Tuesday night it’s 1972 and Karen invites me back to her hotel room outside of D.C. after some angry political rally for a cause I never bothered to find out. Wednesday night it’s 1985 and Samantha is whipping her hair in my face while we screw in her parents’ living room. She has awful blowout hair but an amazing ass, which makes me feel better about not seeking her out in 1987 when she’s actually legal. I Afterwards, I decide to check out 1987 anyway, and I wake up Thursday morning with three Eastern European blondes on a ski trip in Colorado. Even if I knew their names, I probably couldn’t pronounce them. Friday night it’s 1963 – or it’s 1967, and I’m on too much LSD – and despite the fact that “Moonflower” hasn’t shaved her body in years, she has the most perfect pair of tits this side of the wonderbra. For a moment I wonder just what “Moonflower” means, anyway, but then she’s howling like a werewolf on top of me and I stop caring. Saturday night, I’m with Daisy in 1998. The sex is so rigorous that I have to excuse myself to the bathroom to go back to the present and rest for a few hours before returning back to her a minute after I left to continue the marathon. Daisy knows how to handle things like no woman I’ve encountered. Sunday morning, I eventually fall asleep and forget to leave.
When I wake up, Daisy tells me that her name is Walter Lancott, and that she grew up in Asbury Park, New Jersey. I’m never going to 1998 again.
By Sunday night, I’ve returned to the future, my present, hardly looking chronologically towards the impending work week. I’d skip it entirely, but I have responsibilities. People throughout history who depend on me, and the services we offer. I go upstairs and open the door to hallway closet where I add seven marks to the wall. I keep a running tally of the women that I’ve slept with because it lets me know how long I’ve been alive.
Wouldn’t you know it. Happy birthday to me.