Disco Lover

Disco Lover

My best friend Ryan was moving back home with his mom. He’d lost his job a month ago, and been unable to find anything else, so he could no longer afford the rent on his funky old walkup apartment with the claw-footed tub in the kitchen and the clanking pipes that always kept the place too hot in the winter. We’d had some great times there though, and of all our friends’ places, his apartment had been the coolest. Everyone used to hang there after work or whatever and we’d listen to music, smoke some weed, maybe watch a movie on his big screen TV, or sometimes actually noodle around on instruments ourselves. Ryan actually wrote some decent songs, but his guitar playing sucked. I could play guitar and sing better than he did, but I couldn’t write songs worth a damn. We did it all for fun anyway. We never expected to be rock stars or even artistically respected local musicians, and probably would never even get so ambitious as to put a CD together. We both figured someday in the not too distant future we would do the American thing and become someone’s schmuck, buying into the whole SUV, kids and monster-box mortgage thing. But not yet. We were still young and feared commitment of any kind–financial, emotional, sexual, didn’t matter what kind. We were slackers and enjoying it while we could.

People always joked about how much Ryan and I looked alike. We both had roughly the same coloring–light brown hair and greenish-gray eyes, and similar builds. We both had goatees and nearly shaved heads, but then again just about every guy under 30 these days wore their hair that way so it really wasn’t that remarkable. Ryan had tattoos and I didn’t. I thought they were stupid, actually. I had better things to do with my time and money than have someone sticking ink-filled needles into my skin. I wasn’t a fan of pain. My single earring (in my left ear, of course) was my only nod to Gen-X-dom. I didn’t really buy into this whole thing about generations anyway. It was all bullshit.

I was the friend with the beat-up van, so it was me who got the honor of helping Ryan move back home. It was August and very hot and muggy outside. We drank some cold beers while we worked, and various friends dropped in and out to say goodbye or just to snatch a beer. One girl, one I had only met once before and who had seemed rather snotty to me, actually helped us with the hauling. She had five studs in one ear and a blunt haircut that was longer on the sides than in the back. She was wearing a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt and very short cutoffs. I thought she was a lesbian at first but soon it was clear she had the major hots for Ryan and kept brushing past him suggestively as she hauled boxes up and down the creaky wooden stairs. She also made sure we both got a good look at her tight little ass and long tanned legs by making sure she was always in front of us whenever we trudged back up the stairs to get more stuff. She said little but occasionally whispered something to Ryan that made him blush.

He had little in the way of furniture, and after all the books, clothes, and small stuff was moved, we got started on that. In spite of our exhaustion, we were done in about 30 minutes. Before leaving we opened another round of beers and sat on the bare hardwood floor of the now massive-appearing living room drinking them. Tara (that was the girl’s name) cuddled up next to Ryan and ran her fingers through his crispy damp hair, and started stroking his goatee. Before long they were eating each other’s faces. I was slightly embarrassed so I quietly stood up and walked through the three empty rooms. My workboots echoed as I walked. I would never again listen to music here or pass out here after partying too hard. It was kind of sad in a way.

“Yo! Josh!”

I spun around. Ryan had his arm draped around Tara’s thin shoulder, and she managed to smirk at him and look adoringly at him all at the same time.

“Get your ass moving, we gotta go.”

“Dude, you’re the one wasting time eating face here.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He gave Tara a squeeze.

“Don’t forget about tomorrow night, we have that party at Jon’s house,” he reminded her.

She giggled. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget!”

We headed back down the creaking stairs and I got in the driver’s side, while Tara and Ryan smooched on the sidewalk. Finally she shook her swingy bob and headed down the block toward the bus stop, and Ryan climbed in the passenger side.

I followed his directions to his mom’s house. I had never been there before, and felt slightly nervous. I always get nervous when I have to meet someone’s parents. Poor Ryan. I couldn’t imagine having to move back in with my parents. If they would even have me anyway. My parents weren’t exactly there for me, you know? My father had left when I was 12, and I’d been a latchkey kid ever since. My mom had been much more into building herself a career in public relations than into parenting and most nights I cooked my own dinner. Whenever I had a problem–either emotional or financial-- I had to solve it on my own, I couldn’t just move back in with my folks like Ryan could. It was stupid to envy him, but I did. Oh well, what could you do? Life sucks. At least I had friends.

“Here we are,” Ryan said.

I pulled into a small asphalt driveway in front of a neat split level house surrounded by large trees. Nice. I shut off the ignition and noticed how dark it had suddenly become.

The skies burst just as we got out of the van. We’d have to wait for the rain to let up before hauling stuff into the house.

“Well, let’s go in and get a Coke or something and meet my mom.”

“Hi, Mom!”

I hung behind Ryan and noticed a very attractive and shapely blonde woman who looked to be in her early to mid-forties sitting on the couch watching TV.

She smiled warmly as she got up but I couldn’t help but notice the sadness around her eyes. Or was it just age? I couldn’t tell. Something about the woman seemed vaguely familiar, but I knew we could not possibly have ever met before. She didn’t seem to notice me at first, but when she finally did the smile left her face and if I hadn’t known better, she appeared positively petrified.

“Hey Mom, this is my friend Josh. He came over to help me move my stuff in.”

“Josh...” she whispered, and the way she ended the word sounded almost like a question. I wasn’t sure whether it was too much beer acting on my imagination but I swear the woman’s dark blue-gray eyes filled with tears.

Ryan looked at me strangely, then back at his mother.

“What’s got into you, Mom? You’re acting way weird.”

She smiled weakly. Her skin looked waxy and ashen.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just another damned hot flash, I guess. Hey, go help yourselves to a snack until the rain lets up. How about some coffee for starters?”

“Sure!” I said, a little too eagerly.

Ryan gave me another weird look.

“Dude,” he whispered after she had strode off toward the kitchen, “if I didn’t know better, I would think you had the hots for my mom!”

I punched him playfully on the shoulder, but I was blushing. “Shut up, asshole,” I said.

He punched me back on the arm. “You know you do! I see you blushing!”

I wanted to kill him.

“Shut up, she’ll hear you!”

“So? My mom looooves young dudes.”

“That’s enough, Ryan. Let’s go get that coffee.”

“You just want to stare at her butt!”

“Yeah, right!”

I didn’t want him to know how close he was to the truth. I usually wasn’t attracted to older women, and certainly not to one I had barely met for even five minutes, but this one...well, she made my groin ache. I couldn’t explain what it was.

We sat in the large kitchen drinking coffee. Ryan did most of the talking; my eyes kept meeting his mom’s. She was acting like she was trying to figure something out about me, and it creeped me out, but excited me at the same time. I was glad she couldn’t see my bulging erection, hidden as it was under the table. After a while, Ryan’s droning started to seem like background noise, no more significant than the rain still pelting outside. His mom and I were in our own little strange universe, though neither of us said a word to each other.

Finally the rain let up and late afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window over the sink. Ryan stood up, stroking his goatee thoughtfully.

“Well, I guess we’ll get to work,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. I was relieved to get out of there. Besides, the coffee made me have to pee, which wasn’t helping any with my hard-on.

I turned to Ryan’s mother, who had never given me her name.

“Um, got a bathroom?” What a stupid question. Of course there was a bathroom.

She overlooked my apparent stupidity, and smiled warmly, pointing toward the back of the house with a well-manicured index finger. “All the way down that hall, to the right.”

“Thanks! “ I got up quickly and left, hoping my hard-on would not be noticed.

“You’re welcome, Josh.”

The way she said my name...it was like she was purring it. It was all so frigging weird.

Finally the moving was done and I was badly in need of a shower and some sleep, so I called it a day.

When I left their house, Ryan’s mother appeared from somewhere in the backyard. She was wearing gardening gloves and khaki shorts and a bandanna. She looked gorgeous and I could really see what a very nice figure she had for someone so old. She took her muddy gloves off and extended her hand to me. It was as soft and warm as her smile.

“It was very nice meeting you, Josh,” she said softly.

There it was again. The way she said my name.

I blushed again and I could feel my erection coming back.

“Um, you too, Ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t call me Ma’am! That makes me feel so old!” she laughed. “Please call me Annie.”

Finally she let go of my hand and I drove home, feeling very much in need of an ice cold shower.

That night I went to bed early, and fell asleep stroking my engorged penis and thinking about Annie.

****

The next morning was Saturday and I didn’t really have any plans. So I decided to sleep in. My cat Buster was curled up in the crook behind my knees, purring, so even though my right leg was fast asleep and I needed to move it, I tried to stay put for a few more minutes so as not to disturb him. I couldn’t do this for long however, and soon I needed to relieve my bladder too, so I rolled out of bed. Buster hissed and jumped down off the bed, and slunk off grumpily to wherever cats go when they’re pissed.

“So sorry!” I said sarcastically. Then I noticed something strange. The room looked different. My framed anime posters and computer were gone. In their place were posters of new wave and punk rockers and a big faux-wood TV set with rabbit ears. An ancient (but very new looking) Commodore computer perched on a stand next to the TV. What the fuck?

I turned on the TV. I had to play with the rabbit ears to get a clear picture. The news was on. Something about Jimmy Carter and the hostages in Iran. I looked around for a remote control but there wasn’t any. I switched the big knob on the bottom of the TV. Most of the channels didn’t show anything except snow. No cable? Finally I found another channel, and recognized that weird guy who hosted the Gong Show. I’d remembered it from reruns on the Game Show Network. My mother was into all those old game shows. I switched the channel again, and Oscar the Grouch was singing a song to Maria and Big Bird.

I turned off the TV and went to sit down on the bed and think. Then I noticed instead of my comforter, it was covered in some sort of hippieish Indian print. I looked around the room. This wasn’t my room! It couldn’t be. Yet the layout of the apartment was the same. It didn’t make any sense at all.

Scared now, I opened the curtains (also some sort of batik design instead of my mini-blinds), and opened the window. Dreading what I might see, I looked down onto the street four floors below. The cars didn’t look right. There were no SUVs, no minivans, no new sport cars. The cars all looked oversized and boatlike, the sort of cars you see junked in someone’s yard or maybe in poor neighborhoods. But these cars weren’t old. They had the pristine look of new model cars.

Then it hit me. This could not possibly be 2002. I had to find out what year I was in, and why I was here. Had I taken some kind of weird hallucinogenic drug last night? Was I having some bizarre dream? That was the only explanation. It made no sense at all. I tried to think, but all I could remember about the night before was being sore and exhausted, and then falling asleep early, my hand wrapped around my dick.

I had to get a newspaper or something to find out the date. I opened my closet door (which had glossy publicity photos of Talking Heads and Blondie on it), and looked for something to wear. I found a couple of ugly daishikis and some gaudy 70s-type shirts, and, oh my God, there was a disco suit! It was pure white and hideous, and still had a tag hanging from the lapel. I riffled through the clothing desperately, trying to find something decent to wear. I finally settled on a plain dark blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Okay, they had flared bottoms, but it was the best I could find. I put on some leather sandals that looked halfway decent. I couldn’t find my Doc Martens. Like everything else I normally wore, those too were gone. I went to the refrigerator to get some milk for a Slim Fast shake (what I usually had for breakfast) but of course, the milk was in a cardboard container instead of a plastic one. Okay, fine, whatever. But of course, Slim Fast had also not been invented yet, so I settled on some chocolate flavored Carnation Instant Breakfast, and choked it down, practically gagging. At the last minute I remembered that I should probably remove my earring too. I left it on the bathroom vanity.

I grabbed my keys (at least those were the same!), and ran down the four flights of stairs to the door. It was still hot and muggy out, so the season was the same. The newsstand across the street was still there, but the periodicals there, of course, were different. I purchased a Daily News from a florid fat man with a sourpuss face. It didn’t occur to me to check the date on the coins I gave him. He handed me back what I thought was too much change, but of course it wasn’t. I also needed some cigarettes.

“Camel Lights, please,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Camel Lights.”

“Only got Camels. Filtered or nonfiltered?”

Of course.

“Filtered is fine.”

“You got it.” He handed me a pack. “Sixty-five cents.”

Whoa.

I shoved the cigarettes into the my T-shirt pocket and walked away, staring at the paper. The main story seemed to be about Iran-Contra and the hostage crisis. A small picture of President Jimmy Carter grinned at me, and there was a small story at the bottom about the 10-year Woodstock reunion. I was too scared to look at the date, but I already knew what it would say. Finally I looked. August 21, 1979. I wasn’t even supposed to be born for three more months! How was this possible? I pinched myself to make sure I really existed–and to make myself wake up from this nightmare. I felt the sharp pain in my arm but I did not wake up. What the fuck was going on? A group of kids about my age passed by me then, giggling and staring at me strangely. The boys wore their hair long, at least neck-length, and they wore loud shirts and one wore bellbottoms. One of the boys wore rainbow-striped suspenders, which made him look clownish. One of the girls–the prettiest, I thought--had long, straight, shining brownish-blonde hair, and the other two wore those Farrah Fawcett cuts, all layered and fluffed out. The pretty girl with the long straight hair looked at me sympathetically, while her friends whispered to each other and kept giggling. She was wearing painters’ pants with a cute halter top that showed off an especially nice rack and well-shaped, feminine arms.

“Fucking freak!” yelled one of the boys, and his friend punched him in the arm and laughed.

“Only in New York,” said one of the girls, fluffing out her Farrah hair and batting her over-madeup eyes.

“Hey, wait a second, ” the pretty girl said to her loser friends, “I think he’s lost.”

“This is fucking New York, man, you’re asking for trouble,” said one of the boys.

She turned toward him in a huff. Why did some women look so pretty when they were angry?

“Mike, you’re always talking about how we need to help others. Now when I see someone who needs help, you get on my case.” She turned toward me and smiled, while her friends stood back on the sidewalk, waiting for her.

“Go on, I’ll catch up with you,” she called back to them.

They shrugged and walked down the street.

“I’m so sorry about my friends. They’re really nice people, you know. They just–“

I touched her bare arm. “Hey, it’s alright. Whatever.” I said.

She looked at me quizzically. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s with the weird scraggly beard and the buzzcut?” Damn, this chick could be blunt.

“Uh, I dunno. I just like being different, I guess.”

“Well, that’s cool. I like people who don’t follow the crowd.” She looked me up and down. I was feeling like an animal in a zoo and really uncomfortable actually, but she was so pretty I couldn’t tear myself away. I just stared at her stupidly.

“You’re kind of cute.” She touched my goatee. “But you’d be so much cuter without this. And your hair, it’s too short. You look like my dad.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. But hey, don’t sweat it. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Josh.”

“That’s a nice name. I used to babysit for a kid named Josh, still do sometimes. He’s only 5. I’ve never met anyone our age named Josh though. Your parents must have been progressive.”

“Uh...I guess.” What could I say?

“I’m Deborah. Deborah Ann actually, but all my friends call me Debbie.”

“That’s pretty but I like Deborah better. Come to think of it, you do look a little bit like Debbie Gibson, who goes by Deborah now.”

“Who?”

“Oh, she’s just some teenybopper singer from the ‘80s. She looked a little like you.”

She backed away and screwed up her face. “Huh?”

God, I was lame! She must think I was from another planet. Well, in a way, perhaps, I was.

“Oh, nothing. I just meant a singer who’s in her eighties now.” It was lame but she appeared to buy it. I would have to watch what I said from now on.

Deborah smiled. “Oh! Alright, I didn’t know what you meant.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Hey, let’s go sit down over there,” I said, pointing to the small neighborhood park on the corner.

“Okay,” she said.

We sat down on a bench near a small playground and watched long-haired toddlers wearing Osh Kosh B Gosh overalls running around and digging in a sandbox. It was hard to tell the girls from the boys, except for one tiny girl who was wearing some sort of Laura Ashley printed dress. A couple of black nannies dressed in white uniforms sat on another bench, chortling to each other and every so often, looking up from their tales to scold the children.

“I love children,” Deborah said. “I want to have a big family someday, but first I have to finish college and get my teaching degree. I figure maybe when I’m about 30 I’ll be ready.”

I looked at her. I noticed the way the sun made her streamers of hair sparkle and the way the soft breeze whipped them across her face. Her skin was smooth like porcelain, and I longed to touch her.

“How old are you, Deborah?”

“I’m 21. How old are you?”

“I’m almost 23.”

“Yeah, that’s about what I figured. Do you go to school?”

“Oh, I finished college last year.”

“Yeah? What did you study?”

“Computer science.”

“Wow! You must be really smart!”

I almost told her it was mainly those people who had no imagination or vision who wound up studying computer science, but caught myself, realizing how much things had changed in the past 22 years.

“Well, not that smart. Just practical, I guess.”

“Yeah, computers are the wave of the future. That’s what they keep saying, anyway. My little brother Scott has a Commodore.”

I remembered the Commodore sitting next to the TV back at my apartment.

I wondered what Deborah would think of the world I came from, a world of Internet and Instant Messaging and satellite TV and cellular phones and alternative medicine. A world of cynical young adults instead of idealistic dreamers. A world where you could become a media star simply by being a freak. A world where only two Beatles still existed and the Rolling Stones were old men. To her, all that would seem like science fiction. So I dared not mention it. She would really think I was nuts.

I decided to change the subject. I did know a little bit about music from the late ‘70s, as my mother listened to groups like Journey and REO Speedwagon and Fleetwood Mac, and I myself was a fan of early new wave and even had to admit disco was pretty cool. I’d seen Saturday Night Fever on TV a long time ago and had thought Tony Manero was pretty cool in spite of his awful clothes. So music seemed a safe enough topic.

It turned out Deborah secretly loved disco, but didn’t dare let her friends know this. They were die-hard rock fans, and thought disco was commercialized crap. We talked a little bit about the Disco Sucks movement and the burning of disco records at a Chicago baseball game that had taken place the previous month.

“Well, I don’t think disco sucks at all, but that’s my little secret, Josh. My friends would never speak to me again if they knew.” I could tell she was serious.

“Well, they’re not real friends if you’re not allowed to like what you like.”

“You’re right about that. But I’ve known them a long time, we all went to school together. They just wouldn’t understand.”

I took her hand in mine and held it, looking into her eyes. “Well, I understand.” Then I got an idea. “How about we go to a disco tonight, Deborah? You don’t have to tell them.” I couldn’t believe how bold I was being, but I needed to see this girl again.

Her eyes sparkled. “I would love that, Josh.” Then she screwed up her face in that weird little way again. “But you have to get rid of that beard.”

“Goatee.”

“Well, whatever it is. It’s got to go.”

“Alright. When I get home I’ll shave it off. How about we go tonight? Do you know any good discos?”

“Well, forget about Studio 54. You have to be God himself to get in there. But there’s a smaller one I know of out in Jersey that’s cheap and plays really good music.”

We arranged to meet again at around eight. She left to go find her friends, who had gone to some movie, and I went home to shave and get cleaned up and find something to wear.

The first thing I did when I got back to my apartment was shave off my goatee. I almost nicked my face a couple of times, but when I finally finished shaving it off, I did have to admit I liked the way my face looked. I looked softer and more approachable for a girl like Deborah. I splashed on some Brut aftershave I found in the bathroom. I went to the closet and opened it, staring at the hideous disco suit hanging there. I finally worked up the courage to take if off its hanger and try it on. I stood in front of the full length mirror (one of the few things that had not changed since 2002) on the bathroom door and studied my appearance. The suit fit alright, but no way did I look like Tony Manero. My hair didn’t go at all, but there was not much I could do about its length before tonight. Besides, the polyester suit was terribly itchy and uncomfortable. I hung the suit back up and stood there in my 2002 boxers, looking through the remainder of the 1979 clothes. I finally settled on a purple silk shirt with a huge pointy collar and french cuffs, and a pair of black dress slacks. I found a pair of black shoes with low heels and pointy toes at the bottom of the closet, and I put them on. I wasn’t much more comfortable, but I had to admit I didn’t look half bad. I felt like I was going to a costume party. As a final touch, in the bathroom was a silver chain bearing a Celtic cross. It looked pretty cool and sure beat a tacky gold medallion, so I put that on too. Disco King was ready to boogie.

****

I walked to the address in the East Village Deborah had given me, feeling terribly self-conscious, but no one looked at me like I was a freak at first. In fact, there were many other people, old and young, dressed much the same way as I was. But a block away from Deborah’s building, I passed a group of punks with spiky hair, ripped black leather jackets in spite of the heat, dog collars, and ripped jeans. I realized the safety pins in their ears were an early and crude form of the body piercing my own generation had made fashionable. They laughed and jeered as I passed, and a short punk with a Mohawk and a black and white jailstriped tank shoved me practically off the sidewalk, almost sending me sprawling into the street. I righted myself and walked faster, veering around them. “Fucking asshole,” said another of the male punks. I resisted the temptation to retort back “loser,” and just kept walking. Behind me I could hear a chorus of “Disco sucks!” followed by laughter. Well, fuck them. I understood about alienation and isolation. In high school I was always the kid who didn’t fit in. My mother acted like I was a burden to her most of the time and had little to do with me anymore. My father sent cards for Christmas and my birthday, but hadn’t bothered to try to see me for ten years. He had a new wife and new family and I was just part of his distant past. But I was used to it, I could deal with it. All that mattered now was what Deborah thought.

My heart was thumping as I rang her buzzer, though part of that may have been due to my block-long near-sprint after being heckled by those punks. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, God, it was hot and these clothes made it worse. I felt like I needed another shower already.

“Josh, is that you?”

“Yes, and you best be ready!”

“One sec, I’ll be right downstairs.”

I guess it was too much to expect her to invite me upstairs. A woman in the East Village, even in the late 70's, had to be careful.

She appeared behind the glass door like a heavenly vision. Smiling radiantly, she was dressed in a pure white satin dress with spaghetti straps and a low cut neckline that left little to the imagination. I could even just make out the outline of her nipples. Was she wearing a bra under that? The skirt was full and floaty, and came to the knees of her well-shaped legs. She wore pumps with high heels and her hair was piled softly into a pretty French twist at the back of her head. I stood there speechless for a moment, and she smiled and took my arm.

“Are we going to stare all night or go dance, make a little romance?” She winked at me and laughed a silvery laugh. God, she was so beautiful and I felt so lucky to be seen with her. I grinned idiotically as we hailed down a cab. Dressed like that, we didn’t have to wait long. As it pulled up, she handed me a little black jacket with pearl buttons. I stood there with it in my hands, wondering at first what I was supposed to do.

I looked at Deborah helplessly, and she made a shivering motion, hugging her arms to herself and murmuring “brrrr.”

I got her message and put the jacket over her shoulders. I felt like I was playing a part in a play. I suppose, in a sense, I was.

Then I opened the cab door for her and let her enter, and climbed into the seat next to her.

She gave the driver an address in New Jersey, and the cabbie nodded appreciatively at Deborah, and took off, his meter ticking away. We went through the Holland Tunnel, and by the time we arrived in New Jersey it was nearly dark. He drove us to a brightly lit place with velvet ropes out in front and a lot of gorgeously dressed people waiting outside. It all seemed very snooty to me, and I didn’t feel comfortable. People stared at my clothes and seemed to be sizing us up. Now I could see for myself how shallow the 70's really had been, or at least disco culture.

I think Deborah sensed my nervousness.

“Relax, it’s not as bad as it seems.”

I smiled weakly.

She took my hand. “You’ve never been to a disco before, have you?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

She grinned at me and squeezed my hand in both of hers. I wondered what she could possibly fit inside that tiny beaded black disco bag that was strung over her shoulder.

“Where have you been?”

“Uh–“

Think, fast!

She laughed, but her laugh was warm, not condescending.

“Come on, they’re opening the doors.”

I insisted on giving her some money to pay the admission, but she insisted on paying for us both. “You’re a liberated woman, aren’t you?”

She laughed again. “Not really, actually I am pretty old-fashioned by today’s standards. But since this place is one of my stomping grounds and I’m the one taking you here, I thought it only fair I pay tonight. You get the honors the next time.”

She was talking about the next time. She must like me. My heart soared.

Then I remembered I didn’t belong in 1979. I had to find a way to get back to 2002. But in a way, I wanted to stay right here. I didn’t want to think about the logistics right now.

She took my arm and we went through a pair of heavy wooden doors.

The music pounded and thumped and the nonstop rhythm seemed to enter every pore of my body. A central dance floor pulsated under flashing strobe lights and a huge mirrored ball. A few people were dancing, and one couple was quite good. I watched them for awhile from the small table where we both ordered drinks. It was hard to talk due to the volume of the music, and the entire atmosphere oozed sexuality. There were no breaks between the songs; rather, they segued into each other with expert smoothness, with the beat of one song gradually taking over that of the last song.

“The deejay here really rocks!” I had to shout to be heard.

“What?”

“The deejay here rocks. Have you ever been to a rave?”

“Huh?”

Then I caught myself. Of course she had never been to a rave.

“What’s a rave?” she pressed on.

“Nothing.” I flagged down a young blonde waiter wearing a tuxedo with no shirt to order us more drinks.

“You talk funny sometimes,” she shouted back at me.

I grinned and shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

More people were getting up to dance, and after a while, the pounding music, the alcohol, and the company combined to put me into a trance-like state.

Except for the fact that people here were dressed up–and some pretty eccentrically at that–the atmosphere really did remind me of a couple of raves I had been to a few years earlier. One woman took off her dress and started dancing bare-breasted, while her bare-chested partner danced very suggestively, thrusting and grinding his crotch toward hers. It was like watching stylized sex. I began to feel very turned on and could feel an erection ballooning inside my trousers. I wanted to rip the nasty sweaty things off my legs and make love to Deborah all night. “Disco Inferno” segued into a slow and sensuous Donna Summer song, “I Feel Love,” I think it was, and I took the opportunity to wrap my arms around Deborah and dance close to her. Her supple body pressed against mine, and soon we were kissing passionately, as Summer moaned in orgasmic ecstasy. My balls were beginning to ache.

The pulsating lights made everything appear stop-motion, as if this were a movie instead of reality. Maybe it really was a movie. None of what had happened to me since waking up this morning could possibly be real. Soon I would wake up under my own comforter, kick Buster out of bed, grind some beans for coffee, and check my email and cell phone messages.

Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” was playing, and it amazed me to realize the song was new, and represented the first glimmerings of the fusion of disco and punk. Not long from now, as disco supposedly died, it would be simmering underground, waiting to bubble up again in new forms as 1980's dance pop, trance, techno, and even, to some extent, rap and hip hop. No one here knew this yet, of course, except me. It was a spooky feeling, knowing what the future held. But how could I be here at all when I wasn’t supposed to even be born yet?

My thoughts were interrupted by Deborah, who grabbed me and started spinning me around. As she spun away from me, I could see a dark spot on the back of her dress, and reached out to stop her so I could tell her.

I had to scream into her ear to be heard, and could smell the floral scent of her perfume as I did so. I resisted the temptation to start nibbling on her earlobe.

Her eyes became wide then, and her hands flew to her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She leaned toward me and said into my ear, “I don’t have any more pads. I thought a pad with a tampon would be enough. I can’t fit extras in this stupid little bag.”

That stupid little beaded bag of hers was probably only meant to carry a hit of cocaine (and Deborah didn’t seem like any coke-head to me). It looked barely large enough to hold a lipstick.

“Maybe we could stop somewhere.”

She indicated her ruined dress. “No, I think we have to go.” I felt for her. That must be really embarrassing. Sometimes I was glad I was not a woman.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Here,” I said, taking off my sweat-soaked silk shirt. “Use this to cover up. I’m too hot to wear this anymore anyway. ” I tied it around her small waist, where its bulk strategically, if not glamorously, covered the bloodstain.

“You’re sweet,” she whispered, and kissed me tenderly on the mouth. Her lips were soft and moist and tasted like honeyed butter.

“I take the shirt off my back for people I care about,” I quipped.

She stood back and looked at me with wonder.

“You really care about me?”

What had I just said? That I cared about her? I had never said that to any woman in my life.

I glanced around uneasily, but Deborah’s eyes searched mine and I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of unfamiliar yet tantalizing emotions.

“Yes, Deborah, I do.”

I had no idea why, but I did care about her. I really did.

Deborah visited the ladies’ room, while I got her jacket from the coat check. When she returned, I wrapped it on her shoulders, and we headed out into the night. The August night was cool and contained a hint of fall, and this was one thing that had not changed between 2002 and 1979. We must not be that far from Manhattan, or the cabbies knew this was a hot spot, because we had no problem finding a taxi.

When we got into the cab, Deborah rested her head on my bare shoulder and we held hands.

“Deborah?”

“Yes?”

“I had a great time tonight.”

She moaned happily and squeezed my hand. “So did I, Josh.”

Happy and exhausted and both knowing we would soon be making love, there was no need to say anything more. After a while, I heard a soft snoring, and realized she had fallen fast asleep. Her hand was still in mine but her grip had loosened. I listened to her snore for awhile and though it sounded adorable.

The taxi pulled up in front of her building.

“Honey, we’re home!” I laughed, shaking her awake.

She startled, then laughed at herself. “Silly me, I fell asleep.”

I handed the cabbie his fare and got out of the taxi, then held the door open as she sleepily climbed out. Her hair was fetchingly messed up, with strands hanging out of her French knot, and my shirt hung slackly around her hips. Her eye makeup had run a little.

“I must look terrible,” she said, lifting her foot up and awkwardly adjusting her shoe.

“No, you look beautiful, and I want to carry you home,” I said.

She allowed me to pick her up in my arms and I carried her to her door, letting her down only so she could fetch her apartment keys from her ridiculous miniscule disco bag.

She lived on the fifth floor, but there was a creaky elevator we used instead of the stairs. It creaked and rattled and finally jolted to a stop.

“Oh shit, I’m flooding now,” Deborah groaned.

I looked at her stupidly.

“You know, my period...” She walked out of the elevator strangely, her legs squeezed together. Taking the hint, I picked her up in my arms and she unlocked her apartment door.

“I’ll have to clean up a little first,” she said when we entered her apartment.

I was so turned on. Even the idea of this lovely woman experiencing something as natural as a period made me want to fuck her brains out. My erection throbbed and I grabbed her roughly and started kissing her.

“Wait, I–“

I shut her up with another long, deep kiss.

“Josh, I have to get cleaned up!”

“Take me with you,” I blurted, meaning it.

To my surprise, she agreed.

I unwrapped the shirt from around her waist and it fell to the floor. I turned her around so I could unfasten the low back of her dress and could immediately see that the dress was ruined. I told her but she didn’t seem to care.

“Don’t worry about it, it wasn’t expensive. Take it off,” she begged in a throaty voice.

The bodice was fitted, so I had to lift the dress over her head. Her arms raised to let me remove it. I felt my breath catch in my chest as I saw her breasts bounce free. They were well-shaped and delicate, rounded and weighty yet they sat high on her chest. Her small pinkish brown nipples were erect. The only other thing she wore was a pair of pantyhose, and I saw something that looked like a white thong under it.

“Excuse me, while I change out of these things. God, I hate pantyhose!”

I was cupping her perfect breasts in my hands, feeling their weight, as my thumbs gently rubbed her nipples. Then I kissed her softly, feeling her nipples against my bare skin.

“Josh–“

“Okay! Hurry up,” I said. I didn’t think my erection could hold up much longer. I loosened the fly of my pants, but would wait for her to take them off me.

She went over to the toilet alcove, and started to take off her pantyhose.

“Don’t watch,” she said.

I tried not to, I really did, but I could still see her in the bathroom mirror. She now wore nothing except that thong thing, and there was what looked like a fat wad of blood-soaked cotton between her legs. Then I remembered. My mother had worn those things when I was a small child, before flat maxi-pads with “wings” had been invented, and even back then, the mystery of what made women bleed like that on a regular basis intrigued me. My mother had never discussed this with me, and her secretiveness about it only made it seem more tantalizing.

Deborah didn’t bother unfastening the pad from the elastic thong, but let the whole contraption slide down her long legs, and she scooped it up and placed it in the trash can next to the toilet. There were streaks of blood on the insides of her thighs, and she sat down on the toilet, her legs parted, and started to unwind wads of toilet paper and clean herself.

She caught me staring at her in the mirror. Perhaps it was my heavy breathing she heard.

She snapped her legs together quickly, one hand still between them. “What are you staring at? I told you not to watch!”

“I’m sorry.”

But she wasn’t angry. She laughed. “God, you’re such a pervert!”

“That I am,” I said proudly. “I have never made love to a menstruating woman before.”

“It’s gross.”

No, it’s not. It’s beautiful. I want to make love to you right now, I want to feel your lifegiving blood all over me.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I had never wanted to make love to a woman having her period before. But this time it seemed almost...sacred.

“I think you are serious.”

“I am serious,” I said, and my voice cracked with desire and emotion.

I took a washcloth from the side of the tub and wet it in the sink with warm water.

“Come here and let me take care of you.”

She obeyed. I let my trousers fall from my legs.

“Boxers! Oh my God, you wear boxers? That is so weird!”

I felt hurt for a moment, until I remembered that cool young dudes in 1979 did not wear boxers, they wore tight colored or white jockeys.

“Well–“

“It’s okay, I think they look adorable on you.”

“They’re really comfortable.”

“They look it,” she said. Then she grinned devilishly. “But you look like you need to get more comfortable, ” she said, yanking them down.

Now both of us were completely naked. Holding the washcloth, I knelt down before her. I wanted to worship this goddess and anoint her private parts with warm tap water, and later, with something else. Gently, reverently, I wiped the remaining blood from the insides of her thighs. Her skin was as soft and smooth as velvet. Her vulva was swollen and I could see how wet her lips were as they peeked through her thick thatch of brown pubic hair. Deborah’s gentle hands stroked the sides of my face as I worked.

Suddenly she squatted so she was looking directly into my eyes. “I want to eat you,” she breathed.

My dick literally bobbed in anticipation. She didn’t miss that.

“Calm down, boy,” she scolded my poor engorged penis. “It’s all right now, mommy’s here,” she said as she began to flick her tongue along the swollen shaft. I was afraid I would come right then, and I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel my penis deep inside her pussy, her soaked and tight walls molding themselves to my shape. But I groaned as she took me into her mouth and began to pull it all the way in, until it was touching the back of her throat. I gritted my teeth to keep from coming, then had to pull out. I was panting.

“Is something wrong?” She looked up at me from under her thick brown eyelashes

“Oh, God, Deborah, no. It’s just that I was afraid I was going to come.”

She smiled and wrapped herself in my arms. I held her close to me, feeling the rhythm of our breathing, and trying to slow my own. I unclasped what remained of her hairdo and watched her streaky hair spill across her shoulders. She nuzzled my face and began to suck on my left ear. And then she saw the hole in my lobe.

“Josh, what’s this?”

I had to think of something quick. No one except queer guys had their ears pierced in 1979. Not with actual earrings anyway. There was my solution.

“Oh, it was silly. My friends and I–well, we went through a punk phase about a year ago and I wore a safety pin there for a while.”

“Yeah? Were you really a punk? And you can boogie the night away like that too? ”

I grinned evilly and winked. “Yep.”

“You’re a lot cooler than I thought!”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Versatile.”

“That’s me.”

“Unpredictable.”

“You got it.”

Her voice dropped an octave and she slid her hands down my body, and then began to stroke me. Her breasts brushed against my stomach as she moved down and I broke out in goosebumps of excitement.

“And incredibly sexy.”

“No, you are.”

“No, you,” she insisted.

“Whatever,” I said, lifting her once more into my arms. I carried her to her bed, and laid her down on top.

“Are you going to make love to me now?”

“Yes,” I growled. “But don’t you need to use something? You know. Some sort of protection?”

She laughed. “That’s the great thing about periods. You can’t get pregnant while you’re having one.”

I was going to suggest a condom to prevent AIDS but then realized the disease had not yet been discovered and I didn’t have any condoms anyway.

She paused, seeming to remember something. “Wait here, if we’re going to do this we need to protect the bed at least. These are new sheets.”

She got up and went back into the bathroom. I liked the way her small waist flared into a womanly and shapely rear end. She returned with a dark blue towel and smoothed it onto the bed.

“So far I’m fine, but it could start coming out again any time, you know. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

We lay side by side, our naked bodies pressing together. She wrapped her legs around my own and we kissed hungrily. I slid a trembling hand between her thighs and it came out wet and slick, yet not bloody. I licked off the sweetness and then sucked her breasts. Finally I rolled her onto her back and she drew her knees up, then squeezed her thighs around my waist as my penis slid smoothly inside her. She gripped me with her vaginal muscles, flexing them and then releasing, flexing and releasing. There was no need for me to thrust, and I lay in her soft arms and closed my eyes, allowing tender, intoxicating, yet scary emotions to rise to the surface. Deborah seemed to open up in response, drawing me into the cradle of her cervix. I felt like our cells were merging. I had never been this turned on in my life, and never expected to be again. I realized I needed to be with Deborah, even if I could never go back to 2002, and would somehow have to adapt to this alien–yet really not so bad–lifestyle. I could live without computers and cell phones, I could live without 500 different channels on satellite TV. I could live without email or Instant Messaging. In about 20 years all those things would come back. But I could not, did not want to live a life without Deborah. I was in love.

Our breathing merged, and I began to thrust gently. Each time I pushed it inside, she rose to meet me. Our timing rocked.

And then I could feel myself beginning to come, and she pulled me down and began to kiss me passionately, and I realized she was coming too. Our bodies convulsed again and again and for the first time in my life I felt uplifted, I felt truly free.

I looked at her face and noticed her cheeks were wet and her lashes spiky with tears. There was something familiar about her eyes, I realized.

Dark blue-gray. Someone else had eyes like that, someone I’d known recently.

And then I realized who Deborah was.

She was my friend Ryan’s mother Annie.

Deborah Ann. She must have decided to use her middle name as her first one later in life.

I closed my eyes, tempted to get up and leave this house–and Annie, Deborah, whatever–forever, but the woman had me bewitched.

I thought about Ryan for a moment, how our friends always told us how much we looked alike. I had never taken it seriously before. But–

how old was Ryan? I did some mental calculations. He was born in May 1980. That would be nine months after August 1979.

That meant he was my–

son?

Sometimes women can get pregnant during their periods.

I shot up out of her arms, and off the bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I choked. I grabbed my disheveled clothing and started to dress. She still lay there, naked and gorgeous on her floral sheets. She started to get up, started to follow me.

“Josh–“

“No! Get away!”

“Josh? I don’t–“

Oh, God, I loved the way she said my name–

“I don’t understand–“

“Someday you will, I promise. I’m so sorry. Goodbye.”

She said nothing more as I ran out the door.

It had taken her 22 years, and me merely a day to put the puzzle together . Deborah hadn’t known the truth until I met her as Annie, my best friend’s mother. That’s why she had at first appeared so frightened, and then had looked at me so sadly and strangely while we sat there in her kitchen drinking coffee. From her point of view, I had never changed at all.

I ran to the subway and stood in the front car of the train, looking out at the endless track ahead and the occasional ghostly gleam of another station. I didn’t wipe away the tears that streamed down my face.

I ran to my apartment and up the four flights of stairs. As soon as I opened the door, I saw the mini-blinds and framed anime posters were back. So was my PC and entertainment system. But what did it all mean now?

Buster came up to the door and meowed loudly and rubbed against my legs. I picked him up and went inside, holding his warm body to my wet face as I closed the door behind me.

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