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Before I record my true adventures with a real honest-to-goodness time
machine, I want to mention one little fact. It may seem irrelevant and
unimportant, but here goes. Have you ever heard of R.H. Patterson? No,
of course not. Well, Richie P. had what we call a monster cock, a
substantial masculine gland. As for the size of his nuts, beh, who
knows?
Well, long story short. R.H.'s cazzo (dick) was long and wide. His
girlfriend, a sweet Mexican lady, had the kindly habit of sucking the
older gent's cock and sticking her finger in his ass if he failed to
shoot on time, to give him that slight edge that old-timers may need--
the infamous pinky in the prostate.
That morning, the Señora was having a grand time blowing Gabriel's horn
when his damn prick lodged in her throat, and she spasmed. The old guy,
sensing her difficulty, tried to pull out, but the dick was locked in
and refused to budge. Thirty seconds without oxygen was enough to send
the sweet lady to the promised land. When she arrived at the pearly
gates, her heavenly reception due to the cause of her demise--death by
cock sucking, remains unknown. Hopefully, no angel snickered.
Richie, when his dick went limp allowing his release, with some delay,
called the cops to report the unlikely event. The police, disrespectful
of the romance that the two older folks had going on, gleefully charged
Richard with murder. A jury examined the murder weapon behind closed
doors, debated the issue for five hours, and returned a not guilty
"ver-dick." R.H. was acquitted.
Several female jurors, and one male wearing a chartreuse shirt, asked
the Judge if they might have the defendant's phone number. Why? I have
no idea. You tell me.
The Judge ordered Mr. Patterson's cock to be declared an unlawful
unregistered weapon and forbade Richie from ever having another blow job
in the county. But why? Does lightning strike twice?
In a thoughtful gesture, the Judge gave Richie, on his triumphant exit
from the courthouse, a Kleenex box, a jar of cold cream, and a Hustler
magazine. In case you are wondering, my name is Ralph, not Richard.
Nuff said, on with the story!
Most people are unaware, unless they read one of the few announcements
in the Nation Record, that Patent Models, the actual machines or devices
submitted with blueprints to obtain the protection that a patent
provides for the inventor, are auctioned off whenever the storage
facilities of the Patent Office are overflowing.
Out of curiosity, several years ago, I attended the Patent Model Auction
held on April 1st at the Patent Office Museum, Madison Building, 600
Dulany St. Alexandria, Virginia. Of course, my brother-in-law insisted
on coming. Since he was the one with a car, how could I refuse?
The two of us had previously toured the Museum, so we were aware of its
nearby location. We weren't aware that the rear part of the building
housed the storage center where inventions were cataloged. It was by
accident that I spotted an announcement in the business section of the
D.C. Gazette, a business publication with minimal circulation, served
primarily for legal notices,
When I mentioned the auction to my brother-in-law, Isaac, he said,
"It sounds like fun. Knowing the idiots who work for the Feds, maybe
they will make a mistake and auction off something of value for a few
dollars."
"Not much chance of that," I said, " but I like auctions for entertainment and education. Let's see what happens."
Off we went. We got there a half-hour before the start when the doors
were still locked. There was a gaggle of bidders conferring with each
other outside. Just before 9:00 AM, an older man opened the door, and as
we filed in, he handed each of us a small pamphlet listing the items to
be auctioned and the terms of purchase, cash, or credit card.
A middle-aged man, standing next to me in the crowd, asked me what items
I was interested in. After taking a quick look at the list, I
responded,
"Oh, the Time Machine, that sounds useful."
"There is no such thing, that's an April Fool's joke."
"No, it's listed right here."
"Well, there is no such thing. Someone is pulling your leg, the man said."
We took our seats and the same man followed me in and sat to my right.
The patent models offered for sale that morning numbered eighty-two
items. A quick scan of the catalog brochure revealed a variety of
exciting things; a machine that removed cherry pits, an atomic clock, a
horse riding saddle without cinches, an electronic bra guaranteed to
increase your breast size, an electronic baseball cap to cure baldness
and, yes, there then the item that struck my interest, the listing for a
Time Machine.
The auction finally started. A young man carried an item, showing it to
the audience. The bidders took appropriate action, in some cases going
with frenzied bidding. I bid on a few things but was quickly overtaken
by other bidders. Before the auctioneer got to the Time Machine, my
sister called to say the basement water heater was leaking and the
basement was filling up with water. My brother-in-law insisted we rush
home.
Before leaving, I gave the man sitting next to me my paddle and asked
him to bid up to $35 on the object that piqued my interest. I had not
even seen it. If I had realized it was a colossal chair seated on top of
a large electronic black box with various controls on the armrests, I
never would have bothered. Not only was it oversized, but it turned out
to be heavy as hell. I bid thinking there was no chance I'd win. It
turned out I was the only person with an interest in the abandoned
carcass. It was no dainty loveseat.
A postcard arrived a few days later, giving me the surprising
notification that I'd won. On the yellow card were the hours when one
could claim their item. There was even a penalty if the winner did not
pick up his purchase. I asked my brother-in-law, Isaac Potee, to come to
help me. He was the only guy I knew who had a truck, a rusty old Ford
F150 that I was embarrassed to be seen inside. If I could have afforded a
moving company, I'd have hired them. Unfortunately, I had little more
than gas money, and a few bucks to buy lunch for Isaac, and then the $32
for the Time Machine.
I checked in at the office. The clerk was a good-looking woman, about
twenty-five years old. There was a sign on her desk with the name Tina
Dove She had a large pair of tits that gave me a hard-on as soon as she
got up from her desk. I could tell by the way they giggled, that they
were natural. I wondered if she pronounced her name, Dove or Do-vay?
"Yes, sir, can I help."
I handed her the postcard.
"You're Mr. Humingquat."
"Yes, that's me."
"I wondered who the guy was who bought that wrecked chair. I figured some hippy weirdo."
"You are?"
"Tina Dove, sir."
"Since you mentioned it, I was wondering who I'd have to deal with to
get my Time Machine. I didn't think it would be someone as attractive as
you, Miss?
"Dove, Miss Tina Dove."
"I don't know where the Dove's nest is, but I'm ready to go there.
"Well, that's a nice compliment. If you are going to continue making
passes at me, I'll call security and have you escorted out of here."
"Oh, excuse me, I meant no offense. Is this a 'me too' moment?"
"That's Ok," said the redhead. "I'm just fucking with you."
"I enjoyed that."
"Don't push it, Humingquat."
"Do you think the Machine works or is this whole listing just an April Fool's joke?"
"If it's on the list it must exist. I have no idea if it functions. I'm
sure if it did, we'd have heard about it. A lot of the stuff we auction
off fails to provide the service the inventor claims. Look here, the
application is marked in red letters "Refused." I'd guess it is
worthless."
"Not even $32?"
"If it does work, let me know."
"Well, if it does, maybe you'd like to take a trip with me into the future or the past, but I think the past is a safer bet."
"How do you intend to pay?" said the shapely clerk.
I paid the $32 cash plus a federal tax and proceeded to the loading
dock. I wrote Tina's name on the back of the card, figuring I'd like to
come back and ask her for a date. I handed her the pen, which fell off
the counter. As she bent over to pick it up, I got a quick look at the
heft of her large breasts. Tina winked at me when she regained her
posture.
"Are you married?" I asked.
"I'm a widow."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Don't be. It's just the frequent sex that I'm missing out on. That is a real bummer."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"I'm still just fucking with you, Humingquat. Sex is not a problem. " She wrote her phone number on an auction card and said,
"Give me a call when you return from the past."
"Will do, Mrs. Dove."
You can drop Mrs. I'm no widow."
"Well, thanks, Tina, I'll go collect the machine now, bye."
"You might want to go to the restroom first and attend to that bulge in your pants."
We both laughed, I think I turned red.
"At least we know you aren't gay," she said as I walked away.
My brother-in-law arrived about then. We followed a zig-zag path through
the halls to get to the rear of the building where there was a loading
dock. When we arrived at the loading dock, we could see they'd rolled
the Time Machine part ways out of the storage area. It was one big
bastard.
The machine was twice the size of an oversized chair, think "Lazy Boy
times one and a half." Attached to the back of the chair was a thick
folder of notes stamped "refused, does not function."
The chair was difficult to maneuver. We had to get a hand from the guy
running the storage area to open both doors so we could get it out on
the loading dock. I stood there like an idiot while Isaac ran halfway
around the building to the parking lot. Minutes later he drove the old
truck belching smoke and an occasional engine fart up to the dock,
Whoever had built the time machine had spared no expense. This was no
April Fool's joke. I looked around but could not spot a hidden camera
recording us for a comic U-tube clip that was soon to go viral. There
was a box of complicated electronics; a gyroscope, a calendar dial that
went backward and into the future. The inventor had even wired the old
Atari computer into the system. The idea of moving into an unknown
future scared me. Of course, what we intended to lug into my tiny
apartment was, in all probability, a fancy chair at best. At the least,
it was a ugly conversation piece. Now having seen it, I never expected
it would function.
Isaac had a small dolly tied to the back of the truck. Someone with a
sense of humor, probably my nephew Alan, had written with a thick black
marker, "Dolly-lama." We jimmied the chair up, so it mostly fit on the
small wooden dolly, although one corner hungover. We rolled it forward
on the loading dock, supporting the one corner that did not fit on the
dolly. When we got to the end of the loading dock, two guys who watched
offered to give us a hand. With four of us straining, we got the chair
lowered onto the back of the pickup truck. I realized the chair would
have been a lot easier to move if it had wheels on it. I made a mental
note to pick up some castors at the hardware store.
When we finally got the thing into my living room, Isaav said,
"I'm going to sit in that fucker and watch the game this Sunday. It
looks well-cushioned, and the arms are wide enough to hold a six-pack of
beer."
"If that will make your day, be my guest, but if you spill any beer on the electronics, I'll kick your ass."
"Hey, don't plug the fucker in. I could get electrocuted."
Since Isaac was quite rotund and weighed a good hundred and fifty pounds
more than I, there was no chance I was going to kick his behind, but he
got my point.
That weekend he showed up with a six-pack of beer and a plastic painting
protector, a thin plastic sheet square folded into an envelope from the
Home Depot paint department. I thought that was a nice touch until he
said he'd fished it out of his neighbor's garbage can.
We watched the game. That was when Isaac got a brain wave,
"If we could go back in time, knowing who would win, let's say the
Superbowl, we could lay a big bet with the bookie over at the bakery,
then time travel back here, collect our winnings and make a killing.
That is if this shit bucket worked?"
"No, that's too risky. We don't even know if it works, and if it did,
could we go back and then reverse to the future. We don't even know if a
future exists. It might be moment by moment. For all, we know tomorrow
is being built on the ashes of today."
"The asses of today," said Isaac.
"Ashes, you moron, ashes."
"I don't know what you are talking about and who are you calling a moron, you shit head?"
"Sorry, I apologize, " I said, "but look, we know who won today, right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Ok, if we could travel back to last week, we could bet on the winner, and it should be a sure thing, no?"
"I guess."
"Well, let me spend a few days reading all this paperwork and see if maybe we can get this baby working."
"Sounds good, Ralphie, I really need a new truck."
I spent the next few days familiarizing myself with the schematics. I
quickly figured out why the chair was so heavy. There were two 12 volt
batteries in parallel hidden in the compartment under the seat. Of
course, they were long dead, and I had to go over to the Auto Parts
Store, trade them in and buy two new ones. That set me back $225 on my
credit card. I was able to get the same size with the same terminal
position but with higher amperage. I figured the extra amperage would
give it more staying power between charges. The trickle charger that was
built in had a standard two-pronged plug and should be ideal for
keeping the batteries completely charged.
According to the inventor's manual, the electronic controls had to be
turned on in a preordained sequence. I took smartphone photos of the
dials before realizing there was a working memory log in the 64k
computer that was wired into the electronics. The inventor had written
in large red letters on a card attached to the power cord,
"Do not disconnect the power cord without turning off the machine first. To do so would blow the oscillator."
Of course, once I had the two new car batteries screwed in, the positive
charge needle said "Go," I could see whoever had tested the gizmo had
not read the directions. The oscillator was fried. I went on the
internet, and to my surprise, the very same oscillator built into the
electronics under the seat was still available from Amazon. No wonder
all the electronic hobby stores are out of business.
I'd had figured I'd have to go to some electronics outfit and rummage
through old boxes to find a replacement, but there it was, right on the
screen. I ordered it, and a day later, a medium-sized priority box was
waiting for me in the apartment mailroom. As soon as I unpacked it, I
removed the broken one and installed the new one. It was an easy switch,
three screws, and two-wire connectors.
I'm not an electronics whizz kid, but I can find a faulty resistor or a
potential circuit problem with a current tester. I worked my way through
the gizmo's electronic guts and was careful not to unplug the power
source unless the power switch was off. I even taped the power source to
a heavy-duty extension cord so no accident might occur. When I was sure
everything was in working order, I set the calendar for yesterday, but
then I paused.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. I had noticed the name of the
inventor, Otto Standike, and his address. Since it was a P.O.Box
address, it wasn't too helpful. The application for the patent was ten
years old, and the papers rapidly yellowing. I searched the web for an
Otto Standike of Clifton, New Jersey, and there he was.
It turned out that Standike was a professor at MIT, a noted expert in
esoteric theories of particle motion. I googled MIT and could not find
his name on a list of professors. I called the bursar's office. They
said they had no current record of him. That meant he was either dead or
resigned. There was no other useful information.
I found internet back cops of the local paper, the "Clifton Gazette,"
and there he was. Unfortunately reported missing ten years ago.
Why? No explanation, just a mention in the paper that a neighbor had
seen bright lights, loud noise, and when he rang the bell, no one
answered. Conjecture ascribed his disappearance to a meth lab explosion
or a case of spontaneous combustion or was it just another elaborate
April Fools hoax?
I started looking for the phone numbers of any person with the
inventor's uncommon name. I started calling them to see if they were
related or knew anything about him or his disappearance. The first five
calls were of no use. Then I hit pay-dirt.
I found myself talking to his sister Hannah. Yes, she knew all about Otto and his Time Machine.
"Miss Standike, when exactly did your brother disappear?
"That's an easy date to remember, it was on April 1st, some ten years ago."
"Did you know he invented a Time Machine?
"Oh yes, he was quite proud of his accomplishment."
"Where do you think he disappeared too?"
"Oh, I'm not worried, he's somewhere lost in time. Must have found a niche where he felt wanted and decided not to come back."
She was amused when I told her I'd bought his patent model.
"Well, be careful with it. My brother wasn't a trickster. That thing probably will work if you know what you are doing."
"Where do you think he might have gone?"
"Well, the love of his life died ten years before he disappeared. It is
conceivable he went back in time to be with her. Perhaps bringing a cure
from the present."
"Yes, that makes sense. Did Otto ever discuss any of his time travel theories with you?"
"Well, I'm a beautician, not a scientist. But I do remember one thing.
He believed that there was the possibility that if a machine propelled
you back in time, that it might be dangerous to go very far back because
the time traveler might also be affected.
That is to say, and I only am repeating what Otto told me. His postulate
was, if a 40-year-old man went back ten years in time, when he arrived
he himself might have lost ten years. In that case, he would be 30. So
maybe you can't go back too far, or you will wake somewhere in the past
as a baby? He was unsure if you could travel forward. There is the
question, does the future exist beyond one second of our time."
"Wow, I never thought of that."
"Otto thought of everything. He was a professor of Physics at MIT, a brilliant scientist."
"Did he ever describe the controls or the potential of his machine? Did he ever get it to work?"
"Well, I don't know. He did say he had found a way to bounce the time
signals off a satellite so the traveler could land in a different place
from where he started. There was some limitation, he said, but somewhere
around 3000-mile radius was his calculation."
"That's helpful because there is a geographical component to the
settings, and I wasn't clear how it worked or if there were any
limitations."
"As I said, be careful. You might end up somewhere you really do not want to go."
"Thank you so much, Miss Standike."
"I only keep the phone listing in my maiden name in case Otto shows up. But I'm married now. Mrs. Brady is my name."
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Brady."
"Oh, just one thing. If you get the machine working and you find Otto, tell him his sister misses him and wishes him well."
"I might be able to do that because the machine had a memory log, and
the entire electronic setup is linked by syncing to its original
duplicate time machine. Standike's notes indicate he constructed two
machines, one for the Patent Office and one for personal use. Mine, the
one I acquired from the Patent Office, is supposed to be a duplicate
working model."
"Well, if you find him, tell him I love him."
"If he disappeared in time, I might be able to go to that same point of departure and perhaps track him down."
Was I deluding myself, half believing the Time Chair was genuine? Of
course, it was a real chair--of sorts, but did it travel through time?
I'd soon find out.
Now, let me interrupt the flow of the story for a few moments. There is
an aspect of my personality that I haven't yet disclosed. I am 34 years
old and still had a childhood obsession with Marilyn Monroe. I've
probably owned and read every book and seen every movie she's ever
performed in. But if Standike's sister's recall of the inventor's theory
was correct, I couldn't go too far back in time.
If MM died in 1962, what person or event could I travel back to? I
imagine Standike went back to find his dead wife while she was still
alive. Maybe he even had some plan to keep her from dying? Or perhaps he
would try to take her into the future where medical care would be
improved.
I needed a test. Let's say I'd go ten years back in time. If I looked
younger when I arrived. That would be enough to establish the validity
of the test run. If I looked the same, then I could go back further than
my age. I decided to take a trial test the following Sunday morning.
My little world is relatively insignificant regarding the big questions
of our era, but it's my life. Where was I ten years ago? Oh, Christ, I
was dating that co-worker, Ruby, her last name was Chow, yes Ruby Chow.
Oh my God, what a piece of ass! Yes, she was the first Asian I'd been
intimate with. She was a fucking acrobat. Sex with her could go in any
of ten directions. Being lightweight, she could move like a hovercraft.
Ending up on top of me with my cock deep inside her pussy.
After I proposed, she broke off the engagement to go back to China to
care for her Dad. We lost contact, it was as if she was swallowed up by
the huge Chinese dragon of a country. I never heard or saw her again.
Now was my chance to rekindle that romance. Of course, I thought I'd
someday travel to China to find her, but I don't speak Chinese and have
limited finances. I hadn't really appreciated the complexities of such
an attempt.
The great day of the Time Machine test finally arrived. I had tidied up
the place just in case I was unable to return. I left a note for my
brother-in-law telling him I was about to test the Time Machine and that
if some catastrophe were to occur, he would be able to guess why. I
figured if I was successful and returned, I'd rip up the note.
I sat down on the oversized chair, turned on the power switch, and heard
a weird hum and echo. I surveyed the controls, carefully set the dials
to take me back in time without changing the location. There was a
blinking digital seven-inch display monitor with the word "do not change
location." I wanted to test if the machine could propel me back in time
in the same apartment, but ten years earlier.
I guessed the apartment would look different. I didn't remember exactly
how different, but I figured that the wall calendar with a fuzzy
platypus photo of 2021 would be replaced with whatever animal was in the
2011 calendar. That would be the first indication that the machine
worked.
I pushed the large red launch button, and the machine began to hum,
louder and louder and then a large crackling sound, then a sonic
explosion, as if the building had split in half. An incredible feeling
that I was being taken apart atom by atom-- and then, there I was.
Was I back in my apartment of ten years previous? I looked in the
mirror, and I looked more or less the same, but someone had rearranged
the furniture. It wasn't the apartment I remembered. I looked at the
wall, over the telephone, and the calendar featured a koala bear. I've
been buying these "Animals of Australia" calendars for years. I guess
I've become, well, predictable.
I opened the door and picked up the morning paper. Oh my God, it was dated ten years back, no longer 2021 but I was in 2011.
I walked into the hall that separated the living room from the bedroom,
took a quick look. There I was, under my sweetheart Ruby, my hips going
up and down, fucking her like a locomotive. Ruby was sitting on my cock,
swaying to every thrust, saying,
"Don't stop, more, I'm almost there."
Oh Jesu, you can't beat an Asian girl in bed, so light, so agile. Oh no, realized I'm looking in at me!
What am I thinking? I saw myself, now there were two of us, and there
she is. I was scared. If I ran into my doppelgänger, would something
terrible happen? I quickly backed out of the bedroom hall and gently
closed the door. I rushed back into the living room, tripped over a lamp
cord, knocked over that blue Delph China Pitcher in the shape of a cow
that Mom had given me. I remembered that keepsake, which somehow had
disappeared years ago.
I got up, stepping over the shards, I jumped into the time chair, and hit the purple
For a moment it was as if time stood still, then that feeling of
molecular deconstruction that reversed itself. There I was, I'd returned
back to my current apartment. The decor was correct. The platypus
calendar was up on the wall. When I checked today's paper, it was dated
2021. I was back! The whole trip had lasted less than 17 minutes, and
after seeing myself having sex with Ruby, I still had an erection.
By now I had learned, my earlier question of the potential transgression
of one's physical being, the concept of being reduced in age, was null
and void. Time travelers did not get younger as they moved back through
time. I'd seen the proof that I could navigate time. Time travel did not
affect my physical state. My age and health remained constant. My mind
wandered away from science and physics. Maybe I could get to meet my
dream girl, Marilyn Monroe, after all.
As a teenager with an angry pecker, I fell in love with Marilyn after
watching her act in the classic film "Bus Stop." She was cute as hell.
Afterward, I often thought of the movie as "Bust Stop." She had such a
great pair of tits! Although an adolescent may be excited by a freak of
nature with a 60-inch bust line with tits that hang like country hams,
her breasts were a perfect size. Not too small, not too large. They were
flawless in proportion, and they were natural erect breasts, soft to
touch, not filled with plastic bean bags or Home Depot acrylic putty.
So, of course, as soon as I fell in love with the blond actress, she
became my masturbatory model. If anyone deserved that honor, it was MM. I
read with glee Norman Mailer's book, filled with terrific photos by
Larry Schiller. Some of which I'm embarrassed to say were cum spotted
with my youthful exuberance. Mailer, who had never met Marilyn, wrote
the book, was hesitant to reveal the details of her sexual experiences.
That was the nature of journalism at the time. For example, John F.
Kennedy was a noted philanderer, but the media looked the other way.
MM's natural sexual personality portrayed so well on the screen, was not
matched by Mailer's imagination on the page, although Norman ended the
book with his assessment that Marilyn was murdered by the FBI. Still, in
another leap of faith, Mailer was unfair to Miller, MM's third husband,
perhaps due to professional jealousy?
Mailer did best when he had met the person he was writing about. Read
Mailer's "Esquire" interview with Madonna, if you doubt my take.
Likewise, one might consider that Norman had put together a writing
factory to turn out his lengthy opi. Who was doing the writing that
Mailer pasted together? Doctorow, for example, was one of his clerks
before Doc's novels hit the big time. But if Norman's name was below the
title, the book was a guaranteed best-seller.
I had a curious idea for the use of the Time Machine. I thought it might
be the perfect research tool. I would visit Marilyn at different times
of her life, especially after her formative experiences. I wanted to
examine, when possible, the sexy actress's intimate charms in person.
You can read all you want about bees, but a taste of honey is the only
way you will ever know what honey tastes really like, or for that
matter, a bee sting.
In her early films, MM was portrayed as innocent, yet always ready to
enjoy sex. She was typecast as a naive young woman, optimistic with a
sense of humor. Was her film person in any way matched by her real
personality? What was the "sex bomb" really like?
I knew that Marilyn, back in 1948, uncredited, had performed an intimate
sex scene in what was at the time called a "Stag film." Today it would
be called porno. This was before her movie career got started, and she
was flirting an alternative career, full-time prostitution. This 8mm
Stag film showed up a few years ago and was reportedly sold for one and a
half million dollars. The buyer at the time said it would never be
viewed by the public. He wanted to keep MM's breach of etiquette a
secret to protect her "rep." Was this another knight seeking to rescue
the damsel?
Such reported sales figures are often inaccurate or fictitious, designed
to increase the product's value that will change hands after the
favorable publicity. A 16mm Stag film has also surfaced a few years
after the first, valued at $500,000, but there are serious questions of
its provenance. Many suspect it is a fake.
Establishing the integrity of Marilin's participation in the 8mm film
might be an excellent place to start my research. In that film, which
has been leaked and is readily available for viewing on the internet. We
see Marilyn as her early uninhibited self, sucking a thin long cock,
which oddly looked very familiar. With this research project in mind, I
prepared for an exploratory trip. I collected older banknotes and
adopted an outfit de rigor, a plaid suit and tie, that fit that period.
I set the control meter on the Time Machine for Jan 28, 1948, and the
location for arrival at a grocery store parking lot in Burbank not far
from the address I'd deduced was where MM lived at that time.
I sat down on the leather cushioned Time Machine chair. I knew that the
Stag film was supposedly filmed in the first week of February. I was
able to deduce the date from the edit code on the copy found at the
porno site. If you, dear reader, are interested in viewing the famous
stag film in blurry black and white, the film can be found on several
internet sites.
I thought if I arrived a few days early, I could ask MM if she'd been
booked for such an unsavory event. To a highly promiscuous girl like
Marilyn, another sex act, albeit on film, was not of much importance. It
paid the bills. To the men of our time, seeing the young sex goddess in
her earliest sex film was a delight.
With those thoughts in mind, I hit the red button and was launched into
the past. Burbank in 1948 was a tiny town, not the industry's television
city that it would become. It was a cool day, and I had on a warm wool
jacket. I was glad I'd added rubber wheels to the bottom of the chair.
It made it much easier to move. I pushed the chair to the rear of the
small Grocery and paid the manager a ten-dollar bill to store it for me
for a few days.
I started my inquiry after walking a few blocks to the homeowner of a
small Burbank bungalow. It was the address I'd found where Marilyn had
lived. Mr. Guisse said he rented it out in the summer and that Marilyn
was no longer there. He volunteered to give me MM's Hollywood address.
She had no phone but was staying off Hollywood Blvd., about ten blocks
east of Vine. I caught a bus heading to Hollywood, and an hour later, I
was trudging along Hollywood Blvd.
It was further away than I thought, but a little extra walk was ok. It
was an old clapboard building, probably built around 1900. There were
several apartments. I'd had trouble finding the street number for the
building, but there it was on the side of the entry door, partially
obliterated by a note some tenant had left, saying the bell ringer was
dead. I went in the open door and examined the mailboxes. I spotted
several names on the mailbox for apartment 2B. One of the people listed
was Baker. I knew Marilyn used Baker as her real name back then.
My research had informed me that Baker was the first husband of Gladys
Pearl Monroe, Norma Jean's mother. She had been married two and half
years, to a Jasper Newton Baker, who fathered two children. Jasper Baker
had skipped town, after the divorce, kidnapping the two children,
taking them back to Kentucky.
Gladys married again in 1924 to a Norwegian immigrant, Mortenson, and
divorced soon after. In 1926 she went to work in the film industry as a
film cutter and apparently got pregnant by her boss, Charles Gifford. On
June 1st, 1926 MM was born. Gladys listed Mortenson as the child's
father, Gladys' mother had MM baptized with the name Baker to hide her
illegitimacy. Gifford was married and wanted nothing to do with the
child. With Gladys, it seems men came and went.
Due to Gladys disintegrating mental health, she was institutionalized
when Norma Jean was seven. As a result, Norma Jean ended up living in
orphanages and foster homes. In an interview, Marilyn once said,
"I loved her, but mommy was a bit of a nutcase. The men loved her,
especially when she was having sex with them, afterward not so much."
MM's birth father, suspected to be Charles Gifford, never recognized the
child. Marilyn was quoted as saying she wanted to put on a dark wig and
seduce her real Dad to show him what he was missing. She grew up
without a father's love and seemed to have a twisted idea, confusing
incest with fatherly love, probably a result of molestations by older
men.
I went up to 2B and knocked. A half-dressed brunette answered the door and asked,
"What the fuck do you want?"
"I'd come to see Norma Jean."
"If you're looking to get your weenie sucked, I can give you a better blow job for $20."
"Thanks, that's very reasonable. Could you tell Miss Baker that I'm here and I have to see her about something personal?"
"I figured you were into some dicking. So you're partial to blonds?"
"I guess."
"The blond cunt is in the bathroom, jerk, showering her pussy. Can't you hear the water bill rising?"
"Excuse me." I made my way through the hall on the worn wooden floor
with bends and squeaks just as the braless beauty opened the door clad
only in a towel.
Yes, it was her, beauty marks and breasts with nipples that saluted whoever was up in heaven.
"Hey sweetheart," said Norma Jean.
"Miss Baker? I wanted to ask you something."
"Yes, Honey, if you wait in my bedroom, I'll be right in to serve you."
"I'm here as a reporter. We are doing a feature on rising starlets," I lied.
"I haven't done any films yet, but the boss at the studio promised me a
contract if I'd suck his meatballs once a week. I was offered the same
deal from the Heb over at Universal, but the guy is so old it takes a
half-hour for him to bust a nut."
"That's terrible."
"I'll say, especially after I blew the old guy, I couldn't believe how
much jizz he had in those big old balls. He's probably been saving it up
for half a year. Don't print that, Honey."
"Just between you and me, Miss Baker, I can see you are struggling, and sex for pay seems to be your motto today."
"Hey, that's cute. What's your name?"
"Ralph, Ralph Fine Humingquat."
"Fine Ralph, you got a nice cock, Mr. Fine Ralph?
"No complaints."
"Let me take a look."
In one swipe of her hand, she unzipped me and had my cock in her palm quick as a flash.
"It's just for an examination. I know more about dicks than a dickologist."
"You mean a urologist."
"Ain't you the smart one."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have corrected you."
"You think I'm a dummy? Well, Sweetie, you won't think so after I suck your dicky."
She was already squeezing my cock, and I felt like I was a fish caught in a barrel. She took over and pushed down my jeans."
"Well, Fine Ralph, that dick seems healthy, nothing to be ashamed of
Ralphie. I've seen a lot worse and a few better, but I'd say, ah-- it's
ok. But if you want your girl to give you a freebie, you should really
tidy up that hair nest you've got. Even a penguin wouldn't lay an egg in
there."
I must have frowned.
"Oh, I'm just kidding, Ralphie boy, it's a fine dick. Come into the bedroom. I'll give you a trim. No charge."
And she pulled me by my dick right into the small bedroom off to the left.
I could see two girls down the hall and heard one exclaim,
"She's leading him around by the cock." It rang out so loud enough I could hear it.
"Oh, pay no attention to them," Norma Jean said, slamming the door.
"Drop your drawers," she said as she picked up small scissors off her bed table. It won't take but a second or three."
"Wait, Miss, what are you going to do?"
"Just cut off your dick," she answered matter of factly and looked earnestly into my eyes. Then she smiled.
I was scared, and it showed, "No, please.."
"Of course not, you fraidy cat, I'm just going to tidy up the jungle."
I dropped my pants that I'd been holding up and my briefs as well. MM set to work snipping my pubic hairs.
After a few minutes, "Doesn't that look better?"
She held a silver-rimmed mirror in front of my pubes.
"Yeah, you're right, it does."
"You know how much money you are going to save getting free blowies from the girls?"
She came closer, her lips parted, and my dick grew a few inches in anticipation.
"But this one ain't a freebie."
"Oh, Miss. Oh, oh..."
I was rendered speechless as she began to suck my cock, like a
firefighter putting out a fire. Her head with its blond ringlets was
moving in and out as she pumped my cock. It was all the way deep in her
throat. I could feel the tightness. I knew dicky boy was just about
ready to explode,
"Oh, oh- oh ooooh." It took no time at all. "Ah-hem, Oh yeah, Ohhhhh. Yes, Mama!"
She gurgled the cum as if she was an actress in a bordello, got up off her knees, tilted her head back, and swallowed,
"You know there is nothing better for the complexion than a shot of
morning jizz once a day. The morning jizz has all the testosterone.
Great for the complexion, you know."
I stared at her in wonderment.
"That will be $20."
I didn't say anything.
"Oh, oh ok,' I peeled off an aged $20 from the bills I'd cherry-picked to match the date of this trip.
"Well, if that's all, goodby, Sugar."
"I wanted to ask if you were doing a stag film soon?
"Why?"
"Well, I" d like to see how it's done.
"Ok, you can tag along as my assistant."
"Ah, well, when?"
"Tonight, Mr. Skinny Dick. Meet me at 8:30 PM on the corner of Santa
Monica Blvd. and Highland. There is a dance club inside a mini-mall.
It's on the second level, and it's called 'Retro.'' They have a backroom
all tricked out for filming. I'll be out front on the street. Wait for
me. I'll get you in."
There I was, on an un-California evening, as cold as a witch's tit,
waiting, God knows how long, and thinking she's stood me up. After a
half-hour, the blond bombshell gets out of a green pickup truck, grabs
me by the hand.
"Hurry, we're late."
She runs me into the plaza, up the stairs, which she maneuvers expertly
with her high heel shoes, and past the big black bouncer drinking a beer
out of a brown bottle.
The club is not very busy. There is a jazz recording playing. We rush
through the office door, into the room behind it, where a cameraman and
bright lights await.
A voice comes out of the darkness. "You're late."
Then another voice with an east coast accent, "Where's the guy, Doll? The one with the big dick."
"He couldn't make it, flaked out at the last minute, but Ralphie will be his stand-in."
"Whoa, what are you talking about," I whispered.
"You have got to be a gallant knight and save this Damsel in distress,"
said Norma Jean, "And there's a hundred clams in it for you, cash."
And that is how I got roped into doing a stag film with Marilyn. S I
said, you can find the old clip on any of a few porno sites. Lousy film
quality, but that long thin pecker that MM sucks and fucks is my weenie.
She also makes me perform cunnilingus. I get to do all this on a
beautiful young starlit with a full bush of pubic hair. The whole thing
is really old school.
I also got to fuck her in various positions, but my face is rarely
visible. I'm not JFK, as many viewers of this old clip had surmised. I
assumed Kennedy's dick was fatter, but Jackie's half-brother, Gore
Vidal, said Jackie told him that Kennedy's cock was deformed, and he was
a quick ejaculator with one ball decidedly hanging lower than the
other. Well, who cares? I would be the first to say JFK was a beautiful
man, and I'm not gay.
When we finished completing every sex act that two human beings could
muster, I called it a night. Ok, my dick is skinny, but it's a good 8
inches, well 7 1/2 and I've never had any complaints about its
performance. If you want to see me in action, the clip is still up on
various porn sites. I think I'm repeating myself. I guess I'm proud of
it.
Once my sexual chore was over, I slipped out the door without saying
goodby. I hailed a passing taxi, and I found my way back to the Burbank
Grocery where I'd left the Time Machine. I wheeled the Time Machine out
of the barb wire storage cage where it sat surrounded by assorted
grocery showcases. I pushed it clear, hopped into the seat, hit the
purple return button, and was gone in a loud flash. Instantly I was back
in my Hollywood apartment in 2021.
Believe me, after a two-hour fuck session with the Queen of Sex. I was
beaten. Whoever the film editor was, I'm sure it took a lot longer to
edit the pieces together than it took to film us. If our positions were
not just right, the camera guy would make us go through the whole scene
again.
If it hadn't been with sexy Norma Jean, there is no chance I could have
kept regaining my erection. She would give me a quick blow job if I were
having any problem getting erect. Her tight trigger finger around the
base of my penis kept the blood from flowing out. I'm sure you know
that's what keeps a cock erect.
MM was every man's wet dream. Our encounter was a battle of man versus
woman, and it finished nearly a draw, but with the arrow pointing in the
direction of the blond starlet. She still was thumbs up when my tired
cock was pointing down, in fact, I believe she could have had another go
round with several more guys.
So yes, I was exhausted. And, I was a mess. I even had to scrape the
dried cum off my balls with a fine-tooth comb. That jizz, when dried,
mixed with MM's pussy juice, is like Borden's white glue. Getting it off
was no walk in the park. Having sex with Norma Jean was easy but
recovering from it was not. That woman spewed sexual fluids like a
dragon spits fire.
I ended up going into my kitchen and grabbing one of those green
abrasive pot cleaners to get all the cum and pussy juice off my legs.
After this adventure, I swore I was going to take off a few days. Being
self-employed as a window cleaner was my good fortune because I could
come and go. No one really cared if I was on time as long as I got the
job done.
Of course, on occasion, I'd be cleaning the window in my tight short
shorts when I'd get spotted by an observer. If she were horny, she'd get
naked and lift the window. That was the cue, that it was time to take a
break and join her. On occasion, the looker turned out to be an
interested male. That was when I'd have to make a quick decision. These
are the day-to-day problems when you have a big dick; sometimes I wish
that were not the case, not really.
It took me about two weeks to recover my mojo. I started to plan my next
trip to check on MM's progress. I figured a good time to arrive would
be after the baseball guy got his divorce. That would put us in the
spring of 1954.
By that time, Marilyn was a famous starlet. She and "Jolten Joe" had
lived together for only eight months. By now, they were living apart and
waiting for the lawyers to finalize the marriage. Before the split,
they had rented a home in a fancy development in the Hollywood Hills.
Built in 1938, it was called "Outpost Estates." The homes were walled
and gated. The press described their domicile as of Mediterranean style.
To me, they were really Spanish Colonial. The development was built
overlooking Runyon Canyon and was the first expensive enclave
constructed after the depression of 1929.
It was a big home, 3,335 square feet, big enough for a large family, but
that was never to be. MM, after various gynecological interventions,
was unable to have any children, a problem that the "baseballer" found
unacceptable. He was Italian and family-oriented. Strangely in his two
previous marriages, there were no offspring. Maybe a foul ball once hit
him in the "bird's nest?" The home was a two-story home with 18 rooms,
including four bedrooms, four-and-a-half bathrooms. Joe once told a
reporter,
"There were bathrooms I never pissed in."
There was a tower room, a living room with a wood-beamed ceiling, and
access to an entertainment terrace. I set the controls to land right
next to the living room. on the terrace. I made sure not to end up in
the grotto-like pool. With the electronics of the Time Chair chair, I
probably would have gotten electrocuted.
Now that Marilyn and I we're in no need of an introduction, having known
each other intimately, I figured it would be like the meeting of old
friends, maybe even lovers. I didn't want to interfere in her life. I
knew she was divorcing her second hubby, the baseball guy. Figuring she
might be horny, I decided it was time for another visit. I dropped in
October of 1954.
I was going through some books on MM when I found this memorable quote.
When asked what it felt like to be behind the camera for her unique and
marvelous visage, Marylin responded,
"It's like being screwed by a thousand guys and you can't get pregnant."
Of course, when I pushed the door from the terrace open, Marilyn recognized me immediately,
"Well, hello, Mr. Skinny Dick, How did you get in here."
"I noticed the terrace door was open, so I came to say hello. I hope that's OK?"
"I haven't seen you in a long time, not since the night we did the Stag
Movie. Where have you been, sweetmeat? Where'd you go? Did ya get lost
in time? You never got paid for the stag film. I kept your hundred in my
jewelry box so I wouldn't lose it. I knew you'd show up. I've been
saving it for you since 1948."
"Thanks, Norma Jean."
"Oh, they don't call me that no more. Just use Marilyn."
"Sure."
"How's it hanging, Slim? I don't forget a good fuck, and your skinny
long cock did a great job. That smile on my face in that black
&white stag clip didn't come from acting lessons. It was a pure
sexual joy."
"That's really nice of you to say."
"Yeah, Joe, my recent-to-be ex, was OK in the sack, but he never hit the
right spots with that big salami of his. I don't think I've had a good
fuck since 1947, but Jesu, I'll tell ya, you ain't gettin' out of her,
lessen I get a piece of your sweet cock."
And she moved closer, and she started to unbutton my pants.
Well, one thing led to another, and she asked me,
"Pardon the expression, but would you like to start with a "Butt fuck."
Excuse my French but I've been constipated from the rich food they serve
at Chasen's. A good "BF" always has the effect of clearing me out.
Naturally, I'll douche first.
Did I want to start the session with my skinny cock 8 inches up her ass?
Wow, I hadn't thought of that. I haven't done anal since I was dating a
Hollywood tranny back when ass was as common as key lime pie.
She left me for a few minutes to shower and get her ass clean. I popped
in with her at the end of her shower off to wash off the time dust. I
noted that the bathroom didn't smell great afterward, but I didn't
mention it. Preparation for the tushy sex is a sensitive subject.
We were seated on the oversized white couch next to the terrace, nude,
with only towels around us. We were kissing and making out when MM said,
spreading a large towel over the couch seating surface.
"OK Ralph, don't you think it's time? "
That's the kind of invitation that doesn't go unanswered. MM got onto
all fours on the couch. I got behind her. She had pre-lubed, so I got my
dick at the right angle to skewer her. Helpful as always, MM reached
back, grabbing my dick and adjusting the trajectory. The game was on!
I had my dick up MM's ass in two or three thrusts. I was having the time
of my life. Her's was the most perfect ass I'd ever seen. We were
having fun, a great time, and I was doing everything I could to keep
from cuming too quickly in her lily-white tush. Every once in a while,
I'd pull out to slow down so I wouldn't shoot my cum too quickly.
I'd slide my dick along the cleft between her gorgeous ass cheeks and
then shove it back up the old kazzo, when bam, the fucking terrace door
swung open. It was that ex-husband of her, the salami guy. He was an
easy 6'2" with long muscular arms. With him swinging his fists, he
scared the shit outta me. There he was, ranting and raving at me and
holding a pile of divorce papers. I stopped fucking, and I pulled out in
fear for my life. As my cock broke free of her luscious ass, he was
right in front of me when my balls let go with a timely cum shot that
hit him right below the waist.
"Yikes!" He shouted. He was trying to wipe the juicy cum off his crotch.
He was as surprised as I was and none too pleased. The baseball guy
called that shot a foul and started screaming at me.
"What did you do, you pervert. Do you think I'm gay? I've got your dunk
all over my pants. I'll have to throw them out. That stinky shit does
not wash out."
It seems the court date for finalizing the divorce was the next morning.
Salami guy was unsure if he wanted to give up the best poontang in the
world and go back to choking the chicken. His mouth let go with a burst
of profanities that would have gotten him thrown out of any baseball
game I ever heard of—all the while, waving his big cummy fist at me.
"You fucking cunt," he shouted at MM, "we separated for a few months. I
come over here tonight to ask you to forget the divorce and get us back
on track with our lives and marriage. What do I find? You and some gay
boy, scoping out your poop shute with his worthless skinny dick."
I felt the need to defend myself,
"My dick is not worthless. Just the shaft is skinny. The cock's head is wider."
"You shut the fuck up," he snarled at me.
"If you wanted a real cock, Marilyn, I could' bust your ass open with this fat pepperoni."
The baseball guy took out his huge prick and started to chase me around
the couch, hitting me on my naked behind several times using his giant
dick as if it was some truncheon.
This guy knew how to run the bases better than I did. All hell broke
out. I kept ahead, but he kept catching up and battering me with his
wang. The chase ended when a cop, called by a neighbor, jumped between
us, grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me out on the terrace.
Realizing by the grace of God I'd managed to get out of the place alive,
I headed for the Time Chair. On the plus side, I'd fucked Marilyn in
the ass, an unforgettable event. On the negative side, I'd fucked up her
possible reunion with the bat boy. Oh well, ya can't win em all.
I was still nude when I got back into the poltroon and slammed the
purple return button just before the lawn sprinklers were gurgling and
set to go off and fry the Time Machine..
ZAP-kaboom-white light- I was back in 2021 as fast as an electron can
circumnavigate a hydrogen nucleus. That's when I remembered I'd never
collected the hundred Marilyn was holding for me.
I spent the next few weeks mulling over the damage I'd done to MM's
marriage reunion. Then I became irate that the baseball champ had
deprived me of a few extra minutes of extra ass fucking. I mean, I'd
lost a real "fuckeroo" of an evening with a sex goddess. I started
wishing I'd had a bit more time with that ass, and maybe I would have
gotten it in her quim as well. Excuse me if I dwell on the target of my
desires.
By the time forty days had passed, I was ready to go again. A break was
what I needed. I decided once more to travel through time and try to
meet up with MM. I knew her reported demise was ahead, and I wanted to
have sex with her while she was still alive. Fucking a corpse,
necrophilia, is not my idea of a fabulous date.
For quite a while, I felt I was responsible for MM's breakup. From what
I'd read of the "Yankee Clipper," I thought "Jolt-in Joe" was a nice
guy. Maybe if we'd met under better circumstances, he might have shared a
few baseball stories with me. Joe was certainly a better match for
Marilyn than I could offer. Supposedly the divorce centered around his
desire to have children, a wish he never achieved.
It was assumed the problem was MM's snatch, defenestrated countless
times by back-alley butchers. But maybe it was Joseppi's banana that
lacked the seeds? I'd read that Joe had fathered a son back in 1941 with
his first wife. That kid turned out to be a dope addict and homeless
bum. A big disappointment to Joseppi, but that was all in his future, I
had no intention of spilling the beans. With Marilyn, Joe could have
adopted. No?
Of course, it passed through my mind, maybe if Joe and I were friends we
might have shared Marilyn. A sort of ménage à trios deal. But I really
didn't see a future, or a past in that idea. But I knew MM needed
full-time surveillance and I would have been happy to comply.
But old Joe was an old cock, as they say, in my absence, about five
years had passed Joe still had a hard-on. MM had hooked up with the
matzo ball guy who was a big-time scribbler. He was a bit of an ass,
making MM feel she was a dummy, which she wasn't. I know because when we
had our stag film episode, in the middle of blowing me, Marilyn stopped
and asked,
"Ralphie, excuse me if I'm indiscreet, but have you ever sucked a Jewish prick? Hollywood film guys seem to have no foreskin."
"No, I haven't," I answered. How much did I have to admit to?
"They don't, which makes those dicks very slippery things," she
remarked, "A thick foreskin gives you something to sink your teeth
into."
I thought to myself. This woman is quite intelligent. If that comment is
not a sign of her observation powers, I don't know what is.
The significance of that statement was that MM was not an antisemite.
She studied and became a Jew to marry Miller. When she said, as she has
been often quoted on leaving Southern California,
"Now I won't have to suck any more Jewish pricks,"
Marylin was referring to her unwritten contractual requirement to
service the movie studio bosses on her knees, most of whom were Jewish.
This brings to mind the question: Did her hubby, Arty the Scribbler, no
longer get any blow jobs, or did occasionally get lucky when they moved
east?
Of course, as a humble time traveler, I had no intention of screwing up
her third marriage. Still, when that relationship fell to ashes, I
dusted off Ye Olde Time Traveler Poltroon and got ready to make one last
visit to the most fantastic piece of ass the world had ever seen.
I tested the time machine by turning it on. After a brief flicker of the
control panel, the display went dead. It didn't take long to figure out
that the two 12 volt batteries had finally run dry on the small trickle
charger. This electrical problem necessitated a trip to the battery
store, where I purchased the largest capacitor they had. Two car
batteries with 800 amps each. Jeez, those batteries were heavy fuckers
to lug. They used to put a band on the top of the batteries to make them
easy to carry. I guess the battery factory was saving 75 cents by
omitting the plastic band.
I had to lug them one at a time with both arms, wedging the stiff, heavy
black battery box against my chest, listening to the acid inside swish
with my every step. But, fortunately, the new batteries did the trick.
The Time Traveler Chair fired up like a Tin Lizzie. After letting it
warm up and checking the various circuit displays, I took a shower to
prepare.
Oh yeah, knowing MM liked a neatly groomed dick, I gave the old one eye a
few pubic snips and passed the razor over the above and below so the
dickey bird would pass muster. I didn't want to travel back in time,
hoping for a good sex romp and be refused because my pubic hair was
deranged. I made a quick trip to the garage to find a tie-dyed t-shirt,
so I'd fit into the 1962 Hollywood scene.
Ready to travel, I set the controls and locator. MM was living outside
Hollywood at the time. Hollywood loved to claim it was the film capital,
maybe it was in 1920-40, but by now, the tinsel town was pretty sleazy.
It was then, as it is even today, a mess. I obtained the detailed
telemetry, GPS data, from some public library maps. I plotted the
machine to land at Marilyn's home at 12305 Fifth Helena Drive in
Brentwood. It was a crazy name, but that was it. I checked more than
once, thinking 'Fifth' was part of the street number.
I intended to time my landing somewhere after her separation and before
her death, I figured around mid-January 1962. At the last moment, I
changed the setting to August 4th, 1962. the day of her death. Maybe
there was some way I could save her. With all the precise coordinates in
place, I hit the red launch button. With a flash and a sonic-boom, I
passed back through time and landed in the backyard garden area of her
home in Brentwood.
It was a Spanish-style home, surrounded by rich greenery, trees, bushes,
and a nice size swimming pool. I arrived at 7:30 PM, not wanting to
disturb her dinner, and my luck was holding, MM was alone. When I
knocked on the door connecting the backyard to the main house, she saw
me through the window and ran to embrace me. She seemed very happy and
was grabbing my dick right away, asking if it was still the same skinny
long cock she'd loved in the past.
"I am so horny with being separated after all this divorse shit. I only
get laid once a week, not enough," she complained while squeezing and
jerking my Johnson.
I warned her not to jerk me too much, or I'd be unfit to fuck if she made me cum,
"I won't make you shoot the goo, sweetie, until your dick is in my cunt."
MM laughed, but laid off the jerking and held me gently. She explained that she'd divorced the novelist. Why?
"Well, hon, he was horrible to live with, always criticizing me and
making me feel inadequate. He hardly ever wanted to fuck me."
To keep her sanity, which was intricately tied to her sexuality, she'd shacked up with an old boyfriend.
"If I don't get laid at least four times a week, she said, "I get
terribly moody, and the next thing I turn to is pills and booze."
Sex was the only thing that lifted her spirits. At the same time, she told me,
"The Salami guy, Joe, is still fascinated with my pussy, and whenever he
gets horny, he shows up begging for a fuck. I feel so sorry for the
schlepper that I give in. Once he blows his rocks, he jumps out of bed,
and he's off, outta here. It's like turning off the lights of the
Christmas tree. I never even get off."
Even after their divorce and her subsequent marriage, the "Yankee Clipper" still needed a glove on his bat and ball.
He sounds pathetic," I said.
"Well, you know if he hadn't discovered the two of us in 'flagrante
delicto' with your old skinny dick in my caboose, I'd probably still be
married to the jerk.
"Wow, you've got some great vocabulary."
"Yeah, Arty used to give me a list of words to memorize. Come on,
Raphie, let me show you around. You don't mind if I call you Skinny
Dick, do you?"
"Of course not."
She gave me a tour of the home. I was pleased she'd done so well to be
able to afford such a grand place. We had a few drinks and then a
walkabout. I quickly realized she'd offered me the tour as a way to get
me up to her bedroom. Women can be quite devious at times.
Sadly, I had previously read her obituary and knew she would die at the
Roosevelt Hotel. Seeing her in her new digs made me more relaxed. If I
could keep her from leaving, perhaps she would not undergo the
preordained fate. That was part of the reason I'd chosen to be with her
on the day of her death. I hoped I could save her.
When we got up to her bedroom,
"Well, Slim, so now that we are up here, how about a reunion fuck?"
"Sure, but I'm afraid after the drinks, my weenie has gone limp."
"No problemo," said MM. "Come stand in front of me. I'll get down on my
knees like a good little girl. I'll make you believe you are the czar of
the studio, and I'll suck old skinny back to life. I promise, inside my
mouth, he will reach his full potential."
You never argue with a woman anxious to give you a blow job. Just the
way she said, "down on my knees," put a spark of electricity into my
dick.
MM started sucking, and my dick began like Jack's Beanstalk to grow and
grow. I was deep, deep in her throat. That was, as they say, when the
shit hit the fan. Suddenly, with all eight inches jammed in her mouth,
her throat contracted. She started pushing my belly to get free,
Marilyn's face turned red. I realized we were in trouble.
It felt like one of those Chinese finger cuffs that the more you pull,
the tighter they get. I put both hands on her forehead, but I could not
get her free of my swollen dick. I had to watch as the flower of
American Cinema fell at my feet. Only then, as my weenie went limp, was
my very swollen penis head released from her throat. We separated, but
it was too late. The sex goddess was on her way to heaven, I imagined.
Where else?
I tried to revive her by pouring water down her throat, but it did no
good. She must have dropped some meds in the cup because it left her
lips all pasty. I tried squeezing her chest, but that did no good and
gave me another hard-on. I imagine the residue is why they thought her
demise was due to barbiturates, but it wasn't. My penis caused her
death.
However, I am not going to cop to manslaughter. As much as I loved
Marilyn and loved having sex with her, I was just an innocent time
traveler getting a marvelous blow job when that crazy set of
circumstances took place. Obviously, the reports of her demise at the
Hotel Roosevelt were in error.
I rushed out of the house before Salami guy or Garet, her new boyfriend,
arrived. I never even stopped to stick my dick back inside my pants. I
jumped into the old-time poltroon and hit the purple button, and as the
clouds passed in front of the moon, in that instant, Kaboom, in a
blinding flash, was whisked back home.
So when you ask me the benefits of being a time traveler, I must tell
you that it was a disaster in my experience. I screwed up MM's legacy by
participating in a stag film, I screwed up her possible reconciliation
with the baseball player and on my previous trip, and on this, my last
trip, I was the cause of her death.
That was the last time I ever used the damn Time Machine. I think in all
sincerity, it was her contracting throat that caused our tight
encounter. I was not the actual cause! Maybe I swelled up a bit too
much. Wouldn't you? I was only a tangential spectator, with my eyes
closed, a little too involved in the proceedings to do much about it.
That was the last chapter in the Marilyn chronicle, and sad to say. I
guess I wrote her finish.
Of course, the press reports fucked the whole thing up. They said
Marilyn was found in a room at the Hotel Roosevelt. That wasn't true!
The cops and inquest found barbiturates on her lips and throat, but that
was me. I poured water down her gullet to bring her back to life. It
didn't work! She did not die in some hotel with an overdose described by
the press or as the coroner's report stated.
The great actress and sex symbol died because her throat spasmed on my
cock while giving me a deep throat blowie. After that fatal occurrence, I
escaped by traveling through time. If I'd hung around, they would have
caught me. They would have tried me for murder, like the guy I wrote
about at the beginning of this story. Please, dear reader, do not share
my confession with anyone. If the statute of limitations on murder has
not run out, and the authorities get wind of my confession, I guess I
will hear the cops knocking on my door.
Sure, you're gonna ask me, have I done any other time traveling? Nope,
not after those tragic fuckups. I've recorded here to set the story
right for prosperity. Did I ever track down the inventor, Otto Standike?
I'm sure if I went after him, the damn poltroon, with my luck, would
land on his head. So no, outta the "question."
After all this bad luck, I was jaundiced on skipping back through the
years. I rolled the heavy chair out to the curb after calling the
Goodwill Outfit to take away the damn thing and all the paperwork as
well. The driver, when he saw how big and ugly the chair was, refused to
take it. I had to roll the son of a bitch back into my garage, where it
sits today under a pile of shit. Excuse my French. I should have
hammered it apart and thrown it out years ago.
OK, so I'm a failure, my brother-in-law would agree, and that fat idiot
is married to my sister, another piece of work. Mind you, and I didn't
say another piece of ass. I can't believe any guy would want to fuck
her. She looks just like my mother, who resembles a drag queen.
As they say, such is life, or as Tommy Wolfey noted,"
" Fuck it. You can't go home again, Bub!"
So now, back from the past, I've decided to settle down. I gave Tina
Dove, the girl from the Patent Museum, a call last week and asked her
out. We had a really nice date; dinner and visited a club. We danced and
drank. When I got her home, she said she didn't believe in having sex
on the first date, but,
"I'm going to give you something that you might enjoy."
She unbuttoned her blouse slowly and told me to unhook her bra. When I
reached behind her, she shouted April Fools. Boy, did I feel stupid.
She unbuttoned my pants and told me to lower my pants and underwear.
Then she pulled off her bra and as I gazed at her beautiful lily-white
breasts and red nipples, she said,
"It ain't April 1, you idiot.
She began to massage my penis. She took some lotion from the table and wet me so she could slide easier on my 8 inches.
"It's thin but very long," she said.
"Yes, that's what they all say."
She frowned.
"I'm just fucking with you,"
"Not yet you aren't, at least not tonight, but I have a feeling we are going to arrive at that point very soon."
We both laughed, and then she got serious about jerking me off.
"Tell me when you are ready to cum."
It didn't take long.
"I'm ready," I whispered.
She pulled me toward her and placed my erection between her two breasts
and pressed them together--and I created, with a copious ejaculation, a
starlit lake there between her full round, warm breasts. I lay there for
a while, like a whale in the summer sun, until dickyboy began to
shrink. You never want a woman to see your penis when it is flaccid.
"Thank you, It was wonderful," I said quickly hiding my dick under my hand.
"You go now. I'll wash up. Just remember, if we do start fucking, that
pepperoni belongs to me and me alone. If I catch you letting another
girl taste it, I slice it up and put it on my pizza."
Maybe she wasn't as professional as MM, but I don't think Tina had
sucked a thousand dicks as my movie star had admitted. The penis massage
was well done and made me anticipate our next date. She was very sexy!
Of course, I wondered if she does that with all her dates, but I sure as
hell have no intention of asking.
I think I've matured after my experience as a Time Traveler. I've had
the best, Marilyn Monroe, and I can settle for less. I'm not going back
in time anymore. The Patent Office girl, Tina, provided the perfect
ending for a new beginning.
I can see a future with Tina, one without the need of a movie star or a
Time Machine. And if we start fucking, and I'm sure we will, you can be
sure, my pepperoni is gonna stay right with her, and those fantastic
tits are easily as lovely as the movie stars!
Oh yeah, things are looking up. I won a long-term contract to clean all
the windows at Paramount Studios. That will require me to hire two
employees. If that happens, it seems like the future will be wine and
roses for me and Tina Dove.
There is one idea that makes me a little nervous. If the two Time
Machines are synchronized, there is the possibility that Otto Standike
might inadvertently return from the past on my coordinates, arrive in my
apartment with the impact of a V2 bomb, and squash me. That would be
one hell of an April Fool's joke. Oh well, even crossing the street is a
risk but I'm considering finding another place to live, just in case.
Maybe Tina and I will add a child or two crawl around the new place.
