Retrospective Tours (mast, teen, humor?)

I was writing another story tonight, and then I wrote myself into a corner.  So I figured, what the heck, I’d toss out a quickie.  And I really liked the concept.  If someone else feels the urge to run with the concept, feel free.  Just drop me a line to let me know, as I’d like to see if Retrospective Tours expands at all.

I know I will likely return to this place a couple times with a few different characters.

If you shouldn’t be reading this type of material, stop now.  Reposting is only authorized with my permission, though asstr.org is pre-authorized to share this work with the world.  I retain copyright as it applies only to this story; the idea is public domain.

Retrospective Tours
Copyright February 2004 by Fastcat

Retrospective Tours said the neon sign, brightly flashing, one letter at a time, in reverse order.  I looked down at the brochure once again, scratching at an itch on my neck.  "You’ve heard of the dying having a flashback of their life?  Well, you’ll just die when we take you back to some of your most memorable moments and let you relive them.  Always wondered what it would have been like if you had done something different?  Enjoy our extensive suite of simulators that give you an idea of just how your past could have been changed."

It sounded, well, rather fascinating.  I had seen the interview on Oprah, but they were rather elusive when she asked for examples of what people liked to go revisit.  At the time, I thought it was just some wild scam, but then a few friends decided to give it a whirl, and they reported it to be incredible.  I gazed down at the brochure once again.

"We can pull up virtually any memory, load it up into our systems, and away you go.  A blast from the past?  Enjoy that party all over again.  Pining for a lost love?  Re-make that moment a memory to cherish forever."

They said on Dr. Phil that the system was the most advanced hypnotic memory recovery device ever created, allowing people to go deep into their minds, to places they even consciously forgot.  Their clients reported success remembering events from before their first birthday.

I folded the document and shoved it into my back pocket.  I’d done my research - if this was just a fake out, they faked out a lot of people.  And..  And I was really curious.  Horribly curious.  I walked across the street and pushed open the door.

The public area was very modern, with plenty of seating.  I suppose they had their rush hours, but this apparently wasn’t one of them.  Young people were manning the counter, peppy people that sounded like they really needed to cut down on the coffee.  I asked to see a price list - something that I had not been able to pull up off their website, nor out of any of my friends.  They didn’t bring it up, and I wasn’t about to inquire and make them embarrassed.

"Oh," replied the young blond.  Perhaps she was a student from the local college.  I figured that anyone in the Psychology department there would look at this being a boon job.  "I’m sorry, Sir, but there’s no set price policy.  Each session is determined by the interviewer as to what the price is.  Some memory events take quite a lot of time, others are just minutes long - setting a blanket price just wouldn’t be appropriate in this case.  I can tell you, however, that the services are quite affordable.  It is our company policy that everyone be able to use our services for as much as they needed without digging into funds required to live a happy life."

Ugh, I thought I was going to barf.  Talk about the ultimate in liberal gobbly-gook.  I about turned tail and left there, but…  But there was a memory that had been nagging at me since I was young, and I really wanted to explore it.  "What do I need to fill out," I asked with a hint of regret.

She passed over a clipboard and a pen.  "You can use interview room 14.  It’s the one with the green light over it.  Please don’t try any of the other doors, or you’ll be asked to leave the building."

Now that was a strange instruction, I thought.  But..  Well, I suppose I wouldn’t want someone intruding on me when I was being interviewed - I suppose that was done by a Psychologist and would result in some traumatic experiences for some.  I nodded and headed off in the appropriate direction.

That led me to a long hallway with doors on each side.  A door a ways down had a green light over it, and I pushed open the door.  Entering the room, the door behind me shut with a click.  I guess the light would be red now.  The interview room itself just held to comfortable chairs, like what you would find in an office, and a LCD screen that was running one of their many promo clips.  I sighed - still not much information.  Perhaps the form would give me a clue here.  I sat down, put the pen into my fingers, and considered the first question.

What is your social security number?

Oh.  Of course, they make their prices based upon means, so they’d naturally run a credit check on their patients - I mean customers.  And they’d probably pull up more that just financial information; it seems that just about everything these days are connected to that vital number.  Odds are that they’d have my driving record, medical record, arrest record..  Just about everything.  I idly considered putting down a bogus number but just shook my head.  Play it straight - maybe this place will work.

Number written, time to look at question two: Do you believe the memory you wish to relive is sexual in nature?

What an odd way of phrasing the question, I thought.  And then I considered how to answer the question.  Was there any sex involved in what had been nagging at me?  I drummed the pen on the clipboard for some time, trying to figure out the answer.  Finally I scrawled, "I don’t know."

Question 3: Have you had any recent dreams that are related to the memory you seek to relive?

That one was easy.  No.

Question 4: Can you tell your parent (Mother or Father or Guardian) all about the memory you seek to relive?

Huh.  Again, an interesting choice of phrase.  A person could assume that it was intended to be both parents, or one.  If a memory involved one parent, could the person tell the other.  Well, in my case, I couldn’t tell either of them since I really didn’t know it myself so I wrote No.

Question 5: If you are unsure about the exact contents of the memory you wish to relive, do you desire to be able to use a ‘panic-button’ to escape the memory, or do you wish to relive it in its entirety without condition?

I was starting to feel like this quiz was a psychological exam in itself.  I considered the question for a while.  I didn’t quite know what to expect - being able to exit the memory would be good if it turned out to be something horrible that I couldn’t face.  But then again, it was from when I was much younger - things that might scare me then likely wouldn’t bother me today.  Perhaps this was a qualification type question - if they couldn’t bring someone out of a memory..  And then I remembered what the gal at the desk said, about some memories taking longer than others.  Yeah, that has to be what it is.  I decided upon ‘Without Condition.’

Question 6: If you find yourself unsatisfied with the experience of reliving your memory, would you consider reliving a more positive memory, or would you request a refund?

Heh.  That might have been written by a psych student, but was likely put in by a financial person.  Sure, I thought as I wrote it, I’d consider reliving a more positive memory.  There was that time with Diana that would be a joy to do over again.

Question 7: Do you believe in ghosts, or do you believe that they are a figment of an overly suggestive mind, or do you think the truth is somewhere in between?

Danger, danger! The warning sirens were starting in my mind.  Why ask this type of a question?  Hmm.  Maybe to decide upon how much convincing a client might require?  What to answer, what to answer.  Ahh, heck, let’s stick to the truth.  "Figment of an overly suggestive mind."

Question 8: What position do you find most restful?  Sitting up in a semi-reclined position; laying down on a flat bed; or in an angel somewhere in between?

Oh, easy. Full reclined with head elevated about one foot above the big toe.

Question 9:  Do you sleep on your back, on your left side, on your right side, or on your stomach or in no particular position?

Again, easy.  Left side.

I flipped the sheet over to get to the next page of questions and found that there were none.  And there weren’t any instructions as to what I was supposed to do with the test.  I was just about to stand up to go ask what I was to do now when the second door opened and in walked someone who likely was the local college psych professor.  Just imagine what a psychologist is supposed to look like, and you pretty much got her.

"Hello, my name is Joyce.  Please, don’t get up, and thank you for filling out the questionnaire for us.  You can go ahead and put it down under your chair - the pen has some electronics that transmits your answers to our computer - we found it is much quicker this way, and allows us to give better service.  Now, just sit back and relax.  We’ve got just a couple questions that the standard form doesn’t cover.  When you’re ready, just let me know."

Joyce took a seat in the other chair, crossing her legs, and rested her hands on top of her knee.  A very attentive position.  I shrugged and settled back in the chair.  "I’m ready," I responded.

"Good," she said rather brightly.  "Now they noted at the desk that you were concerned with the price here; there’s nothing to worry about.  In fact, it turns out that your health insurance covers our type of services, so you’ll not have to pay a penny.  We also noticed that you said that you didn’t know if your memory was sexual in nature, correct?"

"Yes, that is correct," I replied to her prompt.

"You can understand that there are certain biological processes that occur when reliving an intense memory, especially if the memory is sexual in nature.  To put it rather bluntly, we’d really prefer if you didn’t mess your pants."  She took out a condom and handed it over to me.  "I’ll let you put this on after I leave the room - it is a form fitting heat bonding latex. Once you affix it, it will stay in place no matter if you’re hard or soft, and the reservoir at the end can hold quite a quantity of fluid.  After your moment in memory, you can proceed to a private washroom to remove the device and dispose of it safely.  With all the diseases out there, I’m sure you understand that such a precaution must be made."

I nodded my head, feeling rather, well, shy all of a sudden.  The last time a girl handed me a condom was when I was twelve.  Ghads, she was cute, fifteen, tits that just swelled out from her body, and totally and unconditionally out of my league.  I still don’t know if she was nice or not when she handed it to me and said that as soon as it fit, come look her up.  It did make for some good jack off sessions, though.

"Now, this is the important part - you’re free to change what memory you want to relive at any point up to when the light above your recliner turns amber.  That’s yellow, like a traffic signal.  Once it turns amber, concentrate either on the memory, or the hole that you’re seeking to open, and your experience will begin.  We have no idea what you’re reliving, nor can we be subpoenaed by anyone to give testimony as to what you were reliving.  Your moment will last as long as your mind decides it needs to last, and will go in whatever direction it desires.  The easiest path is to follow what happened - so if you’re unsure of what exactly happened, just experience the moment, and you’ll do what you did before.  Ok?"

I again nodded, not really sure what to say to that.  I’m so used to science - a light bulb either burns or it doesn’t.  Here we’re in the realm as to if the light bulb is actually a light bulb, or if it’s a penguin that didn’t move fast enough.  I took a deep breath, this was going to be strange, I just knew it.

"When you’re prepared, go out the door I exit, go to the door with the green light, enter, lay down on the recliner and get into a comfortable position.  Once you have held still - yes, you can breathe - for one minute, the light will change to amber.  Fix the memory as best you can in your mind, and close your eyes and the process will begin.  Once it is over, you’re welcome to stay there for as long as you want.  There’s no hurry to leave.  Leave through the opposite door that you entered - it has a sign that says Exit in case you forgot, and remove the appliance in the restroom provided.  Please, I can’t stress this enough, do make sure you wash your hands in consideration of others who have to use that door knob after you do.  The last step is to simply sign your name on the checkout sheet at the counter.

"At that time, if you feel the need to talk to a professional about your experience, please just ask anyone there and they’ll fetch the proper person for you.  You don’t need to give them details, just tell them you need to talk to someone about your experience.  If you just want to talk about your experience with others who also have a similar need, there’s a coffee bar next to us that’s called ‘Lost In Time.’  We’ve found that when people want to talk to others, they really do like to talk to others - you need not be shy at all over there because odds are someone had a weirder experience than you did.  Now, are you sure you don’t have any questions?"

I pondered that for a moment before asking, "What if, uhh, my experience exposes a crime?"

"Ahh, yes," she replied with a bittersweet smile.  "If it is a crime you committed, you’re welcome to admit to it, and to apologize to whomever the crime was committed against.  If it was a crime against yourself, we encourage you to go report it to the police for investigation."  She added a sigh, "I really wish that it wasn’t the case, but I’m afraid that there is a significant percentage of our clients who uncover evidence of sexual exploitation by an adult figure in their life through their reliving experience.  Just ask for department 99 - they’re set up to assess the legalities of the situation quite well, and can quickly determine if there is a prosecutable offense.  Some..  Some events, I’m sad to say, just aren’t."

I nodded my head.  I really didn’t know what to expect, but, well, when you block out a memory, there’s always the chance that it was something like that.  I didn’t think so, but you never know. "That’s all I needed to know," I said.

She nodded and stood up.  "Application instructions are inside the packet - don’t worry about accidentally tearing them, they’re written on a strong plastic.  It is, really, pretty self explanatory.  I hope you have a pleasant experience and that you’ll return to use our services again soon."  And out the door she went.

I tore open the package, read the fold out and well, it was really simple.  Unroll until orange cover is fully exposed, twist cover carefully, pull off gently.  Yup. Looked just like a condom.  Tossing the wrapper into the little trash can, I wondered if they gave Viagra to the older clients.  I put myself back away, zipped and went out the door.  Zig over a bit to the door that had the green light and I entered into a black room with a green light over a reclining chair.  I got onto it, finding the angle just about right, and laid on my side, thinking about what I was about to experience.

I had second thoughts.  Why explore a dark memory?  Why not revisit my first orgasm?  Giggle about my first wet dream?  Re-do my first sex experience?  Relive the birth of my son?  No, no, I could imagine those things different in the quite of my own bed.  Right now, I really wanted to know what it was that I couldn’t quite remember.  I focused on that hole as the light turned to amber.

*>

I was in my junior high school orchestra room, putting away my violin.  I had just had yet another experience in just how bad I was at playing that instrument, but I never quite could pull myself away from the computer to put in the right about of practice to actually play it with any grace.  Thankfully, composers understood that concept and wrote their pieces to take into account under performers who would perform in the background to let others shine in the limelight of first violin.

It was the last moment before the hole, and it was vivid.  I could see how awful my clothing choices were, my fingernails were dirty, and I had the smell of a geek that just didn’t care what others thought of his appearance.  I really was shocked that such a creature did eventually get laid; no wonder that so many girls treated me like trash.  It was how I presented myself.  Ugh.

I let the memory carry me, and I snapped the case closed, walked out and there was a good friend of mine, at the time.  I have no idea today what happened to him, but he was, of course, exactly as I remembered him.  "Hey there," he called to me, and we fell into step together heading for the lockers.  I did the dial on mine, tossed the violin in, and pulled out the books for.. History and English.  Ugh, I hated those teachers.  The only bright spot was that my buddy shared them with me.

Picture a gawky hayseed boy, and you’ve got him pretty much.  Always tussled hair, freckled face.  Auburn hair, all angles.  Thin, but not a skeleton.  He could lift a hay bale - yes, he actually did spend his summers on a farm.  The memory seemed so normal to me, I wondered why there was a hole here.  We walked down the corridor and got to English just as the bell rang.  Found our seats, in the back - I’m sure others appreciated it, being that we were downwind of them.

Ahh, yes, there’s the English teacher.  Gay as the day was bright, pink sweater over plaid shirt, flared slacks.  He even had the stereotypical lisp.  My pencil rolled off my desk, and I bent down to pick it up, glancing up just as I got it to see the girl next to my buddy was rubbing his cock.  Or rather, just was finishing, since his cum was shooting up and hitting the bottom of the desk.

I sat back up suddenly, stared right ahead, and didn’t hear a word the teacher was saying.  Oh my gawd, she was jacking him off!  In class!  And he was pale, was breathing heavily though his nose, but wasn’t making any other reaction.

The PIG!  How come he didn’t tell me he was getting it on with a girl?  He was known around the school for getting it on with a cat, for Pete’s sake.  And here he had a real live girl touching him..  IN CLASS!  Holy shit!  I wondered, for most of the period, just how long it had been going on.  I know I did poorly on the spot test; I hadn’t listened at all, and when the clock ticked and the bell rang for the end of the period, I suddenly noticed that I had a hell of a problem -- I was hard as hell.

He got up and my eyes went to his groin, looking to see if there was any stains or anything, but I realized that his overly long t-shirts covered up things well enough that if there were any stains, no one would notice them.  Damn it.  And shit, I didn’t realize he was so damn hairy down there too - even after all the sleepovers we had together, he always turned off all the lights before undressing under his covers.  Ok, ok, keep it together.  I used my books to cover up my wood and I followed him out of the classroom.

Once we were free of the pack, I hissed over to him, "How long has that been going on?"  Man, I was angry.  She was fucking cute too.  "Have you touched her boobs yet?" I asked.  Many a session with Rosey  Palms and her five sisters had featured those particular boobs.

"What the hell are you talking about," he snapped at me.

I grabbed his arm, tugging on him to stop.  "You, her - that ain’t gum that’s sticking to the underside of that desk."

He turned pale and glanced around, as if there was a bunch of lurkers just eager to hear what the geek-squad was talking about.  "Shut up..  Nothing happened, and don’t you go talking about it."

I fumed all the way to History, but kept my mouth shut.  The only good part was that being angry kept Mr. Happy from checking out the girls in skirts.

Drone, drone, drone.  The only good part about history was that the teacher knew he was piss poor.  Everyone passed his class, tests were graded on a curve so wide that the only failure would be to get your name wrong.  And I spent it being really mad at my friend for getting it on and not sharing about it.

The final bell finally sounded and he cut out of class faster than I did.  I was ticked off even more when I made it through the herd and didn’t find him at his locker.  I pulled out my violin and my book bag, filling it up for the trip home.

His bike was already gone and I jumped onto mine, scrambling to not fall off while holding my violin and racing down the street.  Around the corner I cut, smiling at the woman with the noisy horn and thankfully quick reflexes, across some more streets, then the downhill towards his house.  I heard his dog as I pulled up and laid my bike down.  He always let the dog out when he got home, and I pounded on the door, calling to him.

He made me wait there, for at least five minutes, before he answered the door.  And damn it, he had the same flush as he did at school, and was breathing as if he just ran a mile.  The shit had ditched me, raced home, all so that he could beat his meat.  The prick!

I shoved my way in, and turned to glare at him.  "Tell me," I insisted.

He looked about and said, "Not here," and he led me to his room.  I dumped the much abused string instrument into the corner and I flopped down on his bean bag chair.  A sock on the arm was warm..and sticky!  EWWW!  I tossed it away from me as if it had snot on it.

He shuffled in after me, closed his door and then locked it and then went to his bed, and I noticed he was wearing only one sock.  EEEWWW!  I turned and glared at the offending sock, wondering how I cleaned someone else’s cum off of me.  For a guy, did that take something special?  UGH.  I was saved imagining how I would be chopping off my arm by him quietly speaking.  "Uhh.. About today.." he began, and then stopped.  It was fucking maddening.

"Yeah, what about today?  When did it start, do you see her after school, have you seen her naked, have you fucked her, what do her boobs look like?" I asked in a rush.

He started rocking his legs back and forth, swinging them in the air.  "It started the first day of the semester, when she took the seat next to me at the table.  It wasn’t more than a couple minutes in class when she was pawing at my groin.  I got a huge hard on, and she kept playing with it, and I really didn’t know what to do."

Yeah, I sort of remembered that day.  The girl did take the seat I had planned on taking, but she was always a bit weird, and the strange ones you learned real quick to leave alone, lest they blow up.  He had taken off after class saying he didn’t feel well, and I remembered coming up on him in the bathroom where he was cleaning off his pants with paper towels.  The sinks were a terror to young guys - if you moved too close, the water that others got all over the sink would always make the groin area damp - it was an endless cycle as each new class learned this by having their damp fronts being made fun of by the older guys.  "Ooh, look, the boy pissed his pants, he’s so scared of this school" type of thing.  So it wasn’t water that he was cleaning off.

"The next day, I came across her in the hall, after first class, and she stopped for a second, and said to me, ‘Next time, take it out after you sit down, and wear a longer shirt - it won’t make as big of a mess.  Bring some napkins from lunch too.’  And I really felt sick before class, and I didn’t want to go in there, but you sort of made a joke about me being scared to sit next to a girl and..  And I did.  And she did it again."

I was seriously hard listening to this, I mean, hell, to have a girl touch my bare dick soft would likely require me to be dead sick and in a hospital.  And by girl, I’d mean some hag of a nurse.  "Wow," I breathed, adjusting myself so that I wasn’t pushing up my front so bad.

He shook his head, "You don’t understand," he complained.  "Everyday she’s been doing this, right after I get in class."

He was right, I didn’t understand.  I’d give my right nut to be in such a horrible position.  "And," I asked.

"And a week ago, she told me to put my hand under her dress, and to touch her down there.  And I did," he whined.  "You think I’m going to hell?"

Ahh fuck, I had forgotten just how much of a hayseed he was.  Bible belt Indiana.  Funny thing was, he wouldn’t think anything about stud training a cow or a horse (or a cat, the joke went), but he’d go to hell if someone other than his wife touched his cock.  Like God was just sitting around all day just waiting until that happened.  "Shoot, no.  Just get down on your knees and pray about it," I replied.  Being one of those who hadn’t been in a church for a good four years, I wouldn’t be a good person to get religious advice from.  But he always took what I said as being right, because I made it sound that way.  Yeah, sure, I took advantage of him sometimes, but never was mean about it.  "Tell God that you’re not going to do it any more.  And come tomorrow, you and I will switch seats."

*>

And the white light of the room intruded on me.  I remembered it now, and why it ended up being one of those repressed memories.  Thank God that I didn’t choose to ‘relive my first sexual experience with another person’ as I had toyed with earlier.  It would likely have brought up the same memory.

I laid there for a time, and then got up and went out the door marked Exit, into a room marked ‘restroom’ and removed the appliance.  It was empty, though I had to admit that if I had just sat back and enjoyed that memory a bit more, it likely wouldn’t have been.  I remembered to wash my hands and I used a paper towel to open the door, just in case someone had forgotten the instruction.

I signed out at the lobby and made my way onto the street, heading back home.  I knew what I would be dreaming about when I got home.  I just wasn’t sure if it would be nightmares or wet dreams.  I stopped into a quick mart and picked up a fifth of something.  Maybe it would be better if I just laid back and thought about it for a long time first.

Youth was hard enough to get used to.  The bigotry of youth slid away with the wisdom of aging.  And it was certainly a trip, I mused, walking down that street, to remember that suppressed memory.  Who the heck wanted to remember discovering the first cross-dressing student in their class?

**> END OF STORY <**

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