Mack Zack
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The Guidance Counselor - Chapter VII
🕑 Added 2023-11-24 05:28:58 +0000 UTCContrary to popular belief among my classmates, I was quite good at cardio. Quiet kids without siblings like me are used to not telling people shit, and it isn’t until you whip out a skill that people say, “I didn’t know you could do that!”. Running while fully clothed in a Phantom of the Opera costume though does hinder you quite a bit. It got warm quickly. I knew exactly how to get from Red Bank to the school but jogging the way there felt like an eternity. The last resort would have been to call my mom and tell her where I was, but that was a very last resort because it would require me to explain how I got there and why and the ensuing arguments wouldn’t be pretty. Oh how that wouldn’t have been a problem a decade later with Uber and Lyft.
The minutes marched towards midnight and that was what kept me motivated to keep going. Ignore the cars passing by and questions drivers might have about a lone masked kid walking the dark road, beneath underpasses and without a proper sidewalk. I quickly reeked of sweat underneath my 100% polyester suit.
When I reached the park area near my school, I calmed down. I finally slowed to a walk to catch my breath and feel my heart pound furiously. I had about ten minutes left to reach the gym doors. It wasn’t until then that I really had time to reflect on what had just happened.
I didn’t get Heather, and I started to grow fearful of ever trying that again. She liked to burp but not like that. I supposed there were many things that people were okay with but would suddenly not be okay with it if became sexual. I’m sure scat is one of those things. People joke about shitting all the time. It’s different when someone wants you to shit on them. But a part of me wanted to argue with Heather. I wanted to turn around and say, “Wait, but really though, that bothers you? A minute ago, you did it left and right.”
The inevitable thought crept into me. Its verdict banged a gavel on my heart. It was a thought everyone with an obscure fetish like mine had at least once in their lifetime: I wish I could find someone who was into the fetish too. The thing about fetishes like mine is that you have no idea who is into them. They’re not like conventional sexual tastes where people openly talk about liking ass, or boobs, or strong arms, or good hair. Are you one in a thousand within your township? One in a thousand in your county? Your state? I really had no idea. What are the odds that someone else happens to like burps and farts in a sexual manner like you? The question wracked my brain hoping that someone, somewhere, was into it and that someone was also a person I would find attractive.
I returned to the gym parking lot the moment students were getting out. I blended right in and nobody had any idea of the events that had transpired hours ago. I didn’t see Kyle or his car nor did I see anyone else I hung out with. It was like they never existed, and I didn’t care to find out where they were or what happened to them, if they managed to get back home safely or if the cops stopped them.
I didn’t think I would lose it until my mom and I were halfway back home. It was when she finally asked me if I had met anyone that I had to turn away to face the window to prevent her from seeing any tears.
#
I saw Kyle in the hallway once after that night. He seemed normal and didn’t blink an eye at me as we passed by each other. There weren’t any rumors going around and nobody came up to me asking me about what happened or laughing about what had happened. It goes to show how bad people can be at recognizing faces, especially when alcohol is involved. I may as well had been a ghost that night.
That made me feel a bit better about the whole thing. I made a weird mistake but nobody knew about it. I could try again.
When I saw Ms. Johnson at our following meeting, she asked me about the dance. I said, maybe a little too quickly, “It was alright.”
“Did you meet anybody?”
A moment’s hesitation. My voice squeaked a little. “Yeah.”
“How did it go?”
Here was the tipping point. I could either lie and say it went okay and move on or tell the truth. I hesitated for two seconds. Three. Four. Five. At last: “Not good.”
Telling the truth, even a little bit, in front of Ms. Johnson felt good. Even though I hesitated, the payoff washed over me like a refreshing wave on the beach on a blistering hot summer day.
She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Eh. There’s other fish in the sea. That’s what they always say, right?”
She smirked. “Indeed, they do.”
She didn’t pester me any further about the dance. She didn’t ask me why it didn’t go well, or elaborate at all about any details. In that sense, I think she got me to talk about it on my own. It’s that reverse psychology bullshit. I hate to say it works but it really does.
“I’m not feeling all right,” I said suddenly, towards the end of our appointment.
“Is it about the dance?”
I sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
“Were you rejected?”
“Something like that.”
Ms. Johnson tilted her head a bit. “What do you mean by ‘something like that’?”
“It was just…”
Ah, fuck. How can I explain this to her without talking about my fetish?
I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”
Ms. Johnson tapped her pen on her table and cleared her throat in a way that told me she was about to tell me something serious. “Jason, I want to be clear that this is a safe space. You can tell me anything. If it is something serous, like harassment or abuse--”
“Oh gosh! No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Right. Good. But if it’s anything like that then I’m required to report it. Otherwise, I want you to know that just because I work in a private Catholic school doesn’t mean I align with their beliefs on everything. Real life is much different and I like to be pragmatic. They know it too and are okay with it. I do my best to respect the school’s mission statement and beliefs. But I want you to know that I am in no way influenced by the school administration in their beliefs. I try to maintain a strict unbiased view. It’s part of my job and they understand that too.”
She tapped her pen a few more times. “That being said. There are certain subjects I must refrain from discussing being that you are still a minor. It would be inappropriate to talk about specific things in a certain way.”
That made me nervous, so nervous that I gripped the armrests of my chair. She eyed my hands and added, “To be clear, what I mean is I can help you understand a video game, but I can’t tell you how to play the video game. If you catch my drift.”
I loosened my grip. “Ah. I get it.”
She nodded, and all felt fine again. “So, going back to what I was saying. Is there anything you need to get off your chest?”
“No.”
She eyed me. “Are you sure? A moment ago you sounded like you were about to spill something important.”
“No, no. It’s just stupid.”
“Your identity isn’t stupid. It’s who you are.”
I blinked twice, then raised a brow. It then suddenly occurred to me that she might have thought I was gay. I widened my eyes and said, “Oh, it’s nothing like THAT.”
“I see.”
“No, no. Really. It’s stupid.”
“Because again, like I said, the school may believe in one thing concerning homosexuality, but--”
“I’m not gay!” I half-screamed. I gestured with my fists, releasing the palms as if they were going to shoot fireballs.
I thought Ms. Johnson would get mad and retaliate, but she just sat there staring at me, completely unperturbed. She must have witnessed a thousand students cry and moan and yell and kick and scream. Even so, the room became uncomfortable to sit in after I yelled. The silence was telling me something, and I said, “Sorry. It’s just frustrating when people think that. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay but just—there are OTHER things out there that people hide about themselves besides being gay. And no, it’s not like I’m hiding anything I just—shit.”
I cursed for the first time in front of Ms. Johnson. She brushed it off as if I hadn’t said it.
She nodded and said, “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
We went about the meeting talking about my future. She insisted on advising me that I follow “my heart” on what I really want to do in life. I really wanted her to sit on my lap. I really wanted to hold her and feel folds of fat underneath those tight pants.
“You know what?” she suddenly said. “We can end early.” She closed her file. “I can see you’re not really focused right now and that’s all right.”
I got the impression she was mad at me, or frustrated. And I didn’t want that. The last thing I wanted in the entire world was to upset Ms. Johnson.
I blinked a couple times. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” A very typical excuse for a teenager to give. I always said it when I didn’t have any other excuse or didn’t want to elaborate.
“No, it’s okay. You had a big weekend after all. I wouldn’t want to force it. You have fifteen minutes left of free time. You can use it wisely.”
Yeah. I could spend that free time drawing her again in my notebook in the senior lounge, or looking up fart art on Deviant Art in the computer lounge.
“Alright. Thanks.”
No, you fucking loser, don’t just leave. Tell her. Fucking tell her.
I got up to leave. I had my hand on the doorknob.
Say it. Say it. Say it.
What if I said the wrong thing? And I’d get in trouble? My dad would be furious if I was written up for being inappropriate or something like that. My career and future would be at risk. On the other hand, my literal mental health was on the line. I could have walked out that door and continued the day like any other day and continue feeling frustrated. Staring up at the ceiling that night after jerking off wondering if there were any way to satisfy my odd sexual tastes. If I could ever be happy and content.
I turned around.
“Actually,” I said, “I’d rather spend my free time here.”
Ms. Johnson looked up from her desk. She was already working on someone else’s file.
“Oh?”
I sat back down. I gripped the armrests with uncontrollable jitters. The last time I was this nervous was when I waited in line in gym class to do pull-ups. St. Joseph’s had a strict, almost militaristic fitness test that every student had to go through once every year. I hated showing my lack of strength in front of others, because then people like Tom Rizzo would crack a joke at my inability to do a single pull-up on the pull-up bar. Running was always my strong suit. Running was something everyone hated but I secretly liked. They had us run all together, a herd of students running side-by-side on the track like a pack of gazelles. People didn’t really pay attention to you during the mile-run test (that is, unless you were literally the last person to finish the mile, then that’s embarrassing). But there, in Ms. Johnson’s office, it was just me and her. My heart was throbbing so hard it could have popped open my chest like in Alien. My voice was shaky and I didn’t maintain eye-contact, but I pushed through it.
“I don’t...know what to do about certain things. Like I do and I don’t because the stuff...I’m into is not...’normal’. You know?”
“Not normal how?”
“What I’m into. What I like. Isn’t...normal.”
She seemed lost, and I added, “I’m not talking about being gay. I’m not. Honestly. This is something entirely different. I’m just saying like…” I motioned with my hands a straight line. “Everyone is generally into the same things and it’s the stuff you see everywhere like...like I dunno girls in bikinis or guys with big muscles. Things that everyone talks about because it’s ‘normal’. Right?”
“Mhm.”
“But then I’m like...going this way.” I showed one hand diverting from the path. “Like, those things don’t interest me. It’s other things. Specific things. Things that…. people don’t normally see as something...uh…” I didn’t know how else to put it so I just dropped the word. “Sexual. It’s not. Sexual. But to me. It is.”
Ms. Johnson raised both eyebrows. “Oh. I see. That’s called fetishism.”
I was able to sigh and relax: she said the word, not me. She was officially fine discussing it, and that made everything so much easier.
She cleared her throat. “Well, that’s certainly a niche topic. I myself don’t know much about it other than what’s portrayed in movies and TV.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. The feet. The BDSM.”
“I assume your interests are not aligned with any of that either?”
“No.”
“So it’s even more niche.” She thought deeply for a second staring out the window. “No, I take that back. We don’t actually know for sure if it’s niche or not, because society at large has told us that conventional attraction falls under strict criteria. In reality…” she shrugged “for all we know, almost half the population secretly enjoys whatever you enjoy.”
“I doubt it,” I muttered.
“Have you tried talking to people online?”
Her suggestion surprised me. Usually, I associated older adults with bashing the Internet and not understanding it. Then again, she was much younger than both my parents so maybe she wasn’t entirely against technology.
“No? I mean. Sort of. Not really.”
“The Internet has its ups and downs. Some say that online communities wall you up and close you out. On the other hand, it’s a place where you can find kinship among others. It can be difficult to relate to your own local area, so an online community would help with that. It’s a double-edged sword.”
I mulled it over. I never really talked to anyone online about my fetishes specifically. Aside from comments and replies on Deviant Art or YouTube. I mostly lurked on forums and saved images and videos and that was it. I never thought to really look for something deeper, to actually participate and engage in conversation. The thought of talking to someone about my fetishes still felt cringe, but the added benefit of being behind a computer screen made it feel a little better.
“Just don’t get addicted,” she said, with a smile. “That’s the one common concern with the Internet. Like any new technology really. But look at what they said about television. Now everyone watches television every single day. Next thing you know, we’ll be logging into the Internet every day too.”
