Time After Time (16 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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She took his coat and gestured at her couch. He sat down rigidly, uncertain and nervous in this, his first truly private encounter with a 1979er.
She returned with two glasses of chilled white wine, set them down on the table in front of the couch, smiled and asked him if he liked Mozart.
“I love Mozart,” he replied, relieved that he would not have to comment on contemporary music.
A wall of sound came from across the room. Surprised, he looked up and saw that she had engaged an electronic music device that obviously was the current version of the gramophone. Never had he heard such beautiful melodies—so crystal clear, so pleasing to the ears. He sighed, closed his eyes, leaned back and for a moment imagined that the entire London Symphony Orchestra was in the room playing for just him and her. He was transported, his nervousness swept away by the delicious flights of an eighteenth-century concerto.
“It's a quad system. Nice, huh?”
He nodded.
“I think I'll change. Look around if you want to.” She left the room.
He got up to explore the flat and saw a beige telephone on the
floor and carefully inspected it. He ached to dismantle the device, but he knew it wouldn't be cricket without asking Amy for permission. Then again, just how did one go about phrasing such a question? Excuse me, may I have a look inside your telephone?
Finally, his curiosity got the better of him. He fished in his pocket, came up with a dime and used it—as he would a halfpenny back home—to unscrew the housing from the base. He lifted the cover off and grinned at the minute, complex circuitry. It reminded him of the time machine's RRL components which had been so difficult to assemble; except that all his wiring had been black.
What a deceptively simple idea! If one used colored wire to code the circuits, one eliminated the possibility of serious error.
“Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!”
He straightened up. What was that noise? What had he done? He frantically inspected the telephone, but the beeping continued. In a panic, he quickly reassembled the device, but it was only when he finally but the receiver back onto its cradle that the noise stopped.
He retreated to the couch, took a large swallow of wine and calmed himself. Muck about with the technology of this age and it ends up shrieking at you, he muttered to himself.
She came back into the room, having brushed her hair and changed into rather curious clothes. The shirt, a pullover, was common enough, but the other garment resembled a blacksmith's coveralls with a zipper that ran straight down the front. Interesting. Nevertheless, she looked ravishing, and thank the god of decorum she hadn't put on any more of her perfume.
She settled down into the pillows on the other side of the couch and tucked her toes under a cushion. Then she sipped her wine. She held the glass close to her lips and smiled at him over the edge.
They talked lightly of music and books, Amy being direct about what she liked and didn't like. H.G. was cautious if she mentioned something that he hadn't heard of, but once he got the drift of a
subject, he did allow himself to expand and expound. She was pleased, for he seemed genuinely interested in her opinions, which placed him apart from most of the men she knew.
“You know, Amy, when two people can communicate in an atmosphere like this without fear of malicious gossip, who needs marriage? Aside from religion, it's the most worthless institution I can think of.”
She laughed. “Well, then, a woman would never have to worry about you proposing, would she?”
“My dear lady, I'm quite serious. I mean, I've never been able to understand—for example—why two people in love needed a marriage license before they could get into bed together.” He spread his hands.
“Who says they do?” She smiled playfully. “As a matter of fact, who says they even have to be in love?”
He gave her a quick glance, then looked away and fooled with his mustache. “Well, I've published a number of articles on free love, but I'm not sure I'd go that far.”
“Free love?” She laughed again. “I haven't heard that term since the eighth grade!”
“Oh, really? What would you call it, then?”
“What's wrong with ‘The Sexual Revolution'? Or haven't you heard of that, either?”
Sexual revolution? My God, he thought, what did it mean? There were so many connotations. He grinned. “May I ask who is revolting against whom?”
“That all depends on the company you keep, doesn't it?” She replied in a low voice, then moved nearer to him.
He sat up straight. His head was buzzing again, and he didn't know what to do with his hands. Given her close proximity, he had no place to put them. Suddenly, he discovered his knees and hung onto them for dear life.
“This has been a delightful evening,” he managed to comment.
She nodded. “It's certainly nice to meet someone you can really talk to for a change.”
“Isn't it? Especially when you share the same views.”
“Who said I agreed with you?”
Surprised, H.G. raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I don't happen to believe that religion is obsolete.”
“You don't?”
“No, and I happen to think that marriage is a good way of keeping records. Especially if children are involved.”
“Records? All they do is perpetuate bureaucracy.”
“You're beginning to sound like an anarchist.”
“You must be joking!” he ejaculated. “I'm a progressive socialist!”
“That's even worse,” she said lightly.
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“What difference does it make? The corporations run the world, anyway.” She paused. “Besides, you're one of the most charming men I've ever met.”
“You're not exactly dull-witted, yourself.”
She looked into his eyes, then slowly reached up and touched his cheek with her fingertips. He melted back into the couch, uncertain about how to respond. Always when he had been with a woman before, he had been in command of the situation. Here, he wasn't sure of anything. The lights weren't even out! There was no way he could reach over and grab this woman and tell her that it wasn't wrong while taking her clothes off. They didn't have to be quiet; they didn't have to hurry; there were no time limits. He was not even sure that the furtive nature of sex existed anymore.
She finally looked away (Was there disappointment in her eyes?), and he regained the courage to speak.
“Well, I suppose that I should be going.”
“Oh? Where are you staying?” she asked flatly, and he knew that he had said the wrong thing.
He smiled sheepishly. “Where am I staying? Nowhere, really.” He blushed.
She sat up straight. “You mean, you haven't even checked into a hotel yet? Herbert, you've been here for two days!” She laughed and shook her head.
“I haven't had the time.”
“But where's all your luggage?”
He grinned weakly. “I left rather unexpectedly.”
She leaned forward and placed both her hands over his. “You are a very strange man. No, not strange. Mysterious.”
Once again, he rose to the occasion. “Hasn't truth always been stranger than fiction?”
She stared at him again in wonderment, then smiled. The magic between them had returned. “You don't have to go, you know.”
“I don't?”
“No. You can stay here,” she whispered, her voice husky.
“I can?” he croaked.
“Herbert, will you please kiss me?”
She didn't wait for an answer. She embraced and pulled him down onto the center of the couch, her lips and tongue doing things to his mouth that he had never before experienced. She kissed him again and again, and each touch of her lips and tongue was more passionate and deeper than the time before. He shuddered and trembled. What was she doing to him? He felt as if his erection were going to burn a hole through his trousers; he crossed his legs. She maneuvered him onto his back and let her hair envelop his face and neck. Then she began caressing his chest, moving her hand in slow circles that gradually went lower on his body.
He became acutely aware of her hand when it reached his lower abdomen and began inching inside his trousers and shorts! He was
paralyzed. This beautiful girl was not distant and unattainable; she was about to place her small, fragile and perfumed hand on his aching member. The last woman he had coupled with wouldn't even look at his penis, let alone touch it.
This was not what he was used to; this was not the way it was supposed to happen. He had always insisted that both men and women were sexual beings, and that the act of love was a natural pleasure that should be shared equally. But, good Lord, who had ever heard of a woman seducing a man except in French novels?
Just before she was about to gently grasp his erection, he extricated himself and sat up. (Once again, practice had defeated theory.)
Confused, she opened her eyes wide and stared up at him. “Did I do something wrong?”
She must be joking, he thought. On the contrary, she had been proceeding with more perfection than an angel in heaven, and he had been unable to cope with it. Shame-faced, he looked down and saw that a small stain had formed on his trousers, thanks to lubrication excreted by his Cowper's gland. He covered the blemish with his hand and blushed crimson. “I guess I should be checking into a hotel.”
“Don't you want to stay here?”
“I shouldn't.”
“Okay, fine. I mean, if you don't like me or if you're all nervous and uptight about something, there's no point in you spending the night.” She exhaled in a rush. “It's better to find those things out up front anyway.”
“Right.” He stood, took a step, then turned and looked back at her. He was trembling.
“Hey.” She sat up, reached out and took his hand. “What happened?”
“I really can't explain.”
“You're not gay, are you?” she asked with surprise.
“Gay?” He didn't understand.
“Homosexual.”
He exploded with laughter, then abruptly stopped. She was being serious; she did not understand that the problem was with his attitude, now obviously archaic. He frowned and sat back down.
He had always considered himself a radical when it came to social issues, but in reality he was a hypocrite. His feelings toward sex had never really changed. He was a free-love advocate in name only. In the past, he had used the rhetoric to be fashionable and to convince reluctant women to submit without vows of marriage. Certainly, he had told them that they should enjoy sex, but he never really expected them to. And certainly, he had searched for a superb lover, a shadow-lover, but he had never expected to find her.
There was no doubt that Amy was a different kind of woman. Was she his Venus Urania?
He gulped, then turned and stared at her. She was pouting, and he had never seen her—or any other woman—look that way. Her face was flushed; her eyes were almost black; her lips were swollen and slightly parted. She was neither an animal nor a chaste goddess. She was a sexual young woman.
“Amy …” He felt a sudden rush of desire and lunged at her. She lunged back. Soon, they were twisted and tangled on the couch, and both her hands were inside his trousers, and he was gasping with pleasure and trying to bury his face in the fullness of her breasts.
She extracted herself from him long enough to take him by the hand and lead him down the hall into her bedroom.
 
 
They made love until they exhausted each other. She left the flower-printed sheets to luxuriate in a hot, scented bath while he
lay back and stared at the ceiling. He realized that he was still mired in Victorianism, for when they had first gotten under the covers, he had expected her to turn off the light and passively allow him to mount her missionary style. It hadn't happened that way. Instead, after she had lit candles … He blushed at the memory.
Needless to say, the entire sequence of events added up to “equal” lovemaking, but now he was somewhat apprehensive. He had just joined the sexual revolution of the late twentieth century. He had been initiated, and yet he would have been satisfied with much less. True, he had written a few months ago that a female should enjoy sex as much as a male, but so openly? Without pledges of love and marriage? She had overwhelmed him, innocently taking pleasure as well as generously giving it back. For her to be so honest with her own sexuality … No, he was not apprehensive, he was frightened. Besides, he inwardly groaned, after this, how could he return to the nineteenth century and be happy with a “normal” sexual experience?

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