Jeff is a jerk. The son of a bitch is messing around with my friend Tonya and doesn't think I know about it. Either that, or he just doesn't think, period. I should have known better from the beginning. Jeff wears a digital watch, and I hate digital watches. Where's the poetry in "4:58pm"? It clings to the death throes of an exhausted hour and it anticipates another which will slowly waste away. Really depressing. Besides, digital watches and clocks are precise and insistent, even when they're totally wrong, just like Jeff, the anal- retentive linear thinker. You know how annoying it is when the clock on a VCR will blink on and off, saying “It's exactly twelve a.m.! It's exactly twelve a.m.!” forever and ever until somebody sets it straight? Turn that into a person, and you've got Jeff.
I need the constant rhythm of muffled tick-tockings like heartbeats which put me to sleep like a baby. I love the worn-down gold of the delicate old watches worn by ladies who aren't afraid to either show a little class or shop at flea markets. I love feeling like it's about seven o'clock-ish and will stay that way for a while, and when it’s not, it will be again tomorrow. The hands of the clock move in slow, steady circles, just how I like the hands of my lovers; they discover new places, and they always come back to those spots that are just perfect.
Now Tonya, on the other hand, wears one of those little pink plastic fashion watches. I don't mind those things so much because they usually don't even have real numbers- maybe four little hack marks. I don't mind Tonya's watch at all because it doesn't have any numbers on it, and besides, it's usually about five minutes fast or slow. That's a good way to think about time. She's too old for the flimsy plastic, but I think it's kind of sexy in a tacky little way. Tonya is a tramp, and I say that with nothing but admiration. I'd love to be the kind of tramp she is. She knows she's pretty, she's not afraid of flirting and flashing a little skin, and she knows how to get off with whoever she wants. She dresses up in worn-out old clothes and dime-store crap, she wears bright "fuck-me” red lipstick and metallic nail polish that's always flaking off. A lot of people think she's weird, but the truth is that she doesn't have to care about primping herself or being fancy. She'd be wasting her time playing Barbie-doll with herself because she'd be just as gorgeous in burlap and twine.
And, I have to admit... I want her. I've never done it with another woman before, but there's a first time for everything... if I only had the nerve. Me and the Cowardly Lion are old friends. I simply can't screw up the guts to really approach her. Every time I even think about it too hard I get a twisting sensation in my belly and my legs turn to mush. I get this swimming feeling in my head and seconds feel like hours. And with her fooling around with my boyfriend, I could no more try to make it with her than... than fly to the moon or turn back the clock.
Besides, there’s something about Tonya that's really kind of otherworldly. It's almost like her feet don't touch the ground, but of course that's not it. There's just something about her that people can sense, it's almost tangible, and you're either drawn to it or it gives you the screaming heebie-jeebies. I'm drawn to it very strongly, but I've seen lots of people (including Jeff!) get so uncomfortable in her presence that they make up excuses to quickly put themselves some distance from her.
So, it’s another lonely night with my horniness, and my fingers. I like to masturbate by stripping down in front of a full-length mirror first. I like looking at women's bodies, so I'm happy that I’ve got one. Sometimes I do a little dance; you know, grind my hips, shake it around a little... but that's not for tonight. No, tonight I need it slow and calm. I try to imagine Tonya's face on my body as I peel my tank top down off my shoulders and draw out my breasts from my bra, but it doesn't work. It’s me. I can't fool myself in the mirror. I put the straps back up and pull off the top regular-style over my head. I love the curve of my breasts as I lift my arms, so I hold it there for a second. I should have my bra off for this, it's all wrong. It's a dingy old one that used to be white, but now it's kind of gray and the elastic parts look all wrinkly. So the tank top comes the rest of the way off and I unhook my bra and put my arms back up. But the moment is gone.
The hell with this- it’s not working. It’s got to be the direct approach or nothing at all. It's a mixed blessing, but I can “jerk" myself off realty quick and come every time, just like a guy. Its better than for some women who can’t come at all, but I only come once, really hard, and it doesn't linger the way it does when I’m making love- it's just gone. I'm usually still turned on afterwards, but I’m never motivated for a second helping. So, my right hand dives into my pussy and my fingertips twirl and swirl around my clit; my left hand goes to my breasts and gives my nipples a few sharp twists and tweaks to make 'em stand at attention. My juices start right up and I relax into a comfortable, steady strumming, eyes closed, head back, I'm on autopilot. My body does the rest.
I'm thinking about Tonya. About the way her hips rock back and forth under her flimsy old thin skirts. Sometimes she wears old-fashioned bloomers or bicycle pants under her skirt and just lets it fly open all the time, hitches it up to sit down, or spreads her legs wide open. Sometimes she leaves more buttons open than she really should- if those tops even have those buttons- and wears a fancy bra or bikini top for everyone to see. Sometimes her straps are done up too tightly and they don't lie flat against her skin- they're stretched taught, leaving a beautiful little curve of her upper breasts bare, just begging to be stroked.
Mmmm, that’s nice. Time to take off those bloomers, Tonya. That’s right. Let's see those thin little panties of yours. She tucks a finger into a leg hole to draw 'em aside... there's her lovely muff! Ohmygod. She’s got it trimmed around the sides, shaved like a bikini wax. That's so sexy. She knows I'm watching her now; were sitting on the couch and drinking red wine, she smiles at me and pulls her panties off. Silly little things, what do we need those for? She leans in close and slides her hips to point more at me, one leg bent and up on the couch, the other leg stuck out to the side with her foot on the floor. She wants me to kiss it Me? Really? I couldn't I... Oh, to eat her pussy... Ahh Uunnrmghl Unngh...! Uuuuuh…!
And suddenly I'm at that moment where everything floats; my body is a mess of jangling, twitching nerves, I don't know where anything is or what's going on, I don't care. I'm vaguely aware of my body- somewhere off in space- pumping itself furiously and shuddering like a roof in a hailstorm. My glands are squirting whatever lovely brain chemical it is that makes me feel this way. All I see is a field of white, maybe there are some black stars or ribbons twisting through it. This place never changes. It’s the same every time I come. I see it fairly often, but I never manage to stay long. I wish it could last forever.
I turn over and rest on my side. I'm satisfied, but kind of depressed. No, just sad. I'd never eat her pussy. I’d never get the opportunity. And even if by some impossible chance I did, I wouldn't know what to do. I've never kissed a pussy before. I probably wouldn't be any good at it. Oh Tonya, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
"Take off that shackle."
Hmmm? Who said that? I must have drifted off to sleep.
"You did. But this isn't a dream. You're wearing a timeshackle. please, you have to take it off right now." The voice is soft, close in my ear, and strangely familiar. Tonya? No. Who is that? It's not Tonya. It's a woman. I'm in bed with some woman? That doesn't make sense. I went to sleep alone.
I open one groggy eyelid and sweep some of my hair out of my face. But its not my hair... wait, it is my hair, but its on somebody else's head. I can't focus on her face too well, but I recognize it instantly.
It’s my face.
I'm looking into my own face, on my own head, on another body just like mine in the bed with me, and she's naked like me, too.
“No, you're not as naked as I am. You have that shackle on your wrist. It has to go. Come on now, wake up a little." Did she just say something about how naked we are?
“How do you know what I’m thinking?" I hear my own voice- the one coming out of my throat, say. She takes my wrist and fumbles with the buckle on my watch- I’d forgotten about it before I drifted off. I'd taken off everything else in front of the mirror.
"I remember it, that's how. I'm you. This me was you. You will be this me. Both of us are still me, and we're sharing the same time again." She's got my watch off now, she handles it like it's hot she holds it with two fingers like some dead thing and tosses it towards the opposite wall. That's okay- it's a Timex. Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'. Her hands are still on my wrist and upper arm, they're warm and alive and they're my hands too.
"What? This doesn't make sense. How's it possible?"
"I don't know. I’m new at this. But it can be done. I'm here, aren't I?"
I looked across the room at the full-length mirror. Maybe...
