went up. Most were either in one of my earlier classes or at the grand entrance this morning.

"Now, how many of you have seen him with an erection today?" All the hands went down.

"I see. Both possibilities still exist, but it is time to move on." She had them turn to the pages describing and illustrating the male reproductive system. After asking me to sit on the front edge of her desk, she had me open my legs to allow a good view, and move forward enough that my balls hung over the edge.

Going over the basics, she used me to show the more obvious external parts. I am sure she manipulated my cock more than was absolutely necessary, and that it was part of her plan. When she was done, she had the class come up, one at a time, to closely examine what she had been describing. She also warned them to treat everything gently, threatening dire consequences to anyone causing me physical discomfort.

One by one, they came. Pulling on my penis. Bouncing (ever so gently) my balls. Even smelling and, in a couple of cases, tasting, those parts. She wore a slightly smug look of confidence as things started. By the time half the class had a go at me, she looked a whole lot less confident. At the end, she had a brief look of defeat, quickly covered by her Educator mask. She was clearly shaken. She let me return to my seat, and went over the internal structures.

When the bell sounded, she called me to her desk and dismissed the class.

"John, do you have a medical condition that I should know about? Something that would interfere with your participation in this class?"

"Not that I know of. I can read, write, listen, walk, and talk just fine." I kept all inflection out of my voice. I was aware, in an intellectual way, that I was flirting with insubordination. I was also aware that the students for the next class were filtering in.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Erectile difficulties."

A familiar voice chimed in. "You mean you need a boner for that class? How do the girls do it?" Perry.

"MISTER Mason! This is a private conversation."

"Then why are you talking to naked boys about erections in front of the entire class? And keeping him from getting to his next class to do it?"

"May I go now? I don't want to be late."

"Yes, you may go. But as for you Mr. Mason..." I tuned out the rest of that. I grabbed my bag, and headed into the hall. There was nothing artificial about my lope this time. My art class was at the other end of the building.

EMILY

I walked in just as the class was finishing a vocabulary quiz. Mme. Bien accepted the slip and waved me to my seat. When she actually read it, her eyebrows and one corner of her mouth quirked upward for a moment. Then she shrugged and dropped the slip on her desk. She glanced at her watch (nobody really trusted the school clocks for most things), and told the class to pass their sheets forward. That done, she launched into her description of some troublesome faux amis. As always, she firmly kept attention focused on the lesson.

I knew I didn't have to worry about the infamous "body parts" lesson. That had been two weeks ago, when we had both boy and girl Participants in class. While I had not been one of the more enthusiastic students in that lesson, I had learned the terms.

As Mme. Bien gave us our assignments, she added a comment that we would be going over verbs, and that we should come prepared. I made a mental note about verbs I wanted to look up.

As I used the OBL to get to my last class for the day, I noticed some people getting out of my way. I liked that, since it made the trip easier. But it was unusual, so I filed it away for later consideration.

The next class was one I shared with John. It's official title was Art 102: Introduction to Three Dimensional Techniques and Materials. Everyone just called it Art Materials. Each week would start with an introduction to something like clay, paper mache, or the like. We would learn some simple techniques for using the material, and do a small, simple project. In some cases, we would go directly into other, closely related materials. The clay section ran three weeks, and covered a lot of materials from ceramic clay to play dough. This week we start casting materials, like plaster. I had a sinking feeling that I knew where that would lead.

We had chosen the class for the same reason: to help with our magic. We hoped it would give us new ideas for fabrication techniques for our gimmicks. And it had. This unit would be particularly useful, since it would cover both materials for making molds (plaster, sand, alginate, etc.) and materials which can readily be molded (including latex and foamed latex). These introductions were quick, but thorough. Most importantly, it was hands on. While we might not use EVERY material in our projects, we were given the chance to handle both raw and finished samples of everything.

Given the fast pace and the large amount of information, we were not expected to take notes in class. Instead, we got handouts with all the relevant information. Also, it was not an accident that the class was scheduled as the last class of the day and the period before the most common lunch hours. A lot of the students tended to stay late.

John dashed in just before the bell. What did he have the previous period? Oh, yeah. HHS. I could only imagine what had made him late.

Ms. Johnson had a reputation for making extensive use of program people on her art classes, so John and I were not surprised to be called up to the front at the beginning of the class. We were surprised when we got there, however. She gave us each a note from the office, asking us to come there (again!) after class. Then she gave us the day's handouts to pass around to the class. And that was it.