Sexology for Time Travelers
by Ryan David Jahn

Terry Wilson sits up, wires attached to his temples, the back of his neck, his chest, his back and his genitals. He's covered in sweat, oily sex-sweat, both aromatic and thick. Pungent. His chest hurts from heavy breathing. God oh god that was an intense fantasy.

But after all, it was just a fantasy.

" ... right?" he wonders, looking in the direction of Dr. Susan Roberts, who's sitting in her ergonomic chair before a panel of computers and monitors, wearing a long white lab coat.

"Not at all." She has a wry grin on face. "I thought all this was explained to you. I don't have the spiel they gave you in front of me, so I'll just be blunt. This is time travel for the perverted, fantasy realization with a return policy. That's the plan anyway. Do you dream of being choked, fist-fucked, gang-banged? Do you fantasize about fucking some famous political figure? A famous actor or actress? We can make it happen. Your fantasies become reality. We provide the matter for your id. Space and time are no longer boundaries. We have infinity within our grasp, and therefore have the ability to make real an unlimited number of fetishes and perversions. We have harnessed an infinite Amsterdam in which everything, literally everything, is possible. The only drawback is that, this soon after the development of our technology, we're not sure about certain safety issues. With so many variables - infinite space and time, both inside the human mind and out - certainty is in very short supply. Which, of course, is where you come in, Mr. Wilson."

"Guinea pig." He feels the old fear come back.

"That's an ugly way to view it, but a correct one." Dr. Susan Roberts pulls a disc from a slot in the wall of computers, sticking her right index finger into the hole at its center, and then writes something on its surface. She holds it up so Terry can see. It reads: "Wilson Fantasy #1."

“Thirteen to go,” Terry says, “and then I’m done, and I get my money. Right?”

“Assuming there are no complications.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Dr. Roberts pauses.

“It’s time for your post-fantasy physical.”

She leads him to a sterile white room, then shuts the door with her on the opposite side. Terry sits on an examination table which has white paper rolled over its surface as a means of maintaining cleanliness. He looks around, simultaneously bored and nervous, trying to guess what fantasy will next bubble to the surface from the swamps of his subconscious.

Then another doctor walks in and introduces himself. He is a short, old man, very thin, a half-halo of gray hair wrapped like moss around the back of his head. As soon as he says his name – something long and Germanic – Terry forgets it. Not that it matters. He’s nothing but a rubber gloved old man to Terry, no one with whom he wants to associate once he leaves this place.

During the physical, the doctor makes note of any red marks: rope burns that have wrapped their way around Terry’s wrists and ankles. Fantasy residue. In documenting them, he makes Terry aware of them for the first time. He supposes he should have noticed, but the truth is, he didn’t want to notice, didn’t want to be made aware that when he returned from his fantasy there were real consequences.

The ropes were really tight – in the fantasy.

But the fantasy is over, the physical is over, and—

Terry is allowed to return to his room so that he can shower. It feels good to wash away the stink of sex. It feels right to wash away the physical evidence of the fantasy and in so doing erase the perversion from his mind.

Unfortunately, he isn’t allowed to forget the fantasy.

As soon as he’s dressed, it’s time for his session with Dr. Miriam Bradford.
He’s wearing the clothes they left for him: blue pajamas and a pair of white foam slippers with smiley faces stamped onto the toes. Fucking smiley faces.

As soon as he walks into Dr. Miriam Bradford’s office and gets a look at her he thinks a very unkind thing.

This woman is a pompous cunt. She’s the kind of woman who makes her children and husband preface their communications with her by saying her professional title.

And her manner of speech does nothing to dissuade Terry of his first impression.
“I assume you have been briefed as to the purpose of our interviews,” she says. That she didn’t use contractions is aggravating, makes her seem robotic; but what really gets to Terry is that she spreads the word “our” into two syllables: “owe-were.” Terry hates her.

“Yeah, I have.”

“Very well, then you may have a seat and we will proceed.”

Terry sits.

“I have just reviewed the disc with your first fantasy on it. It is very interesting.”

“In what way?” Terry asks, feeling defensive. Doctors always make Terry defensive because they’re trained to have more knowledge about your mental or physical well-being than you do. It gives them a power over you – and they know it – and Terry can’t think of anything worse than someone with power over you who knows it.

Dr. Bradford ignores his question.

“When you think of that fantasy, being tied down and having intercourse with a black hole, what from the real world comes to mind?”

A long pause.

“Well?”

“My ex-wife, I guess.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to put into words. She left me. Jessica. She left me and I needed her to stay. She went away, disappeared from my life forever, and I can’t ever have her back again. Not ever.”

“There is not a chance of—” the doctor clears her cunt throat, “– well, there is no chance of reconciliation?”

Terry shakes his head silently.

“Why is that?”

“Because…she’s dead.”

She’s been dead for two years. Terry always knew she’d leave him, he just didn’t know how she’d go about it.

#

George W. Bush is nude. He is on his hands and knees, the dog, the fucking dog, exactly where he belongs. His ass – Kilimanjaro white – is sticking up in the air, his cock a shriveled gray pendulum hanging between his legs. He’s looking back at Terry with frightened anticipation. Oh no. He doesn’t have the right to look at Terry that way. He doesn’t have the right to derive any pleasure whatsoever from this experience at all, the worthless piece of shit dog. Terry walks toward the mandog – determined to bring him to tears, determined to inflict the most extreme sexual pain imaginable, because this mandog deserves to feel pain, pain that won’t fade tomorrow or next week or next month or next year, pain that will linger mentally forever. Twenty years from now, Bush will be walking along the street and will see something that reminds him of this experience, and it will crush him all over again, because he will remember the humiliation, and he’ll have to acknowledge the utter futility of everything he’s ever done.

Terry walks toward him and grabs each of his shriveled ass cheeks in his hands and spreads them apart and—

The old doctor whose name Terry cannot recall is knelt down, rubber glove on
right hand, plucking foreign (gray) pubic hairs from the base of Terry’s cock with a sterilized tweezers, mumbling something about his betting dollars to pesos that when the DNA results are back it will be confirmed: the gray pubes will be those of George W.—

“Bush,” Dr. Bradford says with distaste.

“I know.”

“Are you, perhaps, sexually aroused by bestiality?”

She stares at him without expression.

“No,” Terry shakes his head. “Why the fuck would you ask that?”

“George W. Bush can hardly be considered human, now can he?”

#

Terry’s hanging by his ankles from a rope. It’s not just any rope. It’s a thick, itchy rope with loose twine that sticks out in every direction and pokes into the skin. The rope is so tight that his feet are turning purple. A beautiful black woman with creamed-coffee skin and cinnamon freckles is sucking his cock. The freckles are beautiful. He never knew a black woman could have freckles. Not until now. God oh god. The moist mouth wrapped around his cock is amazing. And this woman, she is more than amazing, more beautiful than he has ever seen before. He feels himself close to coming, the tension in his guts building, building. He feels wound up, like a jack in the box, ready to explode. God oh god. The woman, after teasing his dick with her scraping white teeth, pulls her mouth away, a string of spit clinging to both the head of his cock and her moist lower lip as she pulls away, stretching long, sagging in the middle, and then finally snapping. His cock twitches. He holds off orgasm as long as possible. The woman tells him to take communion, to eat his own come, eat it like a bitch, like the bitch he knows he is. Then when coming is finally inevitable he pulls himself up into a u-shape, doing a sit-up, stomach muscles tight, and his cock throbs in ejaculation, shooting sticky strands of semen into his hair, his eyes, his mouth, and—

He is in pain. His feet are purple and bloated with blood, as he numbly stands through the doctor’s invasive examination. He feels dirty. His hair and face are crusted with dry semen. And he is—

“Tired.”

“Physically?” Dr. Bradford asks.

“Emotionally, mentally, physically. I’m tired in every way imaginable. I’m tired of this.” He waves his arms around in every direction, furiously trying to indicate that he is weary of everything through which he’s been going since he arrived here.

“Why, do you think?”

“I’m tired of being exposed to everyone around me. You try it sometime. It’s fucking exhausting. Try it right now. Let’s see some flesh. I always wanted to see a cunt’s cunt.”

#

Terry is in a garden, a beautifully green and pink and purple and orange and yellow place, and it is perfection. The grass he’s walking on feels wonderful and cool and simultaneously crisp and forgiving. Everything in the garden is this way. As he walks by a fig tree – growing from the center of the garden – he sees a serpent slithering along its branches, and he finds himself wondering what it would feel like to have the snake inside him.

The serpent, after all, is not the antithesis of god. The ancient illiterates fucked up,
and the myths have been carried down from generation to generation. Truth is, the serpent is a messenger of God, a bringer of knowledge.

He reaches out to the snake and it glides onto his arm, as if his arm were just another tree limb. From the corner of his eye Terry sees a woman is watching him. She is sitting cross-legged beneath an olive tree, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, her eyes sparkling. Terry doesn’t mind that she’s watching. So, with the snake in hand, he falls to his hands and knees, and reaches back toward his ass with the snake in hand. The snake flickers its tongue, tickling, and—

The doctor whose name Terry can never remember examines him and—

Dr. Miriam Bradford queries, “Do you care to comment on your fantasy being of a bestial nature?”

“The fantasy wasn’t about literal bestiality, it was about the bestiary of the soul. It was about holiness.”

#

Terry is tired and frightened. He hates the few moments before the fantasy – when he knows that something will happen but not what.

After stripping down to nothing, folding each piece of clothing carefully and stacking them one on top of the other, he lies flat on the table and Dr. Roberts attaches the feeds to his body.

“Close your eyes,” she says, and—

Terry’s penis shrinks slowly into his body, twisting inside out; turning into a mouth, a blooming flower. He’s walking through a desert landscape. Red sand pushes itself up between his toes. The white hot sun glaring down at him like a solitary eye, hot hot hot, one of the universe’s billions of eyes, staring down on earth, watching, even as he – a man become woman – walks toward God’s son, wanting to give him her love. He has proved himself worthy of Terry’s love by willingly eating shit for humanity. Terry feels her breasts growing, her skin stretching, her nipples pressing forward – her organs changing, rearranging themselves. Terry has become woman. After thirty years as a male, he has become she. She walks up the hill toward Jesus, the desert turning to grass and the grass turning red with blood. Jesus hangs above her, on his cross, wearing an average crown of thorns. He is the most beautiful black man she has ever seen: he has magnificent features, beautifully dark skin. Even on his cross he exudes power – even while dying, while bleeding to death slowly, his power is evidenced. His eyes are so perfect in their pain that Terry can barely stand to look into them. There he is, Jesus, the product of a fucking between God and a mortal, Mary, the only woman ever to have been fucked by God himself. Terry feels like an alien, so unlike the dark-skinned creatures surrounding her. She is pale white, with blonde hair on her head and a somewhat more brown triangle forming between her legs. She walks toward Jesus, the man on the middle cross, and lowers her head to lick a wound gouged into his side. The blood is warm and tastes coppery. She works her mouth toward his bellybutton and kisses it, then moves her mouth still lower, and wraps her lips around his flaccid cock. The smell is strong and he tastes salty with sweat. Jesus looks down at her with exhausted eyes and she feels that she’s as close to a perfect love as she will ever be. Jesus’ cock begins to harden in her mouth. She continues to suck him off, warm spittle dripping down her chin, onto her naked white breasts. Finally, once his cock has hardened, she pulls her mouth off him, and she climbs his cross, careful that she put none of her weight on him. Holding the cross beam onto which he is nailed, she lowers herself onto him, onto Jesus’ cock, her newly formed cunt punctured for the first time, hymen breaking, and she hears a throaty – possibly protesting – grunt from the son of God. She is filled, yes, filled, God, filled, and she knows for the first time what it means to be a woman. She moves on Jesus, forcing him in and out of her repeatedly, and after a long time Jesus’ cock twitches feebly – he’s so weak – and he comes, shooting his seed into her, deep into her, and feeling this she comes herself, and—

Terry sits up, wires attached to his throbbing body, and he looks around feeling oddly frantic till his eyes catch something familiar, Dr. Susan Roberts, looking back at him from her ergonomic chair, sitting in front of her wall of computers and plasma screen monitors.

She has a bemused expression on her face.

“What?” Terry is still breathing heavily.

“Look at your reflection.”

Terry jumps off the table, wires tearing free of his body, and walks to the window, which reflects the room back at him, and he stares fixedly at his own reflection – the reflection of a woman.

She is beautiful. Blonde hair atop a pale round face. Thin torso carrying perky breasts with strawberry nipples. Small waist. Large feminine hips. A sweaty matte of tangled pubic hair pointing at her vagina, which is moist with sweat and come.
Terry reaches down and touches her cunt, then absently raises her fingers to her mouth and tastes them.

“Why?” She is unable to turn away from her reflection. “Why?”

#

Dr. Susan Roberts doesn’t answer because she doesn’t know. So there are tests – so many tests that by the end of the second week Terry feels as if she is some kind of voodoo child suffering the torments of a hateful enemy. They draw blood till her arms are covered in pinhole scabs. They collect urine. They scan her brain. They run tests A, B, and F, as well as nineteen other letters of the alphabet. They examine her throat and mouth. Test her lung capacity. They strap her into a gynecological chair and poke and prod at her cunt with stainless steel till it’s aching and sore.

By day fourteen, waking in her sterilized white room, her only real desire is to be out of this sanitized hell.

After getting out of bed, she takes a shower, washing off the night’s bad dreams, then she dresses in the blue pajamas they gave her and the foam slippers with the smiley faces stamped on the toes.

Just as she finished dressing, there’s a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Terry is close to cracking, feeling that if another vile of blood is stolen from her body she will explode into a billion pieces, literally explode, and then—

“It’s Dr. Roberts.”

Terry walks to the door and opens it.

“We know,” Dr. Roberts says excitedly. “We know why you’re still a woman.”

“What is it?”

It is two words, three syllables – that is all it takes – and everything is changed forever. And her life up to this point, so sad and pointless, is now filled with purpose. Her encounter with Jesus filled her with a love that would never abandon her.

“You’re pregnant,” Dr. Roberts says.