Restroom

A southern accent turned his head to see an older woman dressed in gold, about to step into the ladies room to the right, amused at how laser-focused he looked just standing here.

"No...just, uh...reading."

"Seems like a good read. I guess you know for sure why men's rooms are always to the left."

"Because women..." Yancey answered automatically, but stopped, surprising himself and the woman. Nervously, yet feeling something incomplete, he finished "...are always right."

The southerner's gaze turned absolutely cougarish. "You sound like an excellent pupil. I think you'd like to learn..." she stopped herself as a thought crossed her mind, her charm put on hold. She looked him up and down, and sighed a sigh of dashed hopes. "...to learn where the lady you're looking for is."

It took him a minute to remember what woman he was looking for, but consciously knew he was after it being mentioned.

"Yeah, how'd...you know?"

"Women's intuition, honey. And, you know..." gesturing toward the sign, Yancey shook his head, agreeing with the sentiment but still unconsciously replying "Women are always right."

Before another cougarish sensation could flare, she pointed out a table in the center of the room, where Mike and Craig were sitting.

"Thanks," he said walking in that direction.

In a row of three square tables put together, Yancey found Craig and Mike sitting across from a few women who'd introduced themselves as Rita and Sarah. Next to Craig and sitting across from a vacant was their hypnotist, gesturing with a friendly smile, and a little something else in her face, toward the seat. Breath almost catching, he had to keep himself in check before just the sight of her caused involuntary physical reactions unbecoming a gentleman.

"We meet again, Yancey. Nice to put a name to a face finally." Berta extended her hand to be shaken. Yancey took it, unsure of whether to simply shake it or kiss it. The exchanged warmth between them made the handshake last seconds longer than normal for either, but Berta didn't seem to mind.

"And you're Berta. Likewise. With putting a name to a face, I mean."

"Didn't you already hear her name when you were up on-stage earlier?" The Raven-haired woman next to him, Rita, asked. Yancey panicked while Craig and Mike snickered at their whipping boy being put on the spot.

"It's perfectly ok," Berta eased Yancey's worries. "You all be surprised at what some forget with their time with me. It's not that it's forgettable per se, but when the mind gets to relax, stretch a little, and open itself to some fun suggestions, you never know what will be remembered or not. I consider it a compliment in some ways."

Something clear but definitely liquored in the glass near him, Mike's lowered inhibitions allowed free-flowing thoughts out loud. "Not that I would've forgotten your name, but if I did, I never would've guessed 'Berta.' Usually women I've met named Berta are pretty..."

It was obvious he was searching for an adjective that would come off as insulting; the implication itself shouldn't have been expected to come off well, at least to Yancey who'd been the least-intoxicated of the men. But the three women there took it in stride. No one seemed to even frown, though it seemed like the ladies were holding something humorous back to themselves.

"I used to go by Roberta a lot when I was younger," she interrupted the silence. "But I found that I didn't mind being called Berta by some, though they just called me that to annoy me, cause they didn't think I looked like a Berta either. I've always been a fan of subverting expectations. You wouldn't think me a 'Berta' just by looking at me. You wouldn't think me a lot of things, which makes your discovery of me all the sweeter."

Berta threw a sweet smile in Yancey's direction, making his lips curl into his own smaller version.

"Like, amongst you hopefully honest gentleman, before meeting us, which one of us ladies would you expect to have the most profound effect on you?"

"The cute one in-front of me," Craig responded, and was awarded a smile from Rita for his compliment.

Mike caught sight of Marilyn walking by, and gave her a wink, making Sarah across from him roll her eyes.

Yancey's gaze never left Berta's, the look on his face the most sincere answer given.

"Would you believe the real answer was something a little out of left field?"

"What's that?" Mike turned his attention back to the table.

"The answer is 'all of the above.'"

All three men were confused.

"Remember that sign by the restroom, boys?"

"Something about 'men' and...what, 'west?'" Craig thought.

"Close. Men are to the left..."

"Because women are always right," Yancey and Craig finished in unison.

Mike turned to his friends, wondering if there was a joke he'd missed out on.

"I'm glad two out of three get it," Sarah commented.

"Oh, they all get it," Berta corrected. "We're always right, no matter how hard it is to believe, so of course the answer is 'all of the above.' We're all above you in some small significant ways, or others."

"Heh...whatever you say ladies," Mike chuckled

"Finally cluing in, are we?" Sarah asked, making Mike pay the woman in front of him more attention, but still the least of any coupling at their table.

"Like I said. 'Whatever you say.'"

"Whatever we say is more apt." Berta corrected again. "Like me for example, earlier I mentioned water as a particular subject while on-stage. You may not remember that I brought it up, but you find it hard to dispute that I did, right?"

Mike and Craig gave it some thought, trying to remember exactly what she talked about on stage. Yancey was the closest to the memory and thought hard about what was virtually on the tip of his mind.

"Exactly," taking their silence as confirmation. "And just because hypnosis often works that way, the words seem to vanish, but they're just beneath the surface, and yield incredibly receptive results. I linked temperature to water, to liquids in-general, and told you they would make you feel specific ways when exposed."

Berta flagged Marilyn down who already seemed to be approaching their table, two fairly large teacups that she sat in-front of Berta and Yancey. Hers looked like green tea, and Yancey could smell that it was black coffee before he could see it.

"I was told you were tonight's designated driver for guys-night out. You'll probably need this sooner rather than later."

Yancey didn't disagree, bringing the cup to his mouth, but stopping to see Berta wanting to clink their cups together. He did so with a smile, and nodded to the guys who raised their glasses and drank too. The liquid pressed to his lips, the coffee tasted good, but seemed like it had an aftertaste to it, something past his tastebuds and went deeper into himself. Part of him saw Berta in a flash of something nearly pornographic, even though he was still looking at her fully clothed. The heat of it fanned the flames of his thoughts; he almost took the cup away from his mouth, but to his surprise, Berta's fingers pressed against the thick edge of the bottom, avoiding the heat and urging him to take more. He looked at her over the rim of his cup, seeing her eyes twinkle and smile, the rim of her own cup giving him the shapely impression of a Cheshire smile. She wanted him to take it all, and he wasn't in any position to stop. With every slow sip, his thoughts of her got hotter, even resembling the mood of Berta on-stage, in-control of everything, staring down and what she had her eye on, what she'd claimed that he couldn't' refute. Sweat trickled from his pores for some reason, his back arched to take in the last bits of the liquid, and to reflect the sudden arousal surging through his body. He didn't know where or why, but it made it alright that Berta wanted it this way. She downed her tea with the same enthusiasm and leaned her face in to her hot and bothered companion.

"Now you remember what hot does to you," the words meaning was generalized, but really meant for Yancey. Eager nodding made everyone else begin to laugh. "You know what else is hot?" She whispered into his ear the last thing he expected to hear. He leaned back in innocent shock, eyes looking down, then back at her, then down again. Mike and Craig caught on to the implication and waited for him to chicken out of such public lewdness. Craig had even seen his brother bail on opportunities to kiss girls in public who really wanted to be kissed.

"You know you want it," Berta whispered into his ear again. His eyes rolled back gently as his body slid under the table like melted butter. The sounds of unbuckling and unzipping followed by moans and oral attention produced shock around them. Berta took to Yancey's worship like a professional recipient, but couldn't totally maintain her composure as his goal was to produce as much hot liquid from her crotch as possible, creating a vicious cycle of wanting, getting, and then needing more.

"You sure I can't have what you're having?" Sarah asked Berta with sincerity. Berta gave a lustful look, biting her bottom lip as her body started to involuntarily ride her new steed. No one seemed sure if Berta had one or two orgasms before she told Yancey "Time to stop. For now." She patted his head as he rested kneeling, head on her lap, everyone else bewildered but not as bewildered as they should've been. The two women were regulars at Berta's club and for her act, but could still be amazed by what she could get guys to do. Craig and Mike would have been loud and rowdy without the suggestion already given in relation to the temperature of their drinks.

After several deep breaths and whispers directed at the remaining men, Berta replied "How are your drinks treating you fellas? Nice and room-temperature?"

They found they'd been asked a question after a few minutes of shock, but only responded with nods and grunts indicating approval of their drinks.

"What are you guys even drinking?" Rita wondered out-loud.

"Sc-cotch," Craig got out, quickly downing what was left in his glass and signaling Marilyn for another.

"Vodka," Mike said absently, "which I think I've had enough of."

"Or maybe you haven't," Sarah told him. Mike questioningly looked at her. "Be a shame to waste a good drink like that." She eyed him, confidently waiting for him to take the hint. He looked down at his own drink and sighed as he downed his, not wanting it to go to waste, resolute in it being his last until he heard "See, I bet in a few minutes you're going to want another."

Thoughts betrayed him as the desire for more built up immediately, just like Sarah said it would, resigning and finally signaling to Marilyn.

"Are you going to tell them what's 'ale'ing them?" Rita joked, something only the women seemed to understand, but only thought of as whimsical.

"One," Berta replied, "nice attempt at a pun. Two, yeah I intend to tell them. It tends to be more fun if they know."

"Know what?" Craig asked.

"To know that you're drinking apple bourbon. And it taste's good right?"

"Yeah," was his only response to the hypnotist. Craig was more interested in the intoxicated part of drinking that night, and bourbon was just a taste he agreed with more times than not, but it took Berta's mentioning it to realize there was a fruit flavor there.

"I think the chance of something spectacular happening tonight will increase if you let me try some of that bourbon you have."

"Really?" Craig asked his companion.

"Could be," Rita responded, taking the drink easily out of his hand. She recoiled from a sip of it.

"Apple jui-"

"No no," Berta interrupted, "Apple bourbon. Remember how I explained it girls. 'Lukewarm liquid intoxicates, opens even more to suggestion.' Alcohol makes no difference."

"They don't taste the difference?" Sarah questioned.

"They don't pay it any mind, often their brains rationalize for them what it ought to be, unless there's some female persuasion to guide them."

"So...what's he drinking?" Sarah looked at Mike's glass.

"Tap water probably, knowing Marilyn. But he thinks it's Vodka, albeit the weakest but most intoxicating he's ever tried." Berta looked at Mike as she spoke before looking down at his drink, sipping it again to notice how absolutely sterile it tasted, as if it was...

"But it is vodka," Sarah spoke confidently to Mike. "The kind you love to drink, the kind you love me to tell you when to stop or have more."

"Whatever you say, babe." He said more absently than suavely after another sip.

"Where was this guy or you the last time I had to deal with every other alcoholic asshole out there," Sarah mockingly accused Berta.

"Hopefully we hadn't met already by then, otherwise I apologize."

Rita leaned over to whisper in Sarah's ear, whatever it was made them both giggle, piquing the curiosity of even Berta.

"Hey boys," Rita started. "I think I-" Sarah nudged her arm. "We, had it wrong. Do you know what you're really drinking?"

Craig and Mike looked at each other, addled minds unsure of what was to come.

"It's Sangria."

"-cheeseburger."

The two women looked at each other and giggled while the men's brains were failing to interpret to their tastebuds anything but an alcoholic beverage and a sandwich thrown in a blender and served warm in a cup. They didn't catch on to the fact that their drinks were different colors, textures, or flavors, or even how they tasted the same at the same time; they just knew what they knew thanks to the informative women seated across from them. An aftertaste formed that wasn't there before, and both formed small looks of disgust.

"But you won't stop drinking it," Sarah told them

"There's just something amazing about it that makes you want more." Rita encouraged.

Berta watched raptly at the type of suggestion she never would've considered before, stroking her heat-driven pet's face, proud of her fan's creativity. Clear and brownish liquid-alike were equally, regrettably swallowed while Rita and Sarah clinked their glasses together.

"Mike, it's time to be honest with me. Like brutally honest. What's the worst thing you've ever told a woman?"

Before speaking, Mike saw Sarah gesturing with her finger, to come close and say it in her ear. Sarah listened carefully, eyes widening for what she heard, and backed away to throw the icy contents of her own glass in his face.

"Real subtle Sarah," Rita commented.

"What?" she asked innocently. "He had it coming for what he just told me. And yeah, I didn't want to be left on tenterhooks for much longer to find out what cold does to them."

Both women expectantly looked at Berta, who shook her head at how entertaining it all was.

"I keep forgetting you ladies got here post-show. Well, for those so impatiently inclined, the answer is written all over his face, if you'd care to look."

Rita, Sarah, and Craig looked back to see Mike with a dull, incognizant look on his face. Eyes vacant, mouth agape, barely breathing, no one could tell if the liquid trailing from around his mouth was Sarah's drink or drool. Hands waived across his face, producing no reaction at all. He seemed dead to the world.

"You want to leave Mike be, Craig," Berta told him before he could try to shake his friend awake.

"So he's like really mindless? Nobody home in there?" Sarah asked.

"With the right kind of make-up, he could be the Walking Dead for Halloween," Rita joked.

"'Mindless' in-general, but more specifically he's blank. Appropriately frozen for the temperature."

"Like 'Let it Go' Frozen? Can we make him sing that one," Sarah asked with the same enthusiasm found in an eleven-year-old.

Berta snickered at her blonde friend's girlish questioning. "He'll seem zombified and still to the average person, but he's simply waiting for the right stimulus."

"Which is...?"

"My words, Sarah. Mike, get up and go straight to the bathroom. Pay no mind to anything else; your intent is to go into the bathroom, relieve yourself in the stall, and be taken in by your surroundings. Go now," she spoke in a tone more dominant than her stage one.

They all watched as he slowly lurched himself to the restroom, fortunate enough to not have a lot of people or furniture in his way to his destination. Rita and Sarah watched him momentarily stop to stare at the sign in-front of the bathroom, laughing at how he voluntarily needed to remind himself of what seemed the law of the land. The ladies turned back to see Craig also watching Mike's journey to the restroom, but unaware of his hand being placed in a glass of water. Berta gestured for them to remain silent, and they did, their laughing and their need to hold it back both increasing. They could tell it was warm water, as he didn't look particularly blank or sweaty and sultry. Awareness and confusion were written all over his face, his body shifting as if his bodily fluids were trying to tell him something. He looked like he was in a meeting or movie theater, lamenting to step away but the sensation getting worse from him. The ladies didn't know which would break first between their laughter and his liquor. His hand leapt out of the warm liquid as he moved away from the table to follow Mike.

"Use the stall, Craig." Berta told him. A hurried "ok" was the last thing they heard before laughter consumed even Berta. Tears rolled down female eyes as they enjoyed the moment.

* * *

The void Mike found himself floating through was liberating. It felt like all the benefits of sleep and some of the benefits of being awake, able to walk around and process things in the most lucid way possible. The void was gratefully supplied with what sounded like soothing background music, telling him what he already knew felt good. The words sounded familiar as unfocused eyes saw the words narrated to him, filling him with what felt like purpose. Other men came into the restroom at some point during his time there, and none of the noise they made disturbed him, not that they were inclined to as the walls left them at least somewhat spaced out too.

He could've easily fallen asleep in the stall he sat in, succumbing to near-continuous programming if it wasn't for his habit of leaving the stall once he was done and no female command to stop him. Making his way to the sink, a female command actually did stop him in his tracks.

"Dance," a command from what sounded like Berta, told him.

Looking into the mirror, seeing past himself and more the words in the walls, he found encouragement to aid the random command he was given.

"Dance," the voice told him again. "You can do it."

Hips began to move of their own volition.

"You want to do it."

Not just because she said so did the desire rise to do so, but it helped.

"You've done it before. Show me how good you were, how good you still are."

The moves came natural to him, muscle-memory ready to bring the dormant, primal side of him back. The rest of his torso found the rhythm to follow his hips, and his hands gripped at the shirt and pants he knew he would shed soon. A conscious Mike wouldn't have been able to remember when he told her how he did exotic dancing at ladies clubs as a high schooler and through college. The money was good, but the catering to his vanity felt even better.

"So many women want you, and you want to be wanted by so many women. Entice them, show the worthy why you are worthy."

The young and the old of the opposite sex loved to watch him dance over the years, and up until that point, he thought they came to service him, despite what he was paid for. To have his logic shifted to him being the one with something to prove went uncontested, and accepted. The speed and vitality he was used to in his dancing was slow to come, bolstered by the need to do so for Berta and muscle memory.