Time Machine Sexual Adventures

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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."