No. Better to have her come here.

She didn't seem flustered, or poisoned, or tripping. You start to wonder if she had her cereal at all or, more likely, that all that crazy garbage she told you yesterday was some kind of gross hoax. "I'm not leaving my house to jerk it in your living room," you sternly proclaim.

"We're working on dangerously incomplete data, and we don't even know what physiological changes have-"

"Bring it all in here," you mutter, pointing the camera away from your face. You wipe drool away from your mouth with your bedsheet once you know you don't have a witness. No one could know that you were a drooler. You bribed many-a ex to ensure it. Or they didn't care. Either way. "Setup in my living room, and I'll do whatever tests you like."

You leave the phone away from your face as you walk the short distance from one end of your apartment (your bedroom) to the other (the kitchen). Brunch was calling, and you feel unusually hungry. Though you can't see her, you can tell she was furrowing her brow and pouting in an effort to look very serious and adult. "Your apartment's poor ventilation probably means it's full of your pheromones. Such dangerously high exposure would mean-"

"You'll be fine, right?" you say with a sidelong glance at the camera phone. "I mean, it sounded like you're immune to it because you're gay... unless maybe now you think you're..."

You manage the same sidelong glance she gave you yesterday. "Absolutely not," she firmly denies.

"Then nothing will happen," you shrug. "But whatever the case, I'm not going to beat off in your place. Your curtains are way too thin, it smells like rubbing , and I don't like beating it in weird places." She doesn't need to know what you do in the men's room at work when you know all the male attorneys are out.

She struggles with your ultimatum, and looks behind her. You can see the sea of odds and ends, most of it taking on the appearance of carrying cases opened to reveal sensitive lab tech within, a few of them too awkward to stuff into her bathroom or anywhere else your complaints weren't valid... save your own living room, of course.

A few minutes later, after you helped her lug all her science trash into your barren living room, you leave her to set it all up while you wolf down a three bagels, one after the other. It took that much to sate your stomach, and still you felt like finishing your gallon of orange juice in a single swig. When you sighed happily and turned, wiping your mouth with your own t-shirt, you found that she wasn't busy with her equipment anymore. Instead, Devi stared at you with wide eyes and the occasional glance back at your kitchen.

"Do you normally eat that much?" You weren't actually counting, so your confused look to her begs her to recount what you did just wolf down. "Perhaps this physiological change requires greater amounts of starches or energy... interesting."

You look back at the kitchen. Three bagels gone, half a tub of cream cheese gone with them, maybe half a gallon of orange juice... and you weren't full, but satisfied. Frankly, a burger sounds like the tits right about now, but you had a weird jacking experiment to attend. "I guess it is?" is all you can manage.

"Indeed. Please disrobe." It was too clinical to arouse even you. One soiled t-shirt and a pair of boxers later, she starts sticking patches onto your body while muttering about tracking effects on your metabolism, using ice-cold gel to stick them all over your thighs, stomach and all around your crotch like landmines, each one daring you to move too much and a painful tug on your pubes. At least your apartment wasn't cold; you set it to 75 degrees once you knew she'd come, on account of an unresearched, but seemingly sound theory that pheromones would move and work "faster" in warm temperatures than in cold. They were like bacteria that got you laid, right? Right.

Throughout this experience, as she works everything out of the carrying cases, you find yourself analyzing her in turn... and see no change. Did she skip breakfast? Did she have to finish the milk? She made it sound so dangerous that her lack of any different in behavior was a bit off-putting. You do notice, by the time you've been covered in icy-cold pads, that she is sighing a bit more than normal, but it was hard to get excited over that when she handled you with all the passion of a scientist with a lab rat.

She turns a dial on a pad connected to the device to which you're hooked up, and looks at your crotch with all the excitement of a proctologist. "Alright," she proclaims as she hands you a small, plastic cylinder, "please masturbate directly into the cup." Her keen, professional, and scientific charm has already started to work its magic: your fantasies about how this whole thing might've gone are all but ruined.