Keep This Secret Pt. 21

A lot has been written about mental illness. Chapter 21 is written by someone who knows the subject well. The author's mother and younger brother were schizophrenic. My father, older brother, sister, and I had bipolar disorder. I've spent a lot of time visiting people in psych wards. I spent two very unpleasant weeks in one myself. As you read what follows, be assured that this is how it actually works.

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I remember the moment I cracked.

Someone who knew I like science handed me a copy of the Sept. 8, 2019 issue of New Yorker magazine. I don't read that magazine regularly, but I knew it printed pretty good stuff. When I was a college freshman, one of my English professors regularly had us read reprints of articles from the New Yorker.

This particular article was called What If We Stop Pretending? It was written by Jonathan Franzen, who is best known as a bestselling novelist. But Franzen has an interesting background. Before Franzen discovered he could make millions writing fiction, he was an accomplished earth scientist who published dozens of respected articles in major scientific journals. He spent most of his career working at a research facility operated by . . . wait for it . . . Harvard.

As an earth scientist, Franzen developed a sophisticated understanding of environmental problems, especially global warming. He became particularly passionate about bird watching; if you've ever known any birders, you probably know it's like a religious cult that worships all things feathered. Franzen became frustrated with the way scientists communicate news about global warming. Franzen wrote that people are pretending something significant can be done to reduce global warming, when that is clearly untrue.

There is no chance humanity can avert a climate apocalypse. No matter what happens, global warming will cause floods, fires, famine, mass extinction, and the ultimate death of most (if not all) of the human race. The story is over. A disaster is inevitable. Nothing can stop the ice caps from melting; even if we stopped pumping greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere tomorrow, we've already released enough to guarantee that low lying areas around the world will be underwater in fairly short order. Most of humanity lives in low lying cities. Most large cities are on land that will be underwater in a surprisingly short time.

It is theoretically possible for humanity to mount a massive effort that would prevent the disaster from becoming a catastrophe, but any sensible person who looks at what is going on knows nothing like that has any chance of happening.

In short, Franzen wrote, humanity is well and truly fucked. We should have started working on global warming 50 years ago, when we became sure it was happening. Instead, we dump more greenhouse gasses into the atmosphere every year. It's almost as though we are racing to see how quickly we can kill the earth. Why do we keep pretending there's any chance of fixing any of it? Most leaders just don't care about things that will happen after they retire.

I'd been vaguely aware of this for years, but I'd never known the level of detail and certainty revealed by Franzen. In truth, I'd already figured that the environment is doomed anyway because humanity is not capable of working together on a goal that doesn't primarily focus on generating money. It hadn't been necessary for me to know the equations. Still, I'd gone about my life without thinking much about something I couldn't control. Then I read Franzen's article. I got interested in finding out how other experts responded to Franzen, and it told me a lot.

The basic response was that Franzen was doing a Bad Thing by telling the truth. It was important that the public remain ignorant of the extent of the problem. If people know how bad things are, they'll just give up. Giving up seems like a sensible response, in my opinion, but many disagree. I found it telling that the biggest complaint about What If We Stop Pretending? was that it did too much to tell the truth. Yikes!

For some reason, this particular bit of information hit me at a particularly sensitive time. The foundation was growing into a national charity, with offices located in most major metropolitan areas. Our annual report looked like something put out by a premier charity, with a lot of pie charts, bar charts and text boxes that combined to tell a story of staggering success. Victoria was traveling constantly, and Time magazine listed her as one of the 10 most important Americans under the age of 30. I hadn't expected Victoria to become such a celebrity, but it made sense. She was young, beautiful, brilliant, and powerful. There was objective evidence that she was one of the finest CEO's in America. You're probably thinking the credit went to the sonic stimulator, but that wasn't true. I was able to give Victoria an opportunity to excel, and she'd used that opportunity to reach the pinnacle of success. People all over the world - especially women - loved Victoria and cheered her success. There was no one anywhere who wouldn't take her call.

On one level, it was amazing. I'd wanted to help individual women, and I was exceeding every goal I'd ever made. I wanted to make my own life better, and that had happened in spectacular ways I hadn't imagined when this began.

But I happen to be someone with "quantitative skills." I got straight A's in my calculus classes. Most people who looked at the Gaia Foundation saw a big success, and in many ways that's just what it was. When viewed against the backdrop of everything else happening around the world, it was trivial. I was trying to bail out the ocean with a teacup.

I went a little crazy. More than a little. I stopped sleeping much, and I started having very strange thoughts. When this happens to celebrities, they check themselves into posh facilities that specialize in the treatment of "nervous exhaustion," which is a euphemism for things like bipolar mania. That's what I had. Everyone in my life was concerned.

I came home one night and found Mary, Victoria, Mariana and Alana ready to stage an intervention. They started giving me that whole spiel that starts with the phrase "I've seen your behavior change in the following ways" and I immediately called it off. "You ladies are preaching to the choir. You don't have to convince me I'm losing my mind. I lost it some time ago. I've been looking, and I can't find it anywhere."

There were some real celebrities in the posh facility where I went for "nervous exhaustion." I went to some very interesting group therapy sessions, where I heard bigshot actors and billionaires talk about some of the craziest shit you can imagine. It was interesting, in a stupid kind of way.

What actually helped were the pills. A very smart doctor figured out a mix of medications that brought me down to earth in a hurry. They said they'd let me go home if I agreed to let a personal assistant watch as I took the pills every day. I had to promise I'd have no involvement in the foundation until the wonderful women in my life all agreed I was no longer a threat to myself or others.

Listen, I'm being flippant when I tell you about this. Sometimes your only choice is to laugh or cry. I did a lot of crying for a while. But I got over it. The doctor eventually let me taper off the pills, and I felt pretty good. Well, that's not really true. I felt like I'd been run over by a bus. But I felt better than I'd felt in a while.

Oddly, I remained very interested in sex this whole time. Mary began catering to these needs as soon as I got out of the hospital, and she claimed that being a little nuts made me a better lover. I had the feeling she was right. Now that it's all over, I can say that it would be nice being just slightly nuts all the time. I've never felt happier in my life than when I was manic. Of course, I've never tried heroin. I hear that's nice, too.

Going to the edge of madness and coming back gave me an opportunity to think about a lot of things I'd avoided considering for a long time. It helped me make some very hard decisions. I hope I made the right ones. We'll find out together, I guess.

From the beginning, I'd feared using the sonic stimulator too much. It was the most dangerous technology ever invented, and I wanted to avoid anything that might allow people to realize what I was doing. In the hands of the wrong person, the results would be disastrous. A tyrant could achieve global domination.

But left alone, the world was heading for something worse than a disaster. We were rushing headlong toward a catastrophe. I imagined humanity as a terminally ill patient with no chance of survival without trying a dangerous experimental drug. The patient is dying anyway. Can things get worse in a significant way?

When I got home from the hospital, I was a little pudgy because they served such rich, fattening gourmet food. The chef there was an artist. There was exercise equipment, but I hadn't felt like using it. Mary immediately attacked the problem of restoring me to health. She took a lot of pleasure in encouraging me to lift one more dumbbell, do one more squat, and run one more minute.

One day we looked in the mirror and decided I was as fit as I'd ever been. "Now all you have to do is maintain," Mary said. "You're good at that."

"Mary, I've been thinking. In the past, you've said that if I wanted to improve my health more, I could pack on some more muscle, right?"

"Of course, baby. It wouldn't be hard at all for you to add another 20 pounds of lean muscle to that gorgeous body of yours. You'd have to lift heavier weights, and spend a little more time in the gym, but you could do it. Is that what you want?"

"I think so," I said. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

Mary gave me that sexy little smile she often gets when she thinks about sex. "Let me tell you a little secret, David," she whispered into my ear. "Chicks like muscles. A lot. The only problem is I may have trouble keeping my hands off you. Same goes for Victoria, Mariana and especially Alana. Nobody likes muscle more than Alana.

"But why do you want that? You are in great condition. Is there a reason?"

"Well, yes," I said. "I'm going to be spending a lot of time with a different class of people soon. It might be good if I looked a little more commanding."

"Commanding, or intimidating?"

"Both. Can't I have both? I want both."

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Building a political machine is a lot less fun than creating a charitable foundation. The people are completely different, and not in a good way. I'd much rather spend time with single moms than political consultants. Social workers are a nicer class of people than lobbyists. I only did it because I had no alternative. It's amazing what you can do when you have absolutely no choice.

It wasn't much of a stretch to say I'd reluctantly decided to become the dictator of planet Earth. Writing that sentence made me want to puke. I hoped to be a benign ruler, but the fact remained that I intended to take control of every nation on the planet. The alternative was a global apocalypse.

That's what brought me into contact with Emma Fitzgerald. Yes, as the name suggests, she's Irish, from a family with deep political roots in Boston. Her hair was almost as red as Mary's. If Fitzgerald wasn't the most talented political consultant in America, she was close.

By then, I'd convinced a lot of rich people to donate a lot of money to my super pac. I'd never heard of a super pac before this. It's a political action committee that can spend virtually unlimited amounts of money for virtually any reason, with virtually no legal oversight. Gee, why do you suppose congress thought it was important to allow such evil things to exist?

That no longer mattered. I had a super pac. A big one. I needed a big pile of money if I wanted to persuade someone like Fitzgerald to lead my campaign for global domination. I can't believe I wrote that last sentence, can you? I'm going to have to talk to my shrink about increasing the dose of my antidepressants.

I needed someone to run my political machine, just as I needed Victoria to run my foundation. I didn't have the necessary skills, and the idea of doing work like that on a daily basis made me queasy. My research confirmed that Fitzgerald loved loved LOVED that kind of shit. She also had a reputation for being fierce and merciless, taking personal pleasure whenever she managed to destroy a political enemy. You may be asking if I was absolutely sure I needed Fitzgerald.

Yes. I was absolutely sure.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, David," she said in the Boston accent I found so endearing. It made her sound charming and nice - two qualities she definitely did not possess. "Please call me Emma."

We engaged in pleasantries for a bit. I told her that her political leanings coincided with mine. She worked hardest for candidates who wanted to improve the environment. I thought of her as a do-gooder who carried a gun, knife, and razor blade. She happened to be very beautiful, in a button-downed way. I saw no reason to prolong the small talk, so I took out my cell phone, turned on the sound file, and got to work.

"I want you to help me elect a president who will actually do something to fight for the environment in general, and global warming in particular. You'd like that, wouldn't you."

"I'd like that," she said. There was an unusually passionate edge in her voice. Clearly, she was the right woman for the right job. I wanted her to do something she'd always wanted herself.

"Then I want you to defeat every member of Congress standing in the way of that agenda. Doesn't that sound like something you'd enjoy?"

"I'd enjoy that. There are some particularly horrible congressmen I'd love to destroy."

Hmm. Nice embellishment. Adding something like that while under the influence of the sonic stimulator showed Emma was extremely intelligent, which I already knew.

My actual strategy went far beyond achieving political domination of the United States. We'd take over other countries, too; America isn't the only nation actively raping the planet, even though we are a global leader in that field. Emma didn't need to know about my international ambitions. There would be plenty of time to work on that after we owned Washington, D.C.

"This is going to be the most important work you've ever done, Emma. The most important political campaign since World War 2. You have an appointment with destiny, Emma. You're up to the challenge, aren't you?"

"I'm up to the challenge."

We talked about a long list of ideas, and I used the sonic stimulator to persuade her she was passionately behind every single one of them. I also flirted with her, and convinced her she liked it. That's because I wanted Emma to be my lover. It wasn't because she was such an appealing woman, although that certainly helped. I wanted Emma's total devotion, which had to include the personal as well as the professional. I wanted her to give me the same kind of dedication I saw in Victoria; I was convinced that a reason she'd become one of America's top CEOs was because of her personal devotion to me. I wanted that from Emma.

I knew Emma didn't have a husband, fiance or boyfriend. Private detectives said she'd broken off an engagement a few months earlier, and hadn't done much dating since. It was easy to make her think she was sure she wanted to have an affair with me, and that I was attracted to her, but that I needed time to think it over. What I actually needed to consummate our agreement was a place with a bed. There was a large, comfortable couch in her office, but I didn't want to compromise. The first time we made love it would be on an actual bed, with nice sheets and a firm mattress.

That was easily arranged. I suggested that we discuss further strategy over cocktails. Emma was well-known in media circles, as was I, so I said we shouldn't go to a bar where we might be recognized. The whole point of a super pac is to maintain secrecy; having the two of us seen in public together might ruin that. I invited her to have cocktails in my suite. I fully expected that she'd spend the night.

She came to my suite, and we got right to it. I switched on the sonic stimulator and turned to Emma.

"I've been thinking about you the whole time since we met," I told her. "I'm very attracted to you."

"I feel the same."

"I want to be close to you."

"I feel the same."

That's when I kissed her. It was less than one minute since she'd walked in the door. I hadn't even mixed cocktails. That seemed like a task that could wait. What I wanted right then was to get her out of that expensive designer business suit.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Emma returned my kiss with so much passion. This was a woman with powerful feelings and emotions. It's what made her so successful as a political animal. As I was about to learn, it made her an animal in the bedroom, too.

Her hands were all over me, unbuttoning my shirt, unzipping my pants, and sliding my boxers down to the floor. Most of the time I like to undress the woman before she undresses me, but Emma clearly had a different agenda. She took my cock in hand, gave it a kiss, then stood up so I could help get her out of her clothes. We were both naked a few minutes after she'd knocked on my door.

It surprised me when she swatted my ass and threw me down on the bed. She seemed to be in a hurry. She pushed me on to my back and held my arms over my head. The look on her face was something like hunger.

Emma had long, slender limbs. They looked very feminine. Her short hair and Irish face gave her a devilish look. So did her small breasts and nipples. But the quality I liked most was her untrimmed bush. It was bright red - as bright as Mary's. When I removed Emma's panties, I detected a marvelously fragrant quality, and I saw that the hairs along her slit were darkened by dampness. For a moment, I wondered if I was prepared for a session of lovemaking that promised to be very different from what I was used to.

Prepared or not, my cock reacted exactly as you would expect when Emma reached down and wrapped her hand around it. She stroked me up and down, working to make me hard. She kept this up a long time more than necessary; I was beyond hard when she finally stopped. I was well on the way toward a climax.

That didn't happen because Emma flipped her body around and lowered her pussy down on my face. "Ohhhh . . ." she said when she felt my tongue inside her. As always, I derived a special pleasure from tasting Emma for the first time. She tasted unusual. Nice, but different. She actually tasted a little bit sweet. I don't find that taste often.

"We're going to have loads of fun together, David," she said. I couldn't tell if she meant we were about to enjoy having sex, or if she meant we were about to embark on a fun political effort. Why not both?

My cock needed more attention. I licked, sucked and nibbled Emma's pussy until I felt her have an orgasm. It wasn't a big one, but it was a good start. I threw her down on the bed on her back, got between her legs, and placed my cock in line with her pussy. She laughed softly, a girly laugh that sent a thrill straight to my groin.

As I've gained experience with women, I've come to believe that most of them appreciate being teased. You've heard me say this before. I think women like it when I take a long time giving them my cock, one tiny bit at a time. But Emma was not that kind of woman. I started trying to tease her that way, but she wrapped her arms around my back and pulled me up so forcefully it drove my whole cock into her pussy in one unexpected thrust. "Don't you dare try to tease me!" she said with a laugh. "I want your cock now. The whole thing. Now!"