The Man Who Folded Himself (18 page)

The sensuousness of sex. The maleness of me. The femaleness of her. The physical sensations of strength and warmth. Flesh against smooth flesh. Firm resistance, supple yielding.

Sex with Diane is different from any kind of sex I have ever had before. There is something boyish about her that I find strangely attractive, yet deliciously feminine. I put my arms around her and she is neither male nor female, but a little of each. And there is something feminine in me that she responds to. (Perhaps it is a quality that is common to both of us and independent of physical gender. An androgynous quality. My body may be male or it may be female, but I am neither—I am me.)

I keep thinking of Danny, and it is hard not to make comparisons between the two of them, even though I know it is unfair to both. But Danny and I (Don and I) have been through so much together, have meant so much to each other.

Diane lacks Danny's intensity (yes), but Danny could never match her sensuality. The sheer physical delight of her body, the perfect matching of male to female, the tenderness of her response to mine; all of these combine to make sex with her an experience that is new to me. I delight in being with her, in being inside of her, just as she delights in opening to me. I admit it, I am fascinated by her body, by the femaleness of her, the geography, the open depths that I
plunge into, again and again.... I lose all consciousness. All that exists is the feeling, the incredible wallow of emotion and silly talk and discovery after discovery. I know what is happening to me and I don't care. I admit it happily. I have become a horny little schoolboy, not just discovering sex—but inventing it fresh and new, as if it has never existed before.

Well, it hasn't. Not for us.

I see her as something special. Not a new person, no, but another reflection of myself. Another Danny perhaps—and in the most different guise of all.

Yes. Danny with a vagina.

Think of her as he. It is the quality of Danny-ness I see in him that is so intriguing, so independent of sexuality. There is a Danny trapped inside that female body screaming to let me in. Just as there is a Diane inside me.

I cannot help but like it.

We enjoy our physical roles as we have never enjoyed them before; at least I know I do; but deep inside is a sense of—loss. I think I loved my Danny more. And I think I know why.

With Danny, the physical forms were identical; the mental roles could be arbitrary. It was just me and him. We could choose our roles, we could take turns, we could be pansexual. I didn't have to be male, I didn't have to be dominant. With Don I could be weak, with Don I could cry.

With Diane, it is different.

I feel limited.

And in a sense, I am. I am limited to the role given me by fate, by gender. My sex is the one thing about myself I cannot alter. Our bodies determine and define our roles—at least to the extent that I must be a man to her woman. Despite all the different roles either of us are capable of playing for each other, ultimately we can only return to the ones already assigned us. (If this is Danny, then Danny is the only woman here. There are no tradeoffs anymore. Danny has limited our roles.) There is no other relationship for either of us.

At least, that's how I perceive it.

The relationship is not unenjoyable. Indeed, it is the most joyous of all. But still, there is that sense of loss....

We have been together how long?

Months, it must be.

We have a home on the edge of prehistory, a villa on the shores of what someday will be called Mission Bay. It's a sprawling mansion on a deserted coast, a self-contained unit; it has to be, because we brought it back to the year 2000 B.C. A honeymoon cottage for the outcasts of time.

The sea washes blue across yellow sands. Seagulls wheel and dive, cawing raucously. The sun blazes bright in an azure sky. And the only footprints are ours.

We live a strange kind of life in our timeless world.

Loneliness is unknown to us; yet neither of us ever lacks for privacy. We see each other only when both of us want it. Never can either force himself on the other. That's part of being a time traveler.

I cannot journey to her future, nor can she to mine. When we bounce forward, I am in Danny's world, she is in Diane's. The only place we can meet is in the past, because only the past is unaffected by both of us.

Should either of us need to be alone, we simply bounce to a different point in time. (I have seen the ruins of this mansion standing forlorn and alone, swept by the sands and washed by the sea, while the sun lies orange in the west. These walls will be dust by the time of Christ.)

Returning, I am in her arms again. I am there because I want to be there.

She vanishes too, but only momentarily; she returns in a different dress and hair style. I know she has been gone longer than I have seen, but I know she comes back to me with her desire at its fullest. I open my arms.

We have never had an argument. It is impossible when either of you can disappear at the instant of displeasure. All of our moments are happy ones. Life with Diane is almost idyllic.

Almost.

Today she told me she was pregnant.

And I'm not sure how I feel about that. There is a sense of joy and wonder in me—but I am also disturbed. Jealous that something else, someone else, can make her glow with such happiness. The look on her face as she told me—I have seen that intensity only in her climax.

I know I shouldn't be, but I am bothered that I cannot give her such prolonged intensity of joy. And I am bothered that someone else is inside of her, someone other than me.

And yet, I'm happy. Happy for her, happy for me. I don't know why, but I know that this baby must be something special.

It must be.

The baby proves something that I have suspected for a long time. My life is out of control. I am no longer the master of my own destiny.

There is little that I can do with this situation. Except run from it.

Or can I . . . ?

Being pregnant is a special kind of time.

Within me there is life, helpless and small; I can feel it move. I can feel it grow. I wait eagerly for the day of its entrance into this world so I can hold it and touch it, love it and feed it, hold it to my breasts.

This is a special baby. It will be. I know it will be. I am filled with wonder. I see my body in the mirror, swollen and beautiful. I run my hands across my bulging stomach in awed delight. This is something Donna could never have given me. (I miss her though; I wish she were here to share this moment. She is, of course. She will be here when I need her.)

Oh, there is discomfort too, more than I had expected—the difficulties in bending over and walking, the back pains and the troubles in the bathroom, the loginess and the nausea—but it's worth it. When I think of the small beautiful wonder which will soon burst into my life, the whole world turns pink and giggly.

I feel that I'm on the threshold of something big.

The baby was born this morning.

It was a boy. A beautiful, handsome, healthy boy.

I am delighted. And disappointed. I had wanted a girl.

A girl….

In 2023 the first genetic-control drug was put on the market. It allowed a man and woman to choose the sex of their unborn child.

In 2043 in-utero genetic tailoring became practical. The technique allowed a woman to determine which of several available chromosomes in the egg and sperm cells would function as dominants. The only condition was that the tailoring must be done within the first month of pregnancy.

In 2167 extra-utero genetic tailoring was widespread. The process allowed the parent to program the shape of his offspring. A computer-coded germ plasm could be built, link by amino-acid link, implanted into a genetically neutral egg, then carefully cultured and developed, eventually to be implanted inside a womb, either real or artificial.

I do not want to design a whole child. I just want a baby girl. I want her identical to me. I will have to go back and see Diane before she gets pregnant, but that should be the easy part.

I will not tell Dan this. I think this is a decision that I have to make myself. The baby is mine and so is the decision. My son will be a girl.