Time Machine Sexual Adventures

"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.