Sarah's Husband

Sarah's Husband

I was nineteen sitting at a table of other nineteen-year-old degenerates. We sat outside, drank rounds of coke, and everyone had their Marlboro packs obscuring the red and white striped table cloth. I ordered a TGIF burger, greasy, a favorite. My body had a secret inside shimmering of nerves, dehydration, and malnutrition from last night's keg shindig. I craved the red meat, super green pickles, and piss-yellow­—near-frozen beer which we were too young to order. But after I ripped apart the cheeseburger like a fucking tyrannosaur, we were going to sit at Ralph's poolside backyard and drink under the sun and moon and sun again.

She had black slick hair tied in a pony tail, grapefruit size tits, and teeth as white as fresh chalk. Her skin was so honey gold and smooth I could strain it in my hot cocoa. She smiled at me and all my hangover blood flowed to my dick leaving me swaying in the wind like a stalk of corn about to collapse. Did I mention I was a virgin?

We ate and ordered more coke and said horrible things about each other. I was always thin skinned and wanted to kill any of these hoodlums for calling me a bitch in front of the lady.

"He is hot," she said.

She said it about me but to who? Don't remember. The table got jealous and started teasing me: "She want's your dick...don't be a pussy...ask for her number...what do you got to lose? You better act, man." I guess I needed that because if alone, I would have run. I think she just gave me her number on a napkin. I folded it and put it in my pocket inches from my well-hidden erection. I let it swell for a while as I cleared my ketchup puddle with French fries and suppressed my giddiness. We left and I left them.

I went home and showered off Drakkar, beer sweats, and temporary brain damage from smoking obscene amounts of bong smoke. I called her. Her name was Sarah.

"Hi Cutie," she said.

"Hi there," I said. I was never good at flirting. I just wanted to already be sucking on boobies and feeling her stomach and ass. Talking was like razor blades across my hopes. I envied men who could be bulldogs: obnoxious, loud, laugh, be easily amused, and just end up fucking like it was brushing their teeth. I never had that. I was a squeamish weird-o and faked flirting. I suppose I am not alone on this because our country does some mad fucking drinking.

I went to her house for dinner. Her mom was there, she cooked chicken and gave us red wine. She went somewhere. She vanished. The place where people go in a big house you have no clue what it's like. Lights go out and they go into another dimension. Sarah put her hand in mine and led me to the backyard pool. In her left hand she carried the merlot bottle. The red wine was a golden key that could bypass my awkward flirting. That is how it was when I was young. You could just drink and sit close enough and start making out. Nowadays, in my forties; Christ! It is like a series of job interviews, wine consumption is quantified, dates analyze you—your body language. I just want to break the ice with, "I may be a serial killer, I have not acted on it, I have some fucked up thoughts, I don't know if you want anything to do with me."

We made out in the pool. Her tongue was so slippery and fun. I licked across her bright white teeth. Her smile was gorgeous. My cock grew in the sterilized chlorinated water that glowed like fucking emeralds. The moon light did the salsa inside the water droplets on the top of her tits. She unclipped her soft wet braw and her jugs just wobbled firm in place. My cock was so hard, it was choking my neck. Behind her, in a dim blue haze, were dark windows. I imagined her mom looking through one of them. But I didn't care, I could fuck in front of a football stadium.

I fondled her cold wet tits. Tan lines ended inches from her nipples and that pale skin seemed to have a secret chill that only I could tend to.

I should mention that I am tall, thin, and handsome. Something that seems great at the start, but I am a hypochondriac, hyper-sensitive, hyper-neurotic, and sometimes a hyper-sissy. It really hurts when a girl pumps you up and later calls you a fucking weird-o and doesn't return your calls. Yes, even in my forties, the social lubrication of wine doesn't work anymore. I am content with porn and being STD free. Although once in a while after several Jameson Whiskeys, I pass out in the VIP Champagne room of the local strip club and wake up being kicked out at five AM with an 8-thousand-dollar tab (true story).

We make it to her room. Her tits are still flopping "hello", bouncing around her struts. Her room smelled like 1990's hippie or black clove cigarettes. Bob Marley yelling on a reggae colored poster over her bed. Her CD player clicks and plays, "Redemption Song" covered by Eddie Vedder. She fills me up with marijuana smoke and gives me a Red Stripe beer. We make out to the point of overkill. My dick hardens and flops to a noodle. I pass out next to her with my balls swirling, filled with seamen, unable to move to a homerun.

Two weeks of making out and her calling me "my baby and cutie." It became empty. She broke it off with me over the phone. A friend later told me that she said, "I was too weird." In my own bedroom, I yelled at the ceiling, "I am fucking weird, artists are fucking weird, hippies love artists, you are a fucking failed hippy, bitch!"

I guess I didn't mention I was a nineteen-year-old art student at the time. I also didn't mention that my lungs at 42 on this very afternoon were filled with smoke. Not Marlboro light or marijuana, or clove smoke, but smoke that leaked out of a time machine. It was hot and ready to lunge back into the past. I didn't give a fuck about saving Kennedy or killing Hitler, I wanted to go back to that night and do it right. Remember Ralph? Well he built a time machine and he let me take a trip for 1,000 bucks. I put on some make-up and died the elder gray out of my hair. I was getting carded at 42 so I figured maybe Sarah would still think I was "hot".

The time machine flew around some other dimension inside purple air. It lasted an hour and a half to cover 23 years. The machine landed in a patch of woods behind a home depot. A patch of woods that had been unadulterated by humans for hundreds of years. The dashboard flickered a date; the date I met Sarah. I had two hours to get to TGIF before my younger self. I wore an oversized ballcap to hide myself from myself. But my master plan was to sit alone at the same table, experienced, and get her phone number napkin and call her later that afternoon. I had 48 hours before having to return Ralph's spaceship.

The outside table was empty. I saw Sarah loading a tray with fruity colored drinks. I remembered it being a hot summer day. I sat in the same seat. I had an hour and a half before myself would arrive with a gang of degenerates. Of course, after she sees me and then sees the younger version, she may flip. In fact, my anxiety was off the fucking charts. My ass warmed a chair for myself 23 years in the past. In fact, other things were starting to occur to me other than pussy. I had to ignore these explorations and just stick to the plan. My first obstacle: How to not look absolutely fucking insane when she looks at me. It was hard enough for me to be myself when I was a normal nineteen-year-old in a normal situation. This is completely fucked up and I am unstable as it is.

She walked towards me. I remember my sister telling me at a Ouija board to think of "wax", so you don't move the planchette with your thoughts. Wax...wax...wax... "Hello, I would like a beer and a cheeseburger please," I said.

I got the same look as I remembered 23 years ago; if that is possible. But she is likely to give a nineteen-year-old with a gang of kids her age a phone number napkin as opposed to an older loner. How the fuck do I do this? It hit me hard and easy...Pearl Jam and Bob Marley, Clove Cigarettes, and marijuana. How do I get this going?

I ate and had four beers. Her smiles kept on coming but our conversation didn't deviate the waitress-customer bullshit. My nineteen-year-old self will be here in 45 minutes and all his inexperienced ass needs to do is show up and a napkin falls in his lap. It occurred to me that I am probably her mother's age and will not be going over there for chicken dinner.

"Excuse me, miss?" I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Is there a CD store around here?"

She told me where and smiled big enough for me to get butterflies. "I wanted to get some Pearl Jam and Bob Marley." I knew it was coincidental but to her impossible for me to know such information.

"You just named my two-favorite bands. I love Dave Mathews too," she said.

I was homeless with three hundred bucks. I am a moron. What if I just kidnapped my younger self before he went to her house? I should just go back to the time machine and get the fuck out of here. Nothing helped, I am still the same old hellish me, tormented, and a failure at everything.

"Can I take you to dinner tonight?" I said.

She said no. I knew she would. I am a horrible flirt in my forties. My looks don't carry me anymore. I left horrified but had a master plan. You wouldn't believe it.

Suppose I tell you I met up with my younger self. Told him that I was an older brother form a different mother. I gave him a small box of purple Trojans. I told him that he will chicken out and she will dump him, and it is important he puts a condom on and sleeps with her. That he will have sex with her all summer if he does.

"Did you eat at TGIF earlier today?" he said.

"I did," I said.

"The girl. Sarah. She said she saw my twin," he said.

"I was there," I said.

"Look, go in the bathroom and practice putting these on, you need to not get too fucked up, slide it in, you understand?" I said.

He nodded and practice sliding six condoms on and fucking some red Jell-O I made.

I got back in the time machine with my nerves rattling. I pressed the sequence of buttons. In that hour and a half of purple air, my memory recreated anew, a rich history of lots of fucking, starting with hippie Sarah. The night went like this.

My nineteen-year-old self-sucked Sarah's golden grapefruits in a stiff chlorinated vapor. The haunted windows hovered beneath the moonlit cavernous sky. They made it to the bedroom, and he left to go to the bathroom. I stood barefoot in the shower until he sat on the toilet. I peeked through the flowered curtain. "Hey there," I said.

He (or my younger self) did a two-foot vertical jump off the toilet. "Here is a couple hundred bucks, just stay here for twenty minutes and I will be back." I remembered Sarah being drunk and I entered her room, died grey hairs and all. My younger self was understanding and fainted on the bathroom floor. I propped his head on a pillow and locked the door.

The room swirled with incense clouds and Eddie Vedder's voice, "Old Pirates, yes, they rob I." I corrected a mistake I made by leaving my clothes on like a fucking shield. I undressed and slid in her bed; butt naked. My cock like a sword and her hot lips pulled back like curtains to her wonderful teeth. I licked them and kissed both of her honey gold breasts. I peeled down her underwear and unrolled the condom over my cock in an eight second sequence.

I originally kissed her until both our tongues were like lizard sandpaper and my clothes: heavy like armor. At the new moment, my cock was deep inside her as I watched her smile. Her tits shimmied north and south as I sucked on her neck. My nose tapped the bottom of her right ear. Eddie continued, "Emancipate yourself with mental slavery." That is when I flipped her golden buns over. Her ass jiggled and sparkled like a nineteen-year-old bubble of gold pig flesh. My dick slid in with no hands. I reached over and cupped her cold tits. She groaned as the clapping noise erupted.

I heard creaking down the hallway. It was either me or her mother. Whoever it was, Eddie was not loud enough to cover Sarah's elusive pauses for air. My cock's rhythm filled up my testicles until it burned like a beautiful morning sun. I flipped her back over and flooded my seamen upon her soft belly, ripe tits, and gasping smile. Her body, mind, and bedroom opened up to me for the first time. I felt connected. She never closed her legs. I ran out and picked the bathroom lock with my fingernail. I smacked my younger self.

"She is ready for you," I said. I handed him a purple condom. Just get it in and you will be fine. Do it! Now!

I took a cab to McDonalds for a sausage biscuit, two hash brown, and an orange soda. He dropped me off on the outskirt of the woods.

I arrived back in 2020 with Ralph playing my PS4.

"Did it go as planned?" Ralph said.

"Yes," I said.

Suddenly the house smelled like home cooked bacon, strawberry perfume, pictures appeared—wedding pictures on the dresser. Babies crying down stairs. I looked at Ralph.

"You boys hungry? I made breakfast," Sarah said.