The decorated gymnasium buzzed with chattering laughter and bad music. Barry surveyed his old classmates, most unkindly aged, and bathed in his smugness. He took a gulp of spiked punch and swept Cheryl into a prolonged kiss, a show of affection made purposely public by his groping of her buttocks.
“You would not believe the sexual tension here tonight,” he whispered in her ear. “Old crushes and dalliances really never die, it would seem.”
“I didn’t come here to be your blond trophy while you play the famous psychic matchmaker,” Cheryl said, jerking her hips to unruffle her dress. Her crooked smirk betrayed her, though. Attention and recognition were her guilty pleasures and Barry could sense her aura turn red and primal with lust.
As he and Cheryl made their way across the floor, he couldn’t help but to psychically read the people twisting and writhing in dance:
Scott Mitchell’s wife really wanted a wealthier man.
Doris Dunbar’s husband was secretly a chubby chaser.
Tony Scott and Johan Santos would’ve made a perfect couple if not for their wives.
Principal Lubbock and English Lit’s Miss Halpern longed for oral pleasures uncommon for people in their sixties.
Life had given them frustration and inadequacy, smoldering desires that blackened their outlooks. High school had been like that for Barry, a lonely freak in a world partitioned by groups of mundane. But he’d risen above it, arrogantly clawing his way to notoriety, putting behind childhood defeats while his classmates were cemented in them.
“Hey! It’s the famous Dr. B! You haven’t forgotten about ol’ Buster, have you?” A tall man with a pencil neck and a wide jaw extended his hand. It was tech mogul Buster Brock, the only other success story Barry knew of his class. They politely shook hands and introduced their women.
Afterwards, Barry tried to purge the sick jealousy that suddenly crippled him. He fantasized about how easy it would be to trick Barry’s woman into bed with his mind. So easy. Cheryl’s weight on his arm seemed lighter once again.