The Uncanny Pleasure of Time Travel Self-Love
by Jason T. Kocher September 14th, 2011 - Science » Creative » Writing »
I have a particular recurring dream.
I am in a threesome with a paranormally beautiful woman and a copy of myself with whom I go to great lengths and pains of pleasure to create a multitude of singular sensations for all. So deep into our craft and lost in its delights are me and myself, that we do not notice until much, much later that the woman had long since disappeared.
There are a bevy of meanings to be interpreted from that – and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with any of them – but I am much more interested in the actual mechanics and implications of such self-love.
Falling out of dreams and into something somewhat closer to reality, there are only really two situations that would allow for the above fantasy.
Were I to have a clone of myself, I could easily exercise some simple narcissism and a uniquely external introspection.
However, if I instead attempted the task via time-travel, not only would I have the same benefits provided by clones, but my future self would also have the uncanny experience of gaining pleasure not only from his direct present sensations, but also simultaneously recalling the consequential pleasures delivered onto his past self. If fortunate, this strange déjà vu may align just right so as to allow the future me to experience both the delivering and receiving end of any pleasure at the same time, remembering every action…just…as it happens…
Your twitching lips warmed by your own hot breath on your neck, tasting the taste of being tasted. Your hands, in tune to what appears to be destiny, tracing a perfect moment by moment map of your body, a möbius strip of mad, mad passion, your sweat mixing with your sweat, your skin all over your skin, the present and past such a fog of delight you have to ask yourself which one you are, but your wants have already driven you deep inside, a disorienting rhythm of aggression and submission…the ebb flows…reaching an odd, numbing fever-pitch where it seems both of you cease to be at all, until violently the mirror quivers, shakes, and shatters and you are left…lying in pieces…inside yourself.