3. The Time Peep
Transportation implies travel and teleportation requires disintegration and
reconstruction. This is why I cannot associate our way of “moving” with any of the
aforementioned terms. We depart from point A and arrive in point B without traveling
and without reconfiguring our bodies. This is no transport and no beam up either. I don’t
know how to call it. Maybe it’s like we’d be inside of a huge holodeck environment and
we’re swapping backgrounds, programs or landscapes. If so, then this universe is nothing
more than a simulation…
With these thoughts in mind, I open my eyes to recognize the familiar dusty
windows of our old garage, to breathe the oily smell in the air and to taste the scent of
Don’s perspiration with my nostrils pressing the skin on his shoulder.
“Darn hot down here in the south.” Releasing me from his arms, he checks the car.
“Something missing, honey?”
“Nope. All is good. Just wanted to make sure. We were away for twelve hours.”
“You know, Don…” – before continuing my idea he opens the gate, inviting me out
to the sunny backyard – “…I wonder if you could sail through time the same way you are
taking us from a place to another, instantly.”
“How comes, dear…” He opens the door at the cute and cozy summer kitchen of
ours. I get inside to feel the comforting coolness on my skin. “A banana?” He handles
me one as he peels another to chase his hunger away. Immediately after I take my
banana, I see him heading for the cabinets, digging for some almonds and feeding
himself like a desperate. He then brings me a handful which I refuse only to let it go
down his throat, followed by a liter of water. He finally seems prepared to continue his
phrase. “How comes, my dear, that you are now preoccupied with time travel?”
“Not sure if time travel is possible, judging from what I’ve been hearing from you.
But I think that it would be nice if we could do some time peeping. Consider Google:
you enter a search term, or a phrase, in a field and then you are given a set of selected
documents or images, movies, music, whatever media has been indexed inside the
monstrous Google database, from their servers and networks. They extended this to
locations, with Google Maps. How about we enter a search term, a location AND a date,
so we can have a peek at, say, the romantic moments between Lissi and Franz. Live!”
I stop talking, peel my banana, meticulously eat it and wait for an answer, watching
how his awesomely tight ass contracts as he reaches for the jar of walnut cores.
“You definitely are up to something, Doris. Here, have some.” I dive my hand into
the oblong jar and snatch a couple of cores for me. I say nothing, staring at him with my
eyes wide open while he wonders with a new question. “Why do you wish to assist, live,
at the romance between Lissi and Franz?”
“Sometimes I find myself believing that the first classical porn stars were actually
the royal couples. Imagine those huge chambers surrounded by social walls…”
“Why do you call them social?”
“Because those walls had ears and also eyes. There was a closed society revolving
around the court. According to their higher or lesser ranks, members of this society had
access to the eyes and the ears. Especially the servants, I guess…”
“You naughty little bunny. Don’t you tell me that you wish to see Lissi fucked?”
“No. This may fit as one of your fantasies, although let me prevent you about her
very long hair, that would make it hard for you to see much skin during the act. What I
wish to study is the way she felt about being surrounded by so many company ladies.
How far she had to overtake her intimacy and how deep these chores scarred her soul.”
“I don’t think that kingly faces spent much time worrying about the servants.
Besides, they governed over a well-oiled mechanism of fear to keep the underlings at
bay, and at a fair distance.”
“You know that Lissi had an open heart and a poetic soul. Her dreams didn’t limp
under the weight of ranks and rules and the arcane etiquette. She fought that system
from within, from the top down, looking for peaceful ways to reform it, to improve it.
She was a true pursuer of happiness without being a revolutionary in the ugly, thuggish,
sense of the word – that type that sadly made the trend of history. In my opinion,
because of her honesty to herself, she has to be a perfect subject for us to take a peek at.
Don’t you think?”
“So be it, if you say so.” Holding that jar in his hand, he props the other arm on the
edge of the kitchen island so he can jump his ass up to sit on top of it. I wish to protest,
because I hate what he did, and it’s not for the first time, but he points a finger at me
demanding to allow him to continue his thoughts into speech. Not before thoroughly
masticating three or four more walnut cores. “Well Doris, what you’re asking from me is
a tough one. There’s no recorded media that we can access to provide us with insights to
Lissi’s intimacy. No Edison, no Facebook, no Google and definitely no Hungarian
filmmakers we can rely on with this one. Not an easy task, my dear.” He says this,
taking advantage of the silence that I’ve provided him, and then keeps eating walnuts,
watching the pans and pots hanging down from the ceiling.
“Would you mind taking your ass off the counter? I cook there!” My revolt is
answered with the same finger pointing at my lips. Sign that he’s up to something, that I
gave him an idea worth of dealing with in the most serious way, and that when he takes
the act of thinking very seriously then he must behave like a monkey. I still have to find
an explanation to this.
“I will get off the counter after you oblige to suck my dick, but this is not the
moment to think or speak trivialities. You raised the topic about a universal-reality
backup library. A realm where everything that has happened in the past gets stored and
indexed. This is just beyond awesome, honey. What if there is a universal recorder of
reality and what if we can break in and give you the peek over the moments you were
asking for. Wow! Those guys at Facebook had this idea with the timeline, but heck, you
still gotta upload your nonsense into their data base. What you are talking here takes us
to a whole different level: it is the universe that auto-records every move and every
gesture we make, and every thought we have. Storing them in some sort of meta
database. It is like nature’s default backups. Self updating. Did I tell you that you’re the
smartest bunny on this planet?”
“Aha… On this planet, you’re saying. Well, how about the bunnies on Jupiter then?
Were they smarter than me?”
“First, those were no bunnies. Chimeras they were, gruesome monsters. I still fear
the chill of their touch. It was bad of me dreaming about having my cock sucked by a
horde of females. Oh, smarter than you? Maybe in a malefic manner, because I felt no
cheering up and no sunshine coming from their looks. Just an evil and icy lust.”
He makes me feel ashamed that I brought up this topic. It sounded like a reproach
because it was one. Honestly, I can hardly abstain when remembering that he had a
fantasy of mouth-gang-banging a lot of women and that this actually happened between
him and the chimeras on Jupiter. Every time I feel like reproaching, I have to spit the
words out, to “extrovert” as he constantly teaches me. But when I deliver a reproach to
other people, I usually get a defensive treatment. Be it an excuse or a counter attack, I
can feel how the displeasure reverberates from the mouth, and soul, of my interlocutor.
Not the case with my Don! He returns an amoral type of reply. It is like I have been
talking about tires adhering to the asphalt and he tries to help me understand the balance
between slippage and friction. He finds no reason to excuse himself for betraying me
with his dreams because he never hides his fantasies from me. They are all spoken out,
in all confidence. Unfazed, he keeps his dirty mind open to my scrutiny. My problem is
that I’m not as good as him at this job. This makes me feel somehow guilty, and gives
him an upper hand on the psychological field. Which makes me change the subject back
to our problem.
“Let’s quit the Jupiter chimeras. Sorry for bringing them back into our discussion.”
“Alright. We have to find the backups of the universe. What a great idea you gave
me. Thank you, my adorable bunny! Oh wait, I’ve seen a guy in a movie that wanted to
express his deep gratitude to a gal by asking her to suck on his dick…”
“Yeah, sure, ha ha. That’s not gonna happen with us. At least not now, not until you
come up with a solution to my problem.”
“Guess I may have some options, but first…”
“No, no, no… First tell me about the options! Before I’ll have to officially express
my dick-sucking strike to you.” Stating the ultimatum, I let him rub his ass on the
counter and I toss myself on the sofa, legs crossed.
“Well, well, well. I may introduce you to the greatest filmmaker of all times. Oh,
what am I saying, he goes beyond times. Admittedly!”
“And that guy is?”
“Kronos, the daemon living deep under the stone core of planet Saturn.”
“You mean the one that sent the Cron drone to me?”
“Yupp, that one.” The guilt in me forces my eyes to stare a second more into his.
Maybe I can find a trace of reproach. But I can’t see any shadow in his smiling eyes.
“What if I had given him free way to fuck me then?”
“One way to find out: tomorrow I’ll take you there.”
“Take me where?”
“To Kronos! Right into his den, inside Saturn.”
“Why? Isn’t this dangerous?”
“It is very dangerous, but challenging at the same time. Let not mention that may
bring us that close to the data centers of the universe.”
Did he plan to scare me? No! Did he managed to? Decisively yes! My frightened
soul cannot stand much alone on the sofa. I wish to call him for a cuddle, to embrace
me, to give me strength. Understanding my desire at a glance, he puts the jar of walnuts
on the counter and jumps in front of me, inviting me to waltz on a music that we both
can imagine in harmony. Then he takes me to the bedroom where I have plenty of room
to cuddle in his arms. To breathe the scent of his hairy and musky chest. To suck his dick
and lick his balls. Yes, all my words of strike were a bluff, such a cheap delusion that no
one can believe. Not even me.
* * *