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“These early AM diaper changes are a bitch!” I said as I got up one more time to attend to our crying infant. As promised, I was doing most of the childcare so that Jen could spend most of her time preparing to defend her PhD thesis. We’d even bought a breast pump so that I could feed little Andy, letting Jen sleep so she could finish work on her dissertation. Unfortunately, although he was now walking, that only meant he could get into a lot more mischief, and unless he beat the odds on potty training, we could still look forward to another year of diaper changes at all hours.
God, I felt tired. Exhausted, actually. The sky was already starting to lighten by the time I finally got back into bed. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. Not long after I fell asleep, I realized my counterpart from the future, Chris-30, was contacting me. As much as I wanted to talk to him, I was beyond depleted and really, really needed to dream real dreams and totally zone out.
“I’ve missed you, Chris,” I communicated to him, “but surely you must remember that I’m a new dad with a one-year-old son, and a dissertation to complete, and I’m in desperate need of sleep — real sleep. Could we maybe do this another night?” I asked.
“Chris-23, listen to me,” he replied. “There is a reason it has taken me this long to contact you since our last communication. Dawson has to go back. When we pulled him out of St. Louis, we disrupted the future. We don’t know exactly how, but we prevented the development of time tunnel technology itself. It was only because of the extensive notes we kept that we had any inkling that there had been such a thing as OTT in the first place.”
“But then why am I aware of OTT? Why didn’t I forget about OTT when we moved Dawson here, and changed his identity to Sorenson, and altered the future so that TTT was never invented?” I asked.
“It’s because whatever was altered in moving Dawson out of Missouri hasn’t happened yet, and that’s very important. It means there’s still time to repair the damage that was done — by returning him back to where he’s supposed to be,” Chris-30 explained
“But if TTT was never invented, how are you able to communicate with me now?” I asked.
“Like I said, we kept meticulous records, including detailed blueprints for the time tunnel apparatus and the software to run it. It took us nearly six months and some major mishaps to reconstruct the equipment, but we did it, and now here we are,” Chris-30 explained.
“But why didn’t the notes disappear along with the technology?” I wondered to myself.
“Because we used a before and after approach to record-keeping,” he explained. “No matter what interventions we made, no matter how trivial they seemed, we always kept copies of all of our notes in all time periods explaining the state of our experiments before and after the intervention. There were always complete sets of records before and after each intervention, just in case. That way, we could always go back and undo any critical errors. This just happened to be a particularly critical error,” he thought with a laugh.
“But we can’t simply return Dawson to St. Louis as if nothing happened. Dawson was arrested for trafficking in child pornography. He confessed his crimes, and as far as anyone is concerned, he went to prison for life. ‘Dawson’ doesn’t exist anymore.
“We went to great lengths to create a new identity for ‘Sorenson’. Sorenson has publications, a job at UC Berkley and a job at Livermore. Sorenson is a living, breathing person who can’t just disappear without causing suspicion. But even if we come up for a reason for him to disappear from California, what happens when he shows up in St. Louis?
“Everyone will know he’s a pedophile. Could we in all good conscience let him go back to working with teenage boys? It’s not like he’ll be able to go back to being the free man he was before we plucked him out of his environment. And what if his pedophilia involved more than just pornography. What if he actually molested some of his boys? If we come up with a strategy for him to somehow be ‘exonerated’, imagine the horror they will face, knowing he can truly get away with what he did to them, whenever he wants to.
“And then there is the most significant problem of all — what he already knows about OTT. Even if we decide not to make use of his abilities, he knows what we have and could compromise it for his own benefit. Just the knowledge that this kind of technology exists would be worth a fortune to the Russians or the Chinese, or one day to the Iranians. Yet if we do decide to make use of his talents, we would have no direct oversight of him, making him even more vulnerable to enemy influences.
“Then again, parents will surely be reluctant to let him teach their children. What if the failure to develop TTT stemmed from a particular kid he mentored in the future — a kid whose parents keep them from ever meeting now. Sending him back might not even fix the problem.
“How do we deal with all of these issues?” I asked in conclusion. “Perhaps it would be easier to take the knowledge you have of TTT and run with it, independently of what happened in the original timeline.”
Audibly sighing in his sleep, Chris-30 explained, “Just because I have TTT now doesn’t mean I’ll be able to keep it if it’s never invented in the future in the first place. I know it probably doesn’t make much sense, because we have a true paradox here. Without a clear path to the initial invention of TTT, the notes upon which I based my apparatus may eventually disappear, along with the apparatus itself.
“On top of all that, we know much of world history has changed because of bringing Dawson to California. Your notes in the coming years, document the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and yet in my time, the Soviet Union never collapsed.”
“Shit!” was all I could say.
“Chris-23, you cannot imagine how much time we’ve all spent asking ourselves all of these questions and debating what to do,” Chris-30 answered me. “There are no easy answers. The bottom line is that first and foremost, Dawson has to go back to his original existence, period. Whether or not we can still make use of his talents is still a question we can debate, and the ethics of how we handle the relationship between him and the kids he might molest will keep us up nights for a long time. Unfortunately, that relationship may have in some way been important to the development of TTT…”
“You’re kidding me!” I interrupted.
“I truly wish I were,” Chris-30 resumed the conversation, “but if Dawson did actually take any of his protégés to bed, it may well be one of Dawson’s little lovers that goes on to develop a critical component of technology that will become a part of TTT, but we can’t know that, because we haven’t lived in the future to look back and track the lives of those kids to find out. Someday we may have the luxury of being able to go back and make amends for what we have done, but the important thing right now is to restore the future as much as possible to the way it was, and that means putting those poor kids back in harms way.”
“I can’t condone it,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” Chris-30 said. “You just have to make it happen. As you said, ‘Sorenson’ will be made to disappear from California for a time — a sick family member will do as an excuse for now, but leave it open-ended, as we may want to bring him back here in the future. In the meantime, ‘Dawson’ will be exonerated in full and he’ll be returned to his previous life in Missouri. The story needs to be a good one — good enough that people will believe he was the victim of a witch hunt and that no one will believe any stories that may arise from kids he may have molested.”
“May God pity our souls for what we are about to do,” I said.
<<<<<<<<·>>>>>>>>
A car door slammed shut behind me and I started walking toward the massive stone building in front of me. All around me, young men and women towered over me as they walked to and fro on their way to classes. Who ever heard of taking classes on a Saturday? But this was college. I felt so out of place here, and yet I knew I belonged.
The moment I got the invitation, I knew this was an opportunity I could not ignore. I was only thirteen years old, but the shit that passed for math and science in junior high school was total crap. I mean, balancing equations and memorizing the names of constellations — like I said, total crap. Now I was going to get to learn some real math and science. Things like trigonometry and calculus. Things like chemistry and physics, and not just memorizing mindless facts either, but learning how to actually solve real life problems.
But God, this place was scary. Like I said, everyone towered over me. I approached the mammoth wooden door in front of me and, taking a deep breath, pulled it open. Inside there were lots of college-age kids scurrying about, all of them basically ignoring me. I guess that was to be expected — after all, my eyes were at about their nipple level, but what a strange way to think about it.
Directly in front of me was a massive tile-clad stairway. Knowing that the offices where I was supposed to be were on the second floor, I slowly ascended the stairs.
As I reached the second floor, the temperature became warmer and warmer until I was sweating profusely. It felt like it was eighty degrees up there, but I was hardly in a position to complain about the heat. It was a real opportunity, to be able to participate in this program for gifted young scholars.
I looked for Professor Dawson’s office, and quickly found it. The door was closed, but there was plenty of bright white light visible through the frosted glass, coming from inside.
I knocked on the door and a deep voice from inside said, “Come in.”
I turned the brass doorknob and opened the door to reveal a balding, older man inside with a very goofy grin on his face. He had to be at least in his thirties. He was dressed in a white polo shirt and khakis, and unlike me, he wasn’t sweating at all. “And who might you be, young man?” he asked.
“I’m Chris Michaels,” I answered.
“Young Chris,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Yes, I spoke to your father earlier in the week, and we’re delighted to have you here.
“Let’s start by pairing you up with Frank, who’s at about your level, I think. The two of you can go over some of my most elementary math lecture notes, and then at the end of the day, you can come back here and we can… chat a bit, OK?”
“OK,” I agreed as I un-tucked my shirt, trying to make myself at least a little bit more comfortable in the oppressive heat of the building. Professor Dawson smiled when I did that, as if that was exactly what he wanted me to do.
Professor Dawson led me down the hall and around the corner into one of the labs on the floor, where a blond-haired, blue-eyed naked boy about my age was seated on a stool at a lab bench, intently reading through some pages of what appeared to be a thick document of some kind. When we entered, he looked up and smiled. Boy, did he smile.
“Frank Sanford,” Professor Dawson, started the introduction, “This is Chris Michaels. He’s going to be joining us on Saturdays from now on, and perhaps daily during the summer.”
“That’s terrific,” Frank said with his killer smile. “I could certainly use a study partner my own age.”
“Well, then, I’ll leave you two boys alone to get acquainted,” the professor said. “Chris, please be sure to stop by my office before the end of the day to chat with me. I’m here ’til seven in any case, and I’d definitely like to know how things went with your review of the lecture notes, and if there’s anything we need to go over.”
“I’ll do that, Professor Dawson,” I assured him.
As soon as the professor left the room and closed the door behind him, I turned back to Frank and said, “You’re not wearing any clothes!”
“Well duh. It’s hot as Hell in here! They’ve always had trouble with heat and AC in this building from what I hear. Most of us wear little or no clothing when we’re here. It’s kind of a tradition. Some kid some years ago complained, I guess, and Dawson said he wouldn’t mind if the kid just went naked, and the kid just took off all his clothes right then and there. Dawson didn’t think he’d do it.
“So the kid went all day without wearing any clothes and got away with it, and then he did the same thing the following week, and the week after that. Then another kid joined him, and then another, and pretty soon half the boys in the program were going around here without a stitch of clothing on, and Dawson still didn’t say a thing about it. He acted as if there was nothing unusual at all about it.
“So now pretty much everyone goes around naked or at most in shorts. Like I said, it’s a tradition. If you ask Dawson, he’ll just laugh and say that you can do whatever you want. He sure doesn’t seem to mind. I think he likes looking at naked boys. No skin off my nose as long as all he does is look.
“The thought of it kinda creeps me out, though,” I admitted.
“Listen,” Frank said, “He’s a great teacher. You’ll learn a lot from him. Even if he does like boys — even if I had to do some things with him, it’d be worth it.”
“No way!” I complained.
“No, I’d keep an open mind when it comes to Dawson. What you learn from him will last you a lifetime,” Frank emphasized. “C’mon, lets go over these lecture notes, but first, why don’t you get out of those clothes. You’re sweating like crazy and if you keep ’em on, you’re gonna end up stinkin’ like crazy.”
God, could Frank smile.
Although the thought of being naked in public like this made me very nervous, I wasn’t about to be different. Were it not for Frank, I’d have just stripped off my shirt, or at least kept my Fruit-of-the-Looms on, but I wasn’t about to be seen as chicken, and so I stripped all the way.
He very clearly was checking me out as I removed my last vestiges of clothing. This was so embarrassing. I sprung an instant boner, causing Frank to giggle.
“So,” he asked, “you jerk off, yet?” Talk about direct.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Only about five times a day!” he said with a mischievous smile. “Well, maybe three times a day,” he laughed. “It’s fun!”
I turned beet red thinking about him yanking on his tool, and he only laughed harder.
“So do you?” he asked me again.
Coloring up more furiously, I admitted, “Yeah, I do. I guess everyone does it.”
“Maybe sometime we can sneak into one of the stalls in the restroom and do it together, and maybe even more,” he said with a laugh. “That would be so much fun. We could see who shoots the most.”
“I hardly shoot anything, yet,” I admitted sheepishly.
“That’s OK. That’s cool,” he said. “In time, it’ll cum,” he said, laughing hysterically at his pun. Was Frank really only thirteen?
We continued talking, making jokes of a sexual nature back and forth as we went over Professor Dawson’s lecture notes. Occasionally, Frank would touch me on my shoulder or my thigh, sending a shiver or a tingling sensation through my body that was like nothing I’d ever felt in my life. Sometimes I would touch him like that, and touching him felt just as good — and even more exciting.
In time, our talk turned more and more to the mathematics we were studying and of necessity, less and less to sex, but the touching only became more and more adventurous. By the end of the day, we were practically sitting in each other’s laps, sprouting full boners, feeling each other up and coming very close to making out, although neither one of us was willing to cross that threshold and press our own lips to the others. There was no question that there was an attraction there however, and we both knew it.
I think we were both afraid to say what was on our mind, but we were both thinking it. But then Frank decided to raise it anyway.
“So, Chris, I’ve had a great time, today. I’ve really enjoyed working with you. We seem to have a lot in common. A lot in common. I really like you, and I think you like me. It kind of scares me to ask you this — my parents would kill me if they knew I was queer… but could I, like, be your boyfriend?”
There it was. It was exactly the same thing I’d been thinking about all day. I was scared shitless to say the least, but it was what I wanted — what I needed. Rather than giving him a verbal answer I pressed my lips to his and opened my mouth to let our tongues become acquainted.
When our lips finally parted, Frank said, “Wow! If we’d kept that up much longer, I wouldn’t have needed to jerk off today — I’d have come on the spot! And if we keep this up, we’ll end up fucking on the floor.”
“Listen, Frank, I’d really like to get to know you better, but my dad’s picking me up in like, five minutes downstairs, and I still have to get dressed and meet with Professor Dawson.” What I didn’t say was that I’d developed a huge crush on him, and maybe was even falling in love with him.
“Let’s write our phone numbers on each other’s copies of Dawson’s lecture notes, OK?” he suggested.
“Yeah,” I said as I kind of floated on air. Could this really be happening?
We wrote our phone numbers down for each other, and put our clothes back on and gave each other one last kiss. God, he was even cute in clothes, too!
“I’ll wait for you while you see Dawson,” he let me know.
I headed back around the corner and knocked on Professor Dawson’s door.
“Come in,” boomed the voice from inside.
When I entered and closed the door behind me, Dawson said, “Oh, you certainly didn’t need to put your clothes back on just to meet with me. I know you boys find it stiflingly hot up here.”
How the Hell did he know I’d had my clothes off — unless he’d been spying on me and Frank?
Coming up to me, Professor Dawson placed his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes and said, “So how were the math lessons today, Chris?”
“They were great, Professor Dawson.”
“That’s wonderful, Chris,” he said, “Did you feel you learned anything new?” he asked as he moved his hand down my back, rubbing it along my spine while he simultaneously brought his other hand to my chest, just above my nipples.
“Yes, professor, I learned a lot. Actually, I think I learned more today than in all of my math studies in my lifetime.”
“Really,” he said as he slid his hand down my chest, across my nipples, bringing it to rest on my abdomen. “That’s incredible, but then junior high math isn’t really math — it’s arithmetic. Your real mathematics education just started today.”
Taking his hand from my abdomen and bringing it to rest on my thigh, just inches from my crotch, he asked, “Was there anything you didn’t understand today?”
“Well, the symbols were a bit confusing at first,” I admitted, “But Frank and I went over them, and he explained what they meant, since he’s been working on this for a few weeks now.”
“Yes, the nomenclature does take some getting used to,” the professor said as he rubbed my thigh, causing me to draw my breath in sharply. Although I had no sexual attraction to the professor, what he was doing was exciting me and my erection betrayed me.
“You’re really a good looking kid, you know,” Professor Dawson said. “Frank doesn’t know how lucky he is to have found you.” How the Hell did he know?
“I’ll see you next week, Chris,” he finally said as he gave me a pat on the behind.
Frank was waiting for me right outside of Dawson’s door. “C’mon,” he said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me down the hall. He pulled me into the men’s room and into one of the stalls. “I just had to get one more kiss before we go,” he said, and then he pounced on me, our lips mashing together and our tongues dancing with each other. I’d already been painfully erect and on the edge as it was.
As we kissed, he reached down and grabbed hold of me, massaging me through my shorts. That was all it took. The feelings stared in my toes and worked their way to the center of my being. I’d been jerking off for a few months now, but nothing in my young life could compare to the tsunami that struck at the very core of my being.
<<<<<<<<·>>>>>>>>
I literally exploded all over the sheets. What the Hell was that all about. I hadn’t had a wet dream since I was a kid. And where did that dream come from, anyway. I didn’t start attending Saturday sessions with Dawson until I was fourteen, a year-and-a-half later. That dream had seemed so real, well, everything except the part about being naked and all. I had to laugh about that part. Actually that was pretty absurd when I got down to it.
But generally in dream, you’re just naked with no explanation. In this dream, I went to such elaborate lengths to explain why I was naked in the dream. Why everyone was naked. Why Frank was naked.
The mere existence of Frank was disturbing, too. I couldn’t recall ever having met Frank back in 1979, or having ever met a kid like him at any time in my life, and yet his looks and his personality in the dream were so well defined. It was as if he really did exist. Not only that, but the emotions I felt in the dream were so strong for him. The dream almost felt like an alternate reality, but I scoffed at the notion.
My curiosity getting the better of me, I got up and initiated an Internet search using the name Frank Sanford and the location of St. Louis. Needless to say, there weren’t any people currently in there with that name; so instead, I initiated a nationwide search for people born in 1966, give or take a year, in Missouri or Kansas, with that name. Sure enough, there was one, currently living in Santa Clara. Using my credit card to pull up as much information on him as I could, I found that he graduated from Mehlville Senior High School in southwestern St. Louis at the age of 18 in 1984, the the year after I graduated, and then did his undergrad work at Cal Tech and his graduate work at UC Berkley. We’d been in the same state all this time and not even known it.
But if he’d been in Dawson’s program at the same time I was, why didn’t I remember him? He must have left the program before I’d joined it for some reason. Perhaps Dawson really was a pedophile, and had molested him, and he decided not to go back rather than to take legal action. Or maybe his parents found out he was gay and involved with another boy, and forbade him to go back. One way or the other, I was going to find out.
I found an on-line high school yearbook site and gladly paid for access. I was amazed that anyone would go to the trouble to digitize entire high school yearbooks, but there obviously was a market for this sort of thing. The only decent sized photographs were from the beginning of the senior year, which were taken when Frank was seventeen. Even five years later, there was no mistaking that this was the same boy. Just to be sure, I went back and looked at his ninth grade photo from three years earlier, in 1981, when he was fourteen. Although small and fuzzy, it was definitely the Frank I’d made out with in my dream. The only thing better would’ve been a picture of him naked.
Wait, he was on the swim team, I noted. It cost me extra, but I downloaded a picture of the swim team from 1982. My eyes lasered right onto him. He might have only been a freshman, but he had the hottest body on the team. No question about it, Frank Sanford was the boy from my dream. Somehow, someway, I must have met him in my past as a kid. I must have met him and perhaps even had erotic fantasies about him. Perhaps that’s even the reason I’d forgotten about him. Perhaps I’d suppressed his memory right along with my attempt to suppress my homosexuality.
Still, there was something about Frank Sanford that held an important clue, and I was bound and determined to figure it out. Santa Clara was a bit of a drive, but still within commuting distance. Should I call? No, I needed to meet this guy, face-to-face, and calling him might only spook him. I’d just need to take my chances. I’d go there after work sometime, but perhaps the week before Christmas was not the best time to pay him a visit. He might not even be in town. I therefore resolved to drop in on him, right after the start of the New Year.
The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of David of Hope and Anthony Camacho in editing this story, as well as the support of Awesome Dude for hosting it. © Altimexis 2016