Man Forward

This story is a sequel to "The Choice," another work of mine that appears on the ASSGM archive. You don't need to read that story before reading this, but it would probably help if you read it afterward for some additional background information. This is broadly defined as science fiction, although I keep the jargon under control (for the most part).

The usual warnings apply. If you are less than 18, read the sanitized version of "The Choice" that's out there. If you do not want to read sexually explicit material, stop here. You have been warned.

There are certain real names and places used within the text. Any resemblance between these fictionalized persons/locations and real persons/locations is purely coincidental. No, I have never been to Uniontown, Pennsylvania.

This story is the sole property of the author and copyright is hereby claimed. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to the ASSGM and Nifty archives to maintain this story as part of their free archive service. Any other use is strictly prohibited without the signed, written consent of Major League Baseb...er, me.

Man Forward, 6 of 21 (M/M NS) by JT Michcock

Chapter 6: It's All Relative

As the car flew down into what I recognized from the air to be a part of the Loyola campus, I noticed that there was some kind of bar or restaurant we were parking under. After a hop on and up a glass elevator that looked like something out of the Jetson's, we were in a room filled with students. I followed close behind as Dan took a walk over to a remote part of what appeared to be more of a bar than a restaurant. Turning a corner, I immediately noticed my great-great-great nephew Eric sitting in a booth with a young woman sitting next to him. Eric arose when he saw us and extended his hand in greeting to both of us.

"You know Eric already," said Dan, turning to me, "this is Merilee Harmon, one of my senior students." The young lady was quite attractive, pale skin, smallish at what appeared to be a little more than five feet, thin, with a long auburn hair pulled back in a pony tail.

"Pleased to meet you," I said to her, extending my hand. Merilee looked a little bemused, but returned the handshake.

"For future reference," said Dan, as we sat down, "you should never shake a woman's hand, a bow of the head is appropriate."

"That was a first for me," said Merilee, somewhat amused, "I've never shaken a man's hand before." Her voice was very pleasant. If I had been straight, I would definitely have been interested.

I smiled. "So, is there a law against shaking a woman's hand?" I asked. "Is someone going to beat me up now?"

"No, no one would beat you up," responded Dan, chuckling slightly. "It's a social convention, local to the NAP. In Quebec, for example, a man and woman shaking hands are considered quite normal." He shrugged, "sort of how we say 'pop' for soda pop in the Midwest and they say 'soda' everywhere else."

"Uncle Chris, would you like something to drink?" asked Eric.

"Just Chris, please," I said. "I don't feel like anyone's uncle yet. And, yes, a glass of white wine if that's possible."

"No alcohol here," said Eric. "This place caters mostly to students. Can I get you a pop or something?" He smiled, "Or soda?"

"Do they still have Coke?" I asked.

"Coming up," said Eric. "This is on me." He pulled out a data card and slipped it into a slot on the table and punched some sort of display screen in the middle of the table. The middle of the table lit up and a section the size of a plate lifted from the table top. Emerging from the area was a glass with what looked like coke and ice in it. I lifted the glass gingerly and the plate lowered back into the table. Taking a sip, the biggest surprise was that it still tasted the same as I had remembered.

"So," I said, "I take it you still have to be twenty-one to drink?"

"And anything else," said Merilee. "You're not an adult until you're twenty-one."

"Really?" I asked. "Why did they do that?"

"It was actually getting ridiculous," said Merilee. "In the early part of the last century, people who were less than twenty-one weren't allowed to drink, smoke, go to an adult movie or anything else. They just decided that people needed a little more time to be kids, so they pushed everything to twenty-one, including parents' support obligations."

"I'm glad I'm twenty-two," I said. "At least biologically, more or less. In elapsed time, I guess I'm . . . um . . . 145-years-old." The thought struck me from somewhere deep in my brain. I was incredibly old. The look on my face had everyone focused on me and the conversation paused until my composure reappeared.

"How did dinner go?" asked Eric, a little expectantly. He must have known what our conversation was going to be.

"Okay I suppose," I said. "Dan gave me some bad news."

Eric and Merilee nodded knowingly. "I really feel for you," said Eric. "I can't imagine what kind of thoughts you have in your head."

I shrugged. "Well," I said, "the little blue pill they gave me is still working, so it hasn't hit me too hard."

"I'm here to help you along," said Eric. "Anytime you need someone to talk to, let me know."

"Are you my coach too?" I asked, a smirk covering my face.

"If you want me," said Eric, his face seeming to brighten. "I'd be highly honored if I could coach you."

I thought for a minute, and raised my arms in a "whatever" gesture.

"Sure," I said, "why not?'

Eric frowned. "That's really nothing that's taken lightly. Coaching someone is a great responsibility."

"My apologies," I said, my head turned down, "I'm still new to all this." Eric nodded agreement.

"So, if you're my coach, what's my title?" I asked.

"You are called a charge," said Dan, breaking into the conversation.

I turned to Dan. "So how many more coaches do I get?"

"A boy gets three coaches at his first birthday," said Dan. "And each of the three is from different age groups. You're somewhat unique because of the fact that you've never been assigned a coach before.

"Your first coach is only a few years older," explained Dan. "Usually, a boy gets his first coaching assignment between seven to eleven-years-old. The second team member is usually from twelve to eighteen. The head coach is usually around your father's age or a bit younger."

"Head coach?" I asked.

"The head coach is the one who runs the team," explained Dan. "Your other coaches usually have to clear everything through him during the early years if they are working with you."

"And what does a coach do?" I asked.

"A lot of things," said Eric. "Mainly, your job is to stay involved in your charge's life. One of my earliest memories of being coached was when I went into first grade. My first coach, my cousin Bobby, spent the week there with me. He was going into ninth grade. The first graders always start a week earlier to allow the coaches to attend."

"So, what did your coach do?" I asked.

"Well," said Eric, "a lot of different things. They talk about school, help us make some friends, take us into gym class."

"Gym class?" I asked. "I don't think I even had gym in first grade."

"A lot of the boys aren't used to being naked for the first time without their dads," explained Eric, "your first coach shows you the ropes in the locker room and the showers."

"Showers?" I asked somewhat amazed. "For a first grader?" I recalled my own experience with a locker room hadn't occurred until I hit ninth grade. A lot of kids I remembered refused to shower and none of the teachers could object, though the refusing students were often known by the stink they left behind in the classrooms. From my own experience, I remembered being a little shy at first, but then rather looking forward to the experience after I realized the opportunity being presented.

"Well, yeah," said Eric. "You have to be clean."

"What about you?" I said, turning to Merilee. "You had confidences?"

"Confidantes," Merilee corrected me. "The same number, except girls get them when they are five-months-old. I remember my first confidante taking me through first grade too."

"And she helped you with making friends and getting through the locker room too?" I asked.

"Making friends, yes," said Merilee. "That's especially important for girls. But girls don't go into a locker room until they're in high school. And then you get your own private dressing and shower area."

I lurched back in my chair with a laugh. "Shut your mouth!" I exclaimed. This provoked an offended response from my table mates; I could swear I saw Eric jump slightly toward me. I tensed up in response and felt the need to explain.

"That's an old expression," I explained, feeling defensive all of a sudden. "It means 'you're kidding me.'"

"Oh," said Merilee cautiously, "uh, no, I'm not kidding you."

"Chris," said Dan, slowly, "please be very careful about what you say. Talking to a woman in what's perceived to be demeaning or in a provocative manner could get you injured."

I rolled my eyes. That was stupid. Anyone could tell. I was saying what I said in a friendly manner. "Like crying in public?"

"Yes," responded Dan, "but probably worse. The people at this table have been preparing for your arrival for a few months now, so we're expecting to see some unexpected conduct. But when you are out there in the real world, you have to be much more careful with what you say."

This was getting to be too much. "How can you justify treating the sexes differently?" I asked emphatically. "Isn't that . . . illegal?"

"No," said Eric, quickly jumping in, "it isn't illegal. The sexes get treated differently because they are different." From his response, I could sense that Eric was expecting this question.

"But how can you let little kids that age into a locker room naked?" I asked, still incredulous. "Aren't you worried about them being molested or something by some teacher?"

"That doesn't happen," said Dan, sitting back with his arms folded.

"The last case of any man molesting a boy happened almost a hundred years ago."

"So, kids aren't being molested anymore?" I asked.

"I didn't say that," said Dan. "There are still instances today of young girls being molested by men. It doesn't happen very often, but it still occurs. But there is no same-sex pedophilia anymore."

"Okay, let me get this straight," I said, "men molest girls and women molest boys."

"No," said Dan, shaking his head. "Women don't molest boys. That hasn't happened for a very long time either. Women very rarely molest children, even without any genetic treatments. Nowadays, women just couldn't do that.

"But you hit on something interesting from an anthropological viewpoint," continued Dan. "One of the reasons we worry less about boys in that sort of an environment is because we can. If we send a young boy off with a man or a woman, we don't have to worry about any inappropriate sexual contact occurring. We aren't able to say the same about young girls. It's a valid justification for our being much more protective of girls."

"Chris, I've been working with Dr. Greiner on his research for the past couple of years," said Merilee. "I understand how your view of the world is quite different from ours."

"Well," I said, "you're a woman. How do you feel about being treated differently?"

Pausing for a minute, she lifted up her shoulders in a slight shrug. "Fine," said Merilee. "It's something I'm used to. Quite frankly, I know there are certain protections for me in place and I appreciate that I should be treated differently because of my biology.

"But it's not like there aren't areas men and women have in common.

I attend Loyola and have to follow most of the same rules Eric does. I plan on getting a degree in anthropology and it will be the same degree any man could receive."

"So, you'll go to work as an anthropologist?" I asked.

"Maybe," responded Merilee. "Actually, I have my eye on getting my doctorate eventually, but probably only after I get married and my children get a bit older."

"Won't kids slow you down?" I asked. "Why not go to grad school right after you get a bachelor's degree?"

"Because I really want to have kids," responded Merilee, "like all women do."

"But isn't that what you're supposed to want, and not what you actually want?" I asked, somewhat disbelieving.

"There's nothing 'supposed to' about it," explained Merilee, smiling quite serenely. "All women want to have children and to become mothers."

"Most probably do," I offered, "but there must be some who don't want kids."

"Not anymore," said Merilee, seeming to show some pride in her position. "Women carry very strong maternal genes. It is one of the byproducts of the Breen-Modielski treatments."

"That's the treatment to stop lesbians, right?" I asked.

"Yes," said Merilee, "One of the sixty-five factors they test and it's directly related the maternal instincts. The presence of this gene allele, along with other factors, can cause a woman to be a lesbian."

"So lesbians can't be good mothers?" I asked, disbelieving. I had known a lesbian student from Loyola who had a daughter. As far as I was concerned, she was one of the best mothers I'd ever met.

"No, not at all," said Merilee, a bit defensively. "It's just one of the factors that, in combination with others, that can cause some women to become homosexual. A woman could have excellent maternal instincts but still be a lesbian if other factors are present.

"Besides," said Merilee, "there are still instances of lesbian relationships today."

Surprised, I turned to Dan. "I thought you said there were only twenty-three gay people in the world?"

"Excuse me," said Dan. "I meant to say 'gay men.' A very small number of women do get into lesbian relationships over their lives, but this is usually a reaction to some environmental stimulus. It's almost always a bad relationship with a man in their lives."

"Sexual orientation is much more complex in women," Merilee continued. "Unlike men, it is often not an 'either-or' proposition. Bisexuality is something that women have that men don't."

"A lot of guys are . . . were bisexual," I said, correcting myself.

"I knew a few in college."

"Probably not," said Dan. "True bisexuality in a man, even in your time, was extremely uncommon. More than likely, these were gay men who had formed some emotional attachments to women or who weren't comfortable calling themselves gay.

"If you look at the statistics from your era, what you will find is that the younger the man was, the more likely he referred to himself as bisexual. In reality, this reflects that young men are often more sexually adventurous and, quite frankly, easier to please. There's a good chance he had done it once with a woman and felt this somehow changed his orientation."

"One thing to consider too," said Merilee, interrupting, "is that the fact that women may still fall into lesbian relationships is another reason why women aren't as open as men are about their bodies."

"Huh," I grunted, not sure what else to say. I wasn't exactly sure what I should ask next. So I decided to change the subject.

"So, coaches, where do I go from here?" I asked, my voice trailing slightly. I wanted to know more, but the future bothered me. How could this little gay boy ever hope to fit in?

A long pause followed my question. From the shuffling I heard around the table I could tell there was no easy answer.

"That depends on what you want," said Eric. "You've got a lot of options."

My eyes lit up. "Options?" I said, nearly spitting out some of the Coke in my mouth. "I can't even find a date." I was getting a little upset.

"Chris," said Dan, "you'll have a difficult time acclimating, but we are here to help you. This world is in many ways the same as the one you left.

"Quite frankly," continued Dan, his voice becoming softer, "in many ways things are far better. You just have to give it a chance."

"There's plenty of time for you to decide things," said Merilee. "Don't feel as though you have to plan your life out now."

I abruptly decided to change the topic slightly. I wanted to confirm what was happening here.

"Dan," I said, "didn't you tell me that you had kids?"

"Four of them," he responded. "Two boys and two girls."

"How old?"

"Well," said Dan, sitting back in his chair, "The oldest just turned nine and the youngest is three."

"Who takes care of the kids?" I asked.

"My wife does," Dan said.

"They aren't in day care?"

Dan looked puzzled for a second. The term wasn't one that was a typical part of his vocabulary. Finally, his eyes lit up as he recalled the term.

"We don't have day care," said Dan. "Not in the sense you mean it.

Sometimes kids have to be cared for by grandparents or others due to peculiar family circumstances, but there's no business of day care similar to what you may know."

It was true. Things had changed.

"It's like I woke up in some sort of paleolithic conservative wet dream," I said, sighing softly. "Looks like the religious right won everything."

"Religious right?" asked Eric, seeming somewhat confused.

"Not at all," said Dan, breaking in and shaking his head vigorously. "Of all the groups that were fighting, the people you describe eventually lost more than anyone else."

"Really?" I snorted. "They got what they wanted, no more gays."

"Really," said Dan, raising his eyebrows, "and not precisely at all. What they wanted was to change behavior as a matter of psychological

and religious indoctrination. They rejected a biological basis to homosexuality and found themselves being proved wrong at every turn. They rejected Darwinism and evolutionary theory when every clear-thinking individual could see the implications all around them. Even more so than the feminists, psychologists and other environmentalists, their world was destroyed by science."

"In addition," added Merilee, "the type of economic model we have in place is not exactly what the so-called conservatives of your time had in mind."

"Are you all communists?" I asked, somewhat offhandedly.

"No," said Merilee smiling, "we are basically all capitalists in terms of our economic models, but our social standards are much more integrated and interrelated.

"It's more akin to the Japanese culture of your age," she added. "A person who works for a major corporation can expect lifetime employment. Also with businesses, you'll find very few brand names except when it comes to large scale manufacturers. There are no fast food restaurants, Wal-Marts, Jiffy Lubes, etcetera."

"More so," said Dan, "there's a very great emphasis we have in making things work, both in employment, family and personal matters. Very few married men with children are allowed to work more than forty hours a week. When a man does get married, he usually gets a raise from his employer. When he has his first child, he typically gets another raise."

I turned to Merilee. "And what will happen when you get pregnant?"

I asked. "Do you get a raise?"

"Probably a going-away party," smiled Merilee. "Women aren't supposed to be working after they start a family, at least not in terms of outside employment.

"But most of the volunteers in charitable and social organizations are women."

I sighed. There was not much more than I could say. I turned to Dan.

"What's next, coach?" I asked.

Dan smiled. "There's more to experience and to learn."

"I think if you give it a chance you'll like things," added Eric. "You just have to get used to how we do things differently."

I took a long sip of my Coke, not certain what to say next. I looked around at the faces of my new friends. They were trying hard to be there for me, but there was distance in their eyes. They couldn't comprehend what was happening to me. My experience was too alien to their lives. I felt I was someone who did not belong here. It would be a long time before I could ever connect to these people, if ever.

Man Forward, 7 of 21 (M/M Anal, Oral, Fist) by JT Michcock

Chapter 7: Virtually

Tuesday, October 27, 2122

I sat there somewhat nervously on the doctor's couch, not certain what to expect. Leafing casually through a magazine, I kept wondering what had happened to my life. Here I was, flung far into the future with no prospect of getting back what I once had. I flipped through a few more pages before I heard the door knob turn.

A cute blond guy, must have been about twenty-five or so, appeared from behind the door.

"Mr. Hoover," the blond guy said, "Dr. Wilson will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," I responded politely, my voice cracking slightly. The blonde assistant was tall and wiry. I could really picture myself enjoying him.

"My name is Ryan, in case you need anything," said the assistant, smiling,

"Thank you, Ryan," I responded, returning the smile, "and you can call me Chris."

Into the room walked one of the handsomest guys I had ever seen. A white lab coat draped muscular shoulders, curly brown hair, a lush moustache and the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

"Hello Chris," he said, "I'm Doctor Frank Wilson. You can call me Frank" As he extended his hand, I remained seated to return his firm grip, a little too awestruck to stand up. Well dressed with a tie and pressed shirt, Frank appeared to be in his mid-thirties. As he consulted his lab chart, I checked out the rest of him. Tall, he stood about 6 foot 4, muscular build and no belly at all. From a few feet away, I could smell a wonderful cologne. Not too heavy, I thought as I inhaled the fragrance.

"I've had a chance to look at your records," said Frank, looking directly at me. "I think I know what you need."

Still looking directly into my eyes, Frank removed his tie. I sat there, both startled from the suddenness as well as the anticipation I felt through my body. Slowly, he began removing his shirt and exposing his very hairy and muscular chest. I sat there feeling the saliva leave my mouth.

Frank moved closer to me. I moved forward and my mouth made contact with his hairy belly. Warm. Inviting. My tongue lapped and licked his body, the scent of his sweat and cologne entering my nostrils.

I devoured the man in front of me as he softly purred his approval of my caresses. His shirt now fully removed, I lapped delicately at his brown nipples, inserting the delicate nubs into my mouth and feeling their texture with my teeth. I lapped carefully around the areola, the brown skin shrinking in response to my saliva meeting the cold air.

I grabbed around his belt buckle. Frank took that away from me and began unloosening the strap himself. His pants opened and unzipped, I lifted up the flap of his crisp white underpants, poking my nose in there to inhale his maleness, the thick black pubic hairs coming into my nostrils as my lust was heightened.

Frank dropped his pants to the ground. Pulling down his underpants, his delicious cock, partly erect, cut and with a purple head soon came into view. An ample set of testicles completed the package.

Without hesitation I plunged down on the cock, absorbing the entire length into my mouth. As Frank's tool became more erect, I backed off, unable to creche the entire ten inches in my mouth.

My mouth was on fire as the saliva began to pour forth, covering Frank's tool and balls with spit. Frank began to grind into my face, churning the mixture of my saliva and my lover's pre-cum into an erotic froth, dripping from my chin and onto the floor. I removed the well-lubricated tool from my mouth and rubbed it all over my face, pausing to start work on the ample balls that had been girding my chin.

I moved my tongue and lips all over Frank's scrotum, coating the hairy texture with my saliva. Taking both of his testicles into my mouth one at a time, I suckled them, feeling the heated texture within. My saliva oozed from my mouth in a copious flow, my desire to taste the musky flavor without limits.

I took his cock into my mouth, devouring the partly erect tool. My nostrils flared as I moved down the length, the tightening skin filling my mouth, the heat from the pulsating veins underneath warming my oral cavity and heating the saliva. I lunged up and down quickly, bringing Frank's cock to a fully erect eight inches, my throat grunting in protest as I fed the full length inside me. Frank held my head as he directing his tool to piston inside me.

For a long time, I applied myself to Frank's tool, absorbing and sating my lust. The saliva frothed and pored from my mouth like a river, the stream covering Frank's crotch, dripping down and flowing on my chest.

The smell drifted in my nose, the delicious combination of pre-cum, sweat and spit, my breathing becoming more labored as I made love to his package.

Gently, Frank grabbed my shoulders and moved me off the couch and onto the floor. Next, Frank climbed on the couch, his feet at the edge and his hands grabbing the back. Frank moved his hole into position and directed it to my mouth. Sticking out my tongue, I swabbed it over Frank's asshole. Shaved, the area was smooth and I moved in more forcefully, placing my mouth over asshole and letting my spit-covered tongue in, tasting the coppery skin, inhaling the aroma from his testicles that brushed idly against my nose. I used my hands to position his hole, idly stroking my own hardened tool when allowed.

Again, Frank allowed me to indulge myself on his hole, my tongue moving inside of him, digging deeper, Frank moving is ass in rhythm with my thrusts as I sought to penetrate deeper inside him. I rimmed along the opening, watching it expand and contract in response to my oral attentions, my heated breath cresting against his crack.

For a long time, Frank simply stayed in position, an occasional grunt indicating his pleasures. I feasted on his hole, the taste, feel and smell filling my senses and making me hungry for more. I engorged on his masculinity.

I heard the door crack open and I quickly withdrew my attention from Frank's ass to the intruder. It was fran's assistant Ryan and he was disrobing as he walked into the room.

Frank stepped down from the couch, his delicious cock and balls once agin coming briefly into my view. Frank, gesturing for me to follow, moved over to a chair on the other side of the room. Sitting down, he grabbed his legs and held them to his chest, his ass crack dripping with my saliva and his hole pulsating with the need for attention. I moved forward on my hands and knees to claim my prize.

I felt Ryan, his slender body now completely nude, moving behind me. With little fanfare, he grabbed my pants and pulled them down, exposing my ass flesh.

As my tongue reinitiated contact with Frank's hole, I felt Ryan grab my hips with his hands. Kneeling on the floor, I could feel Ryan's hardened cock stroke idly against my ass crack, his hands gently moving me into position. Ryan was getting prepared to take me as I feasted on Frank's crack.

The first sign of penetration, the soft mushroom of Ryan's pole pressed against my hole, came gently but insistently. I felt Ryan guide his tool further into me, one hand used to position his cock and the other to steady my hips.

As Ryan's first stab into my bowels came, I yelped, opening my mouth wider and digging my teeth into Frank's ass flesh as I sought to disperse the pain that pulsed through my body. I screeched as I felt the lips of my ass being pushed apart and the hot hard tool digging into me. My hole soon opened wide to welcome the intruder, lubricated by sweat and my own ass juices.

There I was, in heaven. My mouth enjoying Frank's hole and my own ass being pleasured with the handsome Ryan's tool. Ryan had moved my shirt up my chest and stroked his hands on my back.

Ryan's body oozed sweat as his thrusts accelerated. Moving my hips to meet his thrusts, I soon found my ability to take Frank's hole compromised as I sought to move my head forward to allow my tongue to gain entry.

It did not take Ryan long to complete his task as I felt his thrusts become more jagged, his moans of pleasure more pronounced. With a jerk, Ryan removed his tool from me and I could feel the gush of hot cum cover my back. Ryan gurgled with pleasure as he dumped his load on my body.

My mouth continued to work on Frank's hole, reddened by my repeated thrusts. I could feel Ryan behind me now, his jism spent and his nose sniffing my cum streaked back.

Then I felt Ryan's tongue on my back, licking, lapping and eating the load he had deposited. His mouth seemed to cover ever inch of my back as he cleaned up what he had expelled, the saliva evaporating quickly after my body had been tongued.

As Ryan had licked and swallowed his load, I continued to groom and caress Frank's hole with my tongue. For several minutes, Ryan and I used our tongues, idly caressing the objects of our attention.

"Enough of this," announced Frank, as he rose out of the chair, pushing me to the side. "It's time for you to get on the table."

With this, Frank helped me up on my feet and directed me over to an examination table that sat on the side of the room. The top of the table was black leather, the sides were made of wood. Pushing some releases on the table, Frank moved a set of portable stirrups up and into place. Both he and Ryan assisted me in getting up on the table, my pants removed now and my bare feet secured in the metal stirrups.

Frank grabbed hold of my hips and moved my ass down to the edge so that my ass and feet were parallel. Lifting my ass, Frank removed a half-moon cover on the end of the table exposing a porcelain bowl underneath. Ryan busied himself as well, turning a wheel on the opposite end of the table and moving me up so I could observe what was being done to me.

Ryan rolled out what looked to be a table of surgical tools. Metallic, they were held in a square dish with blue paper underneath. Frank gestured to Ryan and a container of lubricant was removed from one of the drawers in the table, along with a long rubber glove.

I watched Frank put on the glove, its length reaching beyond his elbow. Ryan was shoving something up my nose. Poppers, I realized as the smell reached my brain.

Frank took his gloved hand and inserted the thumb into the container of lubricant. He next moved his thump against my waiting hole and applied the substance to the surface. I watched with anticipation as I felt his well-greased thumb move inside me, penetrating my asshole and coating the interior with the lubricant.

Frank greased up the rest of his hand and began shoving other fingers, and then combinations of fingers up my ass, the hole yielding to the thrusts. More and more fingers were entering me at the same time, the material of the greased rubber glove sliding against the interior of my anus.

I sucked in a deep breath as I felt Frank penetrate my hole even further, using now four fingers to open up my ass. The pain was unbearable, but I knew there should be more. Ryan shoved another popper into my nose and the inhalant stimulated me to go further.

My ass was on fire and my teeth were gritted against each other, the pain of penetration intensifying with each second. I twisted my ass seeking some, any, relief, but none was forthcoming. Frank quickly and insistently moved ever deeper inside me, eventually moving his thumb into place to join his four fingers in my hole.

With a sudden thrust, Frank moved his fist inside me. I screamed as the pain tore through my body, Ryan pinning my shoulders against the table top to prevent me from getting up. My body was on fire as I felt Frank's fist move into me, tearing the lining of my ass and causing blood to emerge from my abused hole.

I screamed with every thrust into my hole. The pain was unbelievable. Without warning, Frank slowly removed his hand from my hole and the pain subsided. Gesturing to Ryan, another drawer was opened and a long pink dildo removed. About a foot long and ten inches in circumference, the tool was briefly shown to me before Frank coated it with lube.

My head was coated with sweat, my reddened face glistening and my hair matted. I gritted my teeth as I felt the dildo move into me, the pink head quickly disappearing into my well-worn asshole and the lengthy shaft soon following suit.

My breathing was ragged and my pulse echoing into my ears as I felt the monster enter me. I turned to Ryan and his mouth was soon on mine as his hand clasped my cock. As Frank fucked my ass with the dildo, Ryan fucked my mouth with his tongue, his hand stroking my cock until it erupted into a stream of jism.

The lights flickered and I realized it was over.

I got up off the sofa device where the technician had left me. Removing the helmet that he had covered my head with, I looked down and put my thumbs under the waistband. Opening my pants, I saw the results of my little fantasy had paid off. A drenching of cum had filled the fabric.

A noise in the back caused me to remove my hands and let the cum drenched pants snap back into place. I looked over as I saw Dan enter the room.

"Well," said Dan, "was it what you expected?"

I smiled. The first time I had done so in quite a while.

"It was great," I responded, almost at a whisper.

Dan smiled back. It was not a pleasant smile, more of an indication of relief. I knew he had sweated a lot to get me the holographic fantasy. The people who built this facility had never anticipated that it would be used for these purposes.

As, I sat up and rested a bit, and I looked around. The room was nondescript. Four couches arranged in a circle, rounded walls in dark grey tones. In the center of the couches, a round black column went from the ceiling to the floor, connection points allowing access to the electronics inside. Dan told me that the "virtuality rooms," as he called them, were very popular, particularly among young males who often used the facilities in lieu of a brothel.

"So, this is your idea of a whorehouse?" I asked Dan.

"In certain respects, that's an apt analogy," said Dan, sitting down on one of the couches. "Women aren't allowed to be prostitutes - that just simply doesn't exist anymore. But it is also used for other fantasies other than sexual. I can remember playing a few war games in here with my cadre."

"Cadre?" I asked. That sounded like a military term. I knew from talking to Dan that he had spent the requisite two years in the NAP Navy, but he told me that the entire time had been spent in orbit around the Moon.

He sensed my confusion over the meaning of the term. "When you're younger," explained Dan, "guys hang out together in cadres, groups of eight. You get assigned in second grade and its based on shared interests, compatibility and geography."

"So, what does this cadre-thing do?" I asked.

"You hang out, play games, talk, and everything else," he said. "That includes coming into the virtuality zones. We all went to our first bordello together."

"Together?" I asked, "that must have been...interesting."

"It was," laughed Dan, "especially since our dads got together and programmed the whole experience. All the cadre members are projected into the virtual world together. This is while you are all in reality hooked up together on the couches."

"What did your fathers do?" I asked, the thought of my father even thinking about my sex life was something I could never imagine.

"The dads put a few, shall we say, obstacles in our way," said Dan, looking amused. "The worst part was getting the crap beat out of us by a group of bouncers that they'd programmed into the machine. Even though it was only a fantasy, we still felt every whack."

"I don't suppose your mothers knew about this," I asked, somewhat sarcastically.

"You're catching on," said Dan, smirking.

"Don't you think your mothers should have known?" I asked.

"So they could say no, I don't think so," responded Dan, shaking his head and smiling. "There are certain things that just guys do."

"So that's why you form these . . . cadres?" I asked, "so you can come into these rooms?"

"That's only a very small part," said Dan. "When you hit high school, things change a lot. Seventh grade can be hell if you don't have your cadre standing by you."

"What's so different about seventh grade?" I asked. My own experience was that seventh was about the same as sixth, with everyone being a little larger.

"Starting in seventh grade, they separate the boys from the girls," said Dan. "You go to different buildings even, and the curriculum for boys is what you might have referred to in your time as military school."

"Military school?" I shrieked, recalling how only the worst of kids had been sent to military school in my day. "You mean like...marching, and all that other stuff?"

"Marching, gun usage, three mile hikes, and all that other good stuff," said Dan. "All boys are discipline problems at that age and this is the way we deal with them."

"No," I shook my head, "there must be good kids. I was a good kid."

"Back then, boys were different," said Dan, somewhat somberly, "nowadays, they are far more aggressive."

"So what do you do about loner kids, like I was."

"No loners," said Dan shaking his head. "We don't allow that sort of thing."

I paused a bit, realizing that the cream in my pants was getting a little cold.

"Where do you clean up around here?" I asked, tugging at the waist band.

"Showers through that door," said Dan, gesturing to one side of the room.

I got up and, as expected, Dan followed me into the shower room. Same as all the public shower areas I had seen so far, opened up gang-style with towels stacked on the side. I was getting used to the lack of privacy and stripped down without thinking twice. A barrel was located in the middle of the room marked "used suits and towels" and I dumped the cum-soaked garment inside.

"So," I said to Dan, as I walked under the water spray, "when do I get to see you buck naked?"

Dan smiled and shrugged. "I'm sure it will happen some time."

I turned to Dan. "How about now?"

Dan tuned his eyes down and paused for a minute. "This is going to sound kind of strange," said Dan, "but I feel as though stripping down in front of you is like being undressed in front of a woman. And except for my wife, I just don't do that."

I turned, a little flustered. "Honey, I ain't no woman," I said, grabbing my cock and lifting it to emphasize the point.

Dan smiled."No offense meant," continued Dan, "but most people, myself included, have never met a man quite like you. You're very . . . different."

"Different?" I asked, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel. "How so? I thought you said you had met other gay guys."

"Yes," said Dan, "but none of the gay men I've met are so...effeminate."

I felt insulted. Intellectually, I knew what Dan was talking about. Some gay men you would never know unless they told you they were gay. I wasn't one of those gay men. From puberty forward, my sexual orientation was clear. I could see it in the videotapes of family gatherings. As my older brother, Phil, put it, I was "faggy."

"Your problem," I spat out and turned my back away from Dan.

"One of the coach's first jobs is to be honest," said Dan, "and that's all I am being. Something like this might cause you problems later."

"Problems?" I asked, still keeping my back to Dan while continuing to dry off.

"Yes, problems," responded Dan. "So far we've managed to insulate you from the public pretty well. I'm not at all certain how a man of our time would treat your behavior."

I turned back to face Dan. "I suppose that he'd probably beat me, like a good old-fashioned gay basher."

Dan put on a grim smile. "That's a possibility. Believe me that is a very real possibility. I think that most men wouldn't be certain exactly how to react. Although I do believe most would regard you as some sort of novelty, not as a threat as they might have in your day."

I put my hands on my hips. "I get the feeling that you men spend a lot of time beating each other up."

Dan laughed. "Not really. It's just something that happens every now and then. It happened a lot in your era as well.

"Regardless," continued Dan, "get dressed so we can get out of here."

I smiled and started to put on my clothing. I sighed. It had been another long day as usual. I had spent the better part of it familiarizing myself with the twenty-first century, the century I had missed. The two Sino-Indian wars in the early part of the century had been fascinating to read about, as was the establishment of the first Mars colony. But there was so much more to learn about.

"So," I said, putting the last of my clothes on, "when can I speak to your class?"

"Soon," said Dan, leading the way out the door. "Merilee and I are preparing a syllabus now from the collected questions we've been getting from students.

"I want you to have a better sense of the history that has occurred since you've been gone so you can relate your answers into a better context," said Dan. "I'm working to find some more experiences you can share."

As I left the virtuality center, I couldn't help but smile. I wondered how my rather unique perspective would go over in the class.

Man Forward, 8 of 21 (M/M NS) by JT Michcock

Chapter 8: Years Gone

Monday, November 16, 2122

Mom was there again. Her hands were on her hips and she was not happy. This was the second dream I had experienced and it was the same as before; she just stood there. She didn't say anything, but the look of disapproval in her eyes made up for the lack of words, it was a hardened glance that I had once came to anticipate. It was the look of disappointment.

The alarm went off.

I woke up with a start feeling the same strangeness that had haunted me since I arrived. This was the fifth day since being thawed out and I was less certain than ever that I would be able to fit into this very different world. I noticed the bedspread that had been imported from my bedroom in Iowa and stroked the material softly. Holding the fabric brought back a few memories.

The little blue pill that they had given me the first day had worn off for the most part. After getting back from the virtuality suite with Dan the night before, I pulled up some of the family tree and the collected photos that my nephew Eric had sent me.

There were albums of photos from my brothers getting married, my parents looking older in each subsequent picture. Baby photos of nieces and nephews I had never met. I eventually broke down and cried myself to sleep. This was tough.

I took a deep breath and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was stuck here, for better or worse. Although Dan, Eric and Merilee were working overtime trying to acclimate me, I still felt as though I didn't belong. Last week, they had thrown me a surprise birthday party -- even though I wasn't really sure how old I was. From the calendar, I should have been 146-years-old. I was still twenty-two physiologically at least for the next nine or so months.

It was nice of them to throw the party for me. Still, I couldn't convince myself that I would ever fit into this world.

I ambled out of bed and went to the view screen. There was a message from Dan: syllabus review meeting at 1000 hours. There was also another batch of historical data from Merilee, including the complete Time Magazine and Newsweek archive.

I pulled up the magazine materials and scanned through the covers, more than a hundred years' worth. I noticed that with each passing year the faces became less familiar. I sighed. As my scroll reached the end of the 2100s, I paused to pull up the last Time of the 21st century. The Man of the Century issue. I noticed from the outset that it had been changed from "person" of the century.

On the cover was middle-aged man's picture. Holographic renderings flooded onto the screen, showing the man in his youth and in his later years. I didn't recognize the face and turned inside to check out the biography.

The article started with a summary of the "runner-ups" for the position.

The first was Karen Hillman. The article started out with the caption "Ladies First." This was the President that Dan had talked about, the one who had changed so much. There were pictures from the time of her presidency and in later years as a global diplomat. There was an interactive film of her presiding next to the first Patriarch, Henry, on the formation of the NAP in 2040.

The next profile was of Emperor Wilhelm III. A member of the Hapsburg family, he created an united central European state and was the first great leader of a revitalized continent. The story was awash in photos detailing the splendor of one of the greatest imperial courts ever known.

The penultimate chapter was on Lee Chin Duc. Here was a Korean national who immigrated to Canada during the mid 2020s. While at the University of Toronto, he came up with the formulas that would break the light barrier and make things like Einstein Rosen bridges a reality. There were photos of the then-elderly scientist making the first interplanetary hop between the Earth and the moon in 2072.

Finally, I arrived at the section on the Man of the Century, Joshua Hernandez, the hero of Uniontown.

Joshua was a tall and muscular man and a superb orator. There were photos and audio excerpts of his speech declaring the formation of Man Forward in 2014 at the tender age of 23, his new wife beside him. There were also photos of him standing next to President Hillman. His position as her chairman of the President's Commission on Physical Fitness was the only political office he held in his life. As a profession, Joshua was an engineer by education and training, a tenured professor at MIT. He used the lessons of science to communicate his points.

A world traveler, he spoke to some of the largest crowds ever assembled. In the crowds, it was mostly the men to whom his message was targeted. He not only managed to profoundly change his country, but he changed the world.

There was an audiovisual excerpt I clicked. It was a massive crowd gathering in Yankee Stadium, with the arena jammed to overflowing. He was talking about the principles of physics, thermodynamics and biology. Joshua repeated the words for which he would later become famous, "far from equilibrium."

Joshua was giving a discourse on how technology had usurped our fundamental biology and what people needed to do to reclaim the sense of being and belonging that was under constant attack. It was up to men, who were the evolutionary heirs to leadership to assume the responsibility to lead. But before men could lead, they would have to learn to serve. The lessons taught were ones of courage and character. Fidelity to spouses, to children, to family and community were paramount. Only after a man had made these connections could he lay claim to leadership.

I looked closely at the video of the man on the screen. Around thirty, he was handsome, his eyes were a piercing coal black. His features were strong and certain.

And he was attractive as all hell. No. It was more than that. With his voice cascading over the speaker system he was beautiful. I sat enraptured by the man's presence. It wasn't sexual either, although I wouldn't have minded taking a roll in the hay with him. It was more than that. There was a clarity in his words and purpose. He knew exactly what he was talking about.

I closed the packet and took in a deep breath. I would have to understand what these people meant that made them so important to human history. There was a deeper meaning to all of this. I just had to find it.

As I entered Dan's office, the first person I saw was Merilee, busily working on some sort of text material appearing on the office datascreen. She looked up and greeted me with a warm smile.

"Good morning, Chris," she said. "Are you ready to get to work?"

"Good morning," I responded, bowing my head as instructed. "I think so," I said. "I had another rough night sleeping."

Merilee grimaced. "I can understand," she said, gesturing for me to sit next to her. "You aren't in the best of circumstances. But I'm going to do everything I can to help you fit in."

She placed her hand over mine. I looked down to see its texture and I felt the warmth from our hands emerge. I looked in her eyes and smiled silently. She smiled back at me.

"Did you have a hard time finding the local stores?" she asked.

"Nope, although I would have thought by now you would have everything teleported to you," I responded.

Merilee laughed. "Although we probably could, that's not about to happen. Where else to you get to see and meet other people but at the local market?"

"I guess," I said, "I do like the local gym, though. But people there aren't very friendly."

Merilee wrinkled her nose. "I kind of think that they know who you are."

"I can guarantee it," I said. "The only time I go into the locker room is to use the toilet, I don't dare change in there."

"Afraid?" Merilee asked.

I shuffled nervously. "More concern about what they think I might be doing in there," I explained. "It's hard to describe, but I feel very unwelcome in there."

"I can understand that," Merilee nodded appreciatively. "They are probably concerned about your motives."

I frowned. "What is it to them, anyway?" I asked.

Merilee smiled, "I have heard of gay men getting mistreated in locker rooms before. I can only think that this is something natural."

"Natural?" I asked, somewhat astounded. "You do way the hell too much beating up around here."

"Well," continued Merilee, "consider how they must feel. They aren't used to having men look at them in a sexual manner."

Before I could counter her point, Dan emerged from a conference room across the hallway and joined us.

"How's the syllabus coming along?" asked Dan.

"We're just starting on the AIDS epidemic," said Merilee. "Pre-Stonewall perspectives are finished."

"Very good," said Dan, turning to me. "Let's start off with a straightforward question. Chris, what do you remember about AIDS?

I shrugged. "Well, it was a terrible disease," I said, pausing to collect my thoughts. "We did get many warnings about avoiding infection and wearing condoms."

"Did you use condoms?" asked Merilee.

"Oh, always," I said. "There was no way I was going to have anal sex without one."

Merilee blanched a little and I heard Dan clearing his throat. I looked at both of them.

"Did I say something wrong?" I asked.

"Not at all," said Merilee. "It's just a little peculiar to discuss the topic in mixed company."

I rolled my eyes. "Aren't you guys supposed to be professionals?" I said

"Correct," said Dan, inserting himself into the conversation. "And right now we're interested in your perspectives on the usage and warnings of condoms during your youth."

I took a deep breath. "There's not a whole lot to say," I continued. "Everyone around me was talking about HIV infections and what to do to prevent it.

"The only proven method to stop it was by using a condom," I said. "So I always made sure that I brought a few along with me."

"How often did you need to use a condom?" asked Merilee.

I paused to recollect. "A few dozen times," I responded. "I wasn't constantly doing it, but I had my share."

"How many sex partners did you have?" asked Dan, almost hesitantly.

I paused to recollect. "Counting mutual masturbation partners and up, about thirty or so."

Dan and Merilee just sort of sat there blank-faced, their mouths slightly open.

"I wasn't a slut," I said, somewhat defensively. "I just had an average sex life."

Dan's eyebrows were raised in abject horror. I felt the need to explain.

"Look," I continued. "When I left there, I was in a very stable monogamous relationship with my boyfriend."

"For how long?" asked Merilee.

"Um, about four months," I replied.

"So, you were completely faithful to your boyfriend for this time?" asked Dan.

"Absolutely," I said. "I didn't have sex with any other guys when I was with Ted.

"Well," I continued, smiling a bit evilly, "except for when Ted brought a few buddies over and had them do me while he watched. That was only once though."

"Excuse me," said Merilee, getting up and leaving the room.

I looked at Dan and he looked back at me. Like my mother. Sort of a mildly disapproving glare.

"What?" I said, shrugging my shoulders. "You wanted to hear this, didn't you?"

Dan nodded his head, smiling now. "Yes, yes," he said, "it's not as though we're unfamiliar with these types of stories, it's just that to hear them is . . . disconcerting."

I sighed. "I suppose everyone nowadays is monogamous and only does the missionary position."

Dan paused. "Monogamous for the most part," he said, nodding his head. "But we have a variety of sexual positions beyond the missionary."

I just sort of sat there, slowly fuming.

"Are you usually this judgmental?" I asked abruptly.

"Yes," said Dan. "We're all very judgmental. It's okay nowadays to judge others."

I gave Dan a sarcastic look. He looked back at me expressionless. He wasn't joking.

"You mentioned something interesting," said Dan. "You said, when discussing HIV, 'the only proven method to stop it was by using a condom."

"As far as I was aware," I shrugged. "If there was some other way to stop it, I didn't know about it then."

"What about abstinence?" asked Dan.

"I don't think so," I smiled. "That's not a normal way to live. I'm entitled to my sex life."

"Entitled?" asked Dan, somewhat amazed. "That kind of attitude seems to have gotten a few people in trouble in your time."

"Look," I said, getting defensive, "I can only tell you what I did.

I'm not here to justify what I did. No one has a right to judge another person's personal morality as long as there are two consenting adults involved."

Dan sat silently for a minute. "I understand the morality," said Dan. "It's rather straightforward hedonism.

"And nowadays, we judge you by your morality," continued Dan. "We call that stoicism."

"Is that what you tell your kids?" I asked.

"My wife and I teach our children about the limitations that society today expects and imposes."

I was still fuming, but I wasn't prepared to deal with this any longer. Just as I was getting ready to say something to Dan, Merilee walked back in with a cup of coffee.

"Just the way you like it," said Merilee, "with the saccharine stuff."

Dan and Merilee managed to change the subject and we ended up discussing various other cultural matters. The discussion Dan and I had still stuck in my craw. How dare he talk to me like that? What business was it of his to impose his personal morality upon me?

After discussing the gay commercial enterprises, we were ready to finish for the day. "I have a response back from Marty Fields," Dan said as we were ready to leave.

"Oh," I said, quite interested now.

"He's willing to meet with you," said Dan. "How does Saturdayday look?"

I shrugged. "My schedule's wide open."

"Pack your bags, then," said Dan.

I smiled. This should be interesting. Of all the people I wanted to meet in this time period was Marty Fields. He was one of the twenty three.

Tuesday, November 17, 2122

The next day in class seemed to go very well, although the experience did not remind me of the Loyola I attended. The lecture room was in the anthropology and sociobiology building, a structure that didn't exist at the time of my departure. Rectangular, there were seats for about 100 students. At the front was a podium built into the floor. I was advised before stepping up there that my voice would be transmitted over invisible microphones embedded into an electronic field.

The students segregated themselves by gender, the girls on the right side of the class room and the boys on the left, closest to the doors. The guys were all dressed identically, black pants, white shirts and black ties. The uniform in most colleges, I was advised. The girls dressed in a variety of modest dresses. There was a good mix it seemed of all races and ethnic groups.

The room itself looked and smelled old. Brown wood moldings surrounded the room. The walls were grey and, except for a small picture of the Patriarch next to one of the doors, entirely bare.

The topic of personal morality was off the table, per Dan, who was concerned about the possible audience impact on my views. Not wanting to seem discourteous, I reluctantly agreed. I was to speak generally about my experiences in the latter part of the twentieth century, sort of an overview. Topics included day-to-day life, politics and attitudes. I could handle that.

I chose to speak at length about Bill Clinton, the President in office when I was last in the United States, and this seemed to perk the students' interest. I received a number of harsh looks when it came to describing how the President's conduct with an intern led to his impeachment. My own recollection of the event was that there was a lot of hypocrisy going around at the time, not the least of which came from the holier-than-thou opponents who were also having affairs. After all, I related to the class, what harm was really done? The jaws dropped then and I realized that I may have crossed certain lines. I didn't particularly care; I was rather enjoying the shocked expression from what I regarded as a bunch of puritans.

One girl in the back raised her hand. "Excuse me," she started, "but did Miss Lewinsky's father do anything?"

I thought for a minute. I could recall that Monica's mother was involved in the story, but her father's involvement was more after the fact. Then I remembered something.

"I believe he paid for her lawyers," I piped in. "I think she needed quite a few." There were a few chuckles that arose from the audience.

"But what did he do to Clinton?" the girl continued.

I shrugged, not getting exactly what she meant.

"Did he pop him?" asked one of the boys, breaking in on the discussion.

"Hit him?" I asked, somewhat taken aback. "Why would he do something like that? These were two consenting adults." A silence seemed to take over the room. The girl who had first asked the question was soon back in there.

"They may have been adults," she continued, "but didn't he take advantage of her?

"She was just an intern and he was the President, wasn't that an unequal relationship?" another student added.

I shrugged, not knowing how to respond. I had heard the argument before, but it hadn't persuaded me that my vote for president Clinton in 1996 had been wrong.

"And he was a man and she was a woman," the girl continued. "Didn't that mean anything?"

I let out a breath. "That didn't matter at all."

The students in the room seemed a bit appalled. The next topic, newspaper distribution prior to the internet, was a bit less controversial. Afterwards, I asked Dan if I had done all right and he responded that I had effectively communicated the moral tone of my era without getting too explicit.

I thought Dan was being sarcastic.

Man Forward, 9 of 21 (M/M NS) by JT Michcock

Chapter 9: To the Past

Saturday, November 21, 2122

I stood somberly at the townhouse door. A beautiful neighborhood I noted as I looked around, a fairly nondescript home. I guess I was expecting something a little more elaborate, something that stood out.

I put my overnight bag on the porch and rang the doorbell. I heard the chimes ring from behind the door. As I waited for the door to open, I cleared my throat absent-mindedly. I heard the steps approach the door.

The door opened and a man appeared. My first thought was, for 102, he looked a lot younger, late seventies, I thought.

"Chris Hoover?" he asked, smiling politely.

"Yes, Mr. Fields?" I responded, returning a smile.

"Very nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand. We shook and he invited me into his home.

"How was your journey here, my boy?" he asked, escorting me into the small living room area.

"Quick, sir," I responded. "I can't believe that I was in Chicago less than an hour ago."

"Ah, yes, the ERB system," Mr. Fields said. "I remember when that was being built, a remarkable device. Put the airlines out of business, you know. Until, of course, the Airline lobbyists persuaded the government to let them run the ERBs."

"I read about that," I said as I was directed to sit on a small couch.

Mr. Fields sat down across from me in a rather regal, overstuffed chair. "Can I offer you anything, a coffee?"

"A Coke would be nice," I said.

"Coming up," said Mr. Fields. Punching a few buttons on a tabletop display, the circular area rose and a Coke and a teacup and saucer shortly appeared. I took the Coke and Mr. Fields took the teacup.

"Thank you, sir," I said, taking the glass.

"Herbal tea," said Mr. Fields, as he took a sip. "It's all the doctors will allow me these days.

"I've seen these things in restaurants," I said, pointing toward the table device. "How does this thing work? How does the stuff get under there?"

"Teleportation," smiled Mr. Fields. "If you have it in the refrigerator, it can be delivered to the dining room. Actually, you need to be more than sixty to get one of these installed in your house. Otherwise, people think you're just lazy."

"Huh," I remarked, thinking how I would have liked one of these devices next to the TV remote control when I was sitting on the couch at home.

"So," he continued, "is this the first time you've been to San Francisco?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I heard a lot about it when I was growing up, though. I always wanted to visit."

"Hmm," said Mr. Fields, "knowing when you were born tells me that your interest was perhaps directed toward this city's position as a gay Mecca of sorts."

"Yes, sir," I said. "That's what I heard."

"Well, that was true in your time," continued Mr. Fields. "Of course, that's also no longer the case today."

I remembered in college seeing and hearing about all the "gay" stuff coming out of San Francisco. For some poor kid from Iowa, it seemed like an unusually welcome place, filled with a lot of very good looking men that might have held my interest. Being in San Francisco at this point did not seem to be the same. The little I saw on the walk from the ERB station was strange. It looked like any normal community and I wasn't expecting that.

"While you're here," continued Mr. Fields, "I was planning to take you to visit the Castro Street Museum. There's a lot of memorabilia there that was preserved by the Legacy Project."

"I heard that name before," I said, sipping the Coke, "what is the Legacy Project?"

"It's precisely what you think it is," responded Mr. Fields. "It was a group of homosexuals formed in the late 2040s who, seeing the handwriting on the wall, decided that it was necessary to collect momentous from the gay lifestyle that was rapidly ending."

"The late 2040s . . . that was when they figured out how to make gay men straight, right? When they were adults that is."

"Correct," continued Mr. Fields, "That was a very interesting time to be around. I myself was not even thirty when that happened and I was part of the Legacy Project's first set of contributors. Mostly organizing histories, my work as a stockbroker at the time gave me some skill in organizing the massive amounts of data to be collected."

"You were born in 2020?" I asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Fields.

"Weren't they giving babies treatments to make them straight, or do I have my dates mixed up?"

"Well," responded Mr. Fields, his face betraying a hesitancy in trying to explain, "The injection treatments for infants had been in place for about ten years in various parts of the world and about five years in what was then the United States. My mother, however, did not want me to undergo the treatment."

"Why?" I asked, rather bluntly. I could tell there was something he was holding back.

"Well," Mr. Fields continued. "There were two reasons, mainly. First, the treatments were still in their infancy at that stage and not always completely safe. There were still a few people who thought that the risk was unacceptable.

"Second, and perhaps more important, my mother was a lesbian and did not believe in the treatments."

I raised my eyebrows at this. My host took this as a signal to continue his explanation.

"I was conceived through some sperm contributed by a gay man that I don't believe my mother ever met," said Mr. Fields. "At the time, my mother was partnered with another woman and they had planned to raise me as their son."

"And did they?" I asked, having heard of similar arrangements being made around the time I "left" in 1999.

"Yes," said Mr. Fields, "Up until my mother's partner passed away in a plane crash when I was five. I must say that I have no recollection of the woman, although I heard many stories about her."

"So you were alone with your mother?" I asked, not knowing where to take the conversation.

"Yes, I was," said Mr. Fields. "My mother never met anyone else after that. She basically spent all her time and energy looking after me.

"I must say also, that, as a youth, I took up a lot of her time and energy."

"How so?" I asked.

"Well, I'm sure you can imagine that I was one of the few gay kids around. That took its toll on me emotionally.

"My first sexual experience was when I was twelve. My mother put me in with a fourteen-year-old boy she had located through the other kid's parents. He was basically set up to seduce me. That was my 'coming of age.'"

I nodded my head, imagining how difficult his situation had been. Even though I had grown up at a time where there were other kids who were homosexual, I still felt very alone in suburban Iowa.

"How did you handle the rest of your life?" I asked.

"Well," said Mr. Fields, taking a sip of tea, "I can only answer that question by saying that I just did it. I handled it, and the best I could. I survived." He unfolded his arms with a flourish, like a magician after pulling off a trick. One thing that struck me about my host was the seeming utter lack of emotion on his face. There was such rigidity there.

"It was never easy though," said Mr. Fields, looking into the teacup. With his glance turned downward, I could imagine his pain. I had felt the same way growing up. I realized at that point that there may be only one other person who could understand and he was sitting across from me. I sipped my Coke nervously as everything seemed to grow silent. There was so much to discuss.

"What do you think?" I blurted, breaking the silence.

"About what?" asked Mr. Fields, a confused look on his face.

I flung my arms about. "About this weird world we live in!" I exclaimed. "This . . . this . . . Patriarchy!"

Mr. Fields grimaced. "A good question young man," he said. "If I had not grown up with it, it certainly would be a question I would ask."

"Sir, you know Dan," I said. "He seems to think that the world is so . . . male dominated because there are no more homosexuals around."

Mr. Fields raised his eyebrows and puffed out a lower lip in thought. "That's a large part of it. Unlike in your time, there are no multiple flavors of sexual orientations, at least not in the same quantity.

"Which reminds me," said Mr. Fields as he rose slowly from the chair, "there's something that I have that might explain this better."

Ambling up the stairs, I saw the older man take each step carefully. A few minutes later, he returned with a small vial in his hand. As he returned to his chair, he handed the vial to me.

"What's this?" I asked. The vial looked empty.

"That's actually a specimen of gas," explained Mr. Fields. "It's called nitric oxide."

"Um . . . laughing gas," I said, recognizing the name. "My dentist gave me this once." I handed the vial back to Mr. Fields.

"No" said Mr. Fields chuckling, "although many people make that same mistake. Laughing gas is nitrous oxide, somewhat similar in composition, but not quite the same. We are talking about nitric oxide here."

"So," I said, looking over the vial, trying to glean some meaning from its invisible contents, "what does this gas have to do with anything?"

"It is actually a substance that's in your brain right now," explained Mr. Fields. "It's in everyone's brain, for the most part. It's part of the neurotransmitters that allows different parts to communicate.

"Around your time, the scientists discovered this gas in the brain and had no idea why it was in the human body," he continued. "The only thing the gas was known to do was to make stroke damage worse by killing brain tissue. But that did not make any sense biologically. So they surmised that it must have some other function."

"What did it do?" I asked.

"Well," said Mr. Fields, his face brightening up, "that's the interesting part. When they found a certain family whose members' genetic make-up did not create this substance, they found an interesting answer. Or at least part of the answer.

"It seems that all the male members of the family had histories of unwarranted aggression, many were in prison at the time, and a couple had been arrested for raping their sisters. It seems as though the nitric oxide acted as a curb on aggression."

"That's interesting," I said, certain that there must be more to the tale.

"Then, a few years later," continued Mr. Fields, "they managed to breed some genetically altered mice who did not produce this substance. With the males, they confirmed their observations that the absence of the gas would lead to uncontrollable aggression. But the parallel finding among the female mice was equally surprising.

"It seemed that the females who lacked this substance behaved just the opposite and they lacked aggressive instincts."

I looked at Mr. Fields, trying to comprehend what seemed to be a revelatory experience for scientists. "So?" I shrugged, feeling very much like a dummy at that point.

"An example of sexual dimorphism in action," explained Mr. Fields. "It was a substance that works differently in men than it did in women."

"Okay," I said, getting the concept, but not quite the meaning.

"Chris," he continued, "if you were to take blood samples from people of your era and compare them to samples of people walking around now, you would find that people now only have about one-half the nitric oxide gas that you did back then.

"What that means is that men today are more aggressive and women less aggressive. And this is all related to the Breen and Modielski factors."

"Breen factors?" I asked, recalling that these were the genetic factors identified in making men gay.

"Yes," said Mr. Fields. "One of the factors that makes a man less aggressive and may contribute to a homosexual orientation is nitric oxide.

The same is true of women, too much nitric oxide increased aggression and was one of the factors in lesbianism. When children, and later adults, began receiving treatments, one of the things changed was to reduce the production of nitric oxide.

"One of the most significant changes from your society has been this change in aggression levels," he continued. "So, in response to your question as to whether the lack of homosexuals has to do with how the culture of the world has changed, the answer is yes. Alteration of nitric oxide levels has been one of the principal factors."

"Cortisol levels are substantially lower in men these days," continued Mr. Fields.

"What's cortisol, sir?" I asked.

"It is a steroid that is an indicator of stresses," explained Mr. Fields. "A lack of this substance in a boy indicates a disposition for violence and misbehavior. Boys nowadays have very low cortisol levels compared to your own time."

"Hold on," I asked, "why would you want boys who are at greater risk for violence and misbehavior?"

Mr. Fields shrugged and smiled, "it also means that boys are less fearful," he explained. "When parents began modifying their children's genome, they were asked whether they wanted their boys to be more or less fearful. Of course, the parents opted for less fear. It was no good to have a boy who walked away from a fight; too many other boys being born were increasingly aggressive. Parents didn't want their boys to be helpless."

"There are also a number of other modifications as part of the treatments that have also added to the reduction, including subtle hormonal balances that decrease male passivity and increase it in females.

You will not see an effeminate man these days."

I suddenly felt self-conscious. I mentally inserted "present company excepted" into his statement about an absence of effeminate men. My host seemed to recognize my reaction and moved onto different matters.

"There is also the factor that biology feeds the behavior and then the behavior feeds the biology," Mr. Fields continued. "It's very much a circle of reinforcement."

"Well," I broke in, "it still seems all wrong to me."

Mr. Fields appeared to ponder this for a minute. "To answer your original question, I think it's horrible.

"But I have yet to find a persuasive argument to counter what runs contrary to my very egalitarian belief system and my own sense that it's wrong to tamper with genetic materials."

I paused, taking it all in. "Thank you, sir," I said, sighing deeply, "I have been waiting for someone to say what I thought was obvious."

"The world has changed much since your time," he continued. "I cannot honestly say that not much that can be done to change the situation. One main difference seems to be the level of knowledge we have.

"You see," continued Mr. Fields, "back in your era, there was this great thrust toward equality. Where a black person could do the equivalent of a white person, where a woman could be the equal of any man."

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, "that's the way it should be." There was a lengthy pause in the conversation.

"Are you aware that racism is a thing of the past?" asked Mr. Fields.

I shrugged "Well, no, sir," I responded, "but I haven't read up much on the topic." As I considered the question, I realized that my own experiences led me to wonder about this. After all, my great-great-nephew was black, something that I would have thought unlikely. In looking through the news reports, I missed seeing anything in there that indicated conflict between blacks and whites like I did in my era.

"Racism - specifically the whites of your era's disreputable hatred of blacks and other so-called lesser races - was rendered baseless by the genetic research that was done," continued Mr. Fields. "When all the evidence was shown of genetic difference, they couldn't find anything significant. What created the schism of both achievement and ability was almost purely cultural. Besides pigmentation and a few capabilities such as athletic abilities in certain blacks and slightly greater intellectual acumen in whites, there was very little difference between a black man and a white man."

"However, it was quite a different story when one turned to gender.

In looking at sex, the differences were just astonishing, there was a biological framework that insured that each would be different."

"But these are only surface qualities," I added. "Surely there were more similarities than there were differences?"

"Well," said Mr. Fields, smiling, "certainly most had a head, two arms and two legs and most brain functions were indistinguishable. But the differences were deemed important.

"Even though all my youthful education provided by my mother was to the contrary, to ignore all this evidence was daunting. After all, how could I easily dismiss the teachings that were provided to me that sexual differences were superficial."

"But they aren't important," I reiterated. "A woman shouldn't receive any different treatment just because she's female."

Mr. Fields shrugged. "You realize that you and I are about the only people who believe that any more."

For a long time, we both sat there silently.

"Would you like to see the Legacy Museum?" asked Mr. Fields.

"Absolutely, sir," I responded.

Mr. Fields jumped out of his seat. Pretty spry for such an old guy, I thought. After getting his coat, we were soon out the door.

Man Forward, 10 of 21 (M/M NS) by JT Michcock

Chapter 10: Legacy

Mr. Fields and I walked about four blocks over to Castro Street in order to get to the museum. The temperature was suitable for the light sweater I brought; even back in my days I recalled how San Francisco was never much above the mid-sixties in any season. On the way over, Mr. Fields explained that he had selected his home based upon its proximity to Castro Street. He also related how he didn't want to move "too close" since this would be "too obvious."

The area we walked was a combination of business and residential. Very well kept up, trees everywhere; most of the scene would have appeared quite ordinary in my century -- except for the flying cars parked on the street and hovering overhead. There were a few people walking around, mostly mothers with children. Stores along the route appeared dedicated to simple matters, a small bookstore, a fish market, a coffee shop. Along the route, Mr. Fields pointed out the various points of interest and the homes of people he knew.

"I'm still trying to get one of those flying cars," I said along the route. "They told me I can't have one because I don't have a family. Even though I have enough in my trust to buy one, they won't sell one to me."

"Same here," responded Mr. Fields. "They put a limit on those because of the congestion problems. Also, they want to reward people who contribute to society, the ones who form families to raise the next generation. It's all quite patriarchal."

Another thought struck me. "Sir, do you realize they won't sell them to women?" I asked.

"Yes," mused Mr. Fields, smiling. "They can't drive them alone either. They don't have the spatial concepts. I have seen a few try to drive them, and it isn't pretty."

"Spatial concepts?" I asked. "We had women airplane pilots in my time. What's the difference between then and now?"

"Primarily," he replied, "women don't develop those types of capabilities, but they are also largely unable to perform at the same level they did back them. Spatial abilities are the province of men now - genetic engineering has made sure of that."

I grunted, my disbelief more than evident.

The rest of the walk over was accompanied by silence. The museum was a small building that blended in with the rest of the neighborhood buildings. Inside the door, there was a ticket taker behind an old-fashioned box office. Mr. Fields pulled out his data card and provided it to the attendant. I murmured a thank you and we were soon inside.

The first exhibit we came across was a series of portraits of famous homosexuals. There were displays on Oscar Wilde, Alan Turing, Rock Hudson, Virginia Wolfe, Alexander the Great, among others. Quite a few people from various countries and historical eras. Screens below the portraits gave scrolling histories of the highlighted figures.

We spent a little time looking at the biographies and moved into the next room. In a variety of other small rooms were exhibits depicting various eras and the gay people that lived during that time. There was a newsreel running of the Stonewall episode of the late 1960s and holographic enactment of aristocratic life prior to the French revolution.

After a few hours of going through the various rooms and experiencing several interactive exhibits, we came to the personal data collection. Mr. Fields pointed out the terminals where a few people were sitting at quietly watching videos, holograms and listening to the audio selections.

We sat down at a terminal and Mr. Fields demonstrated how to operate the various controls. These were the voices of the past, organized for those seeking information and a connection to the past. Records were sorted by topics of discussion, dates, geographic location, occupations and names. I went through the various screens to familiarize myself with the layout.

Mr. Fields helped me out at the terminal screen and brought up some of the entries he had made. I was surprised by the number of entries Mr. Fields made, on topics as diverse as politics, sports, cooking and travel.

I watched and listened to a few of the selections and was surprised to see how my host had aged over the years.

"Do you know someone who might have left a record?" asked Mr. Fields.

"Hmm," I said, "I didn't think about that."

"Someone from school, perhaps?" suggested Mr. Fields. "Or maybe there is someone from your hometown? An old boyfriend perhaps."

I had to think about that for a minute. But the choice seemed rather obvious.

"Ted," I said aloud.

"Who's that?" asked Mr. Fields.

"Ted Leahey, my old boyfriend from college, sir," I explained. "He was in medical school at the time."

"Okay," said Mr. Fields, directing me to plug in the requested information. Name (inserting "Theodore" into the system, a name I knew Ted hated), probable occupation (I assumed he got his M.D.) and Loyola connection.

The screen whirred and one name popped up. Yep, Ted had something in the system.

"Just put your finger on the name and the entries will pop up," said Mr. Fields. I did so and another screen popped up. The screen stated there were some 212 entries from doctor Theodore Leahey.

"That's a lot of entries," I said, almost in a whisper. I wonder if Ted had mentioned me in any of his posts.

"Not really a lot," said Mr. Fields, "about average, I would say."

I breathed in, not sure what to do next. One item on the screen said "Index of Entries" and I tapped this. Starting on September 2, 2051, the balance of the submissions was listed on the screen. I mentally went through my head and figured out that Ted must have been seventy-six at the time. I clicked the first entry and sat back.

On the screen popped Ted. Not the Ted I remembered, but someone older. Barely recognizable, the first thing I noticed was that Ted didn't have much hair left. I knew that he loved his hair a lot. Seeing him, old and wrinkled was a shock. He was introducing himself and talking about being a research scientist somewhere. I wasn't listening to the words.

I hit the pause button. A lump was developing in my throat. I couldn't explain it, but I felt as uncomfortable as hell right then, my face flushing from . . . embarrassment? I wasn't alone here and watching Ted while someone watched me was disconcerting.

I missed Ted, I thought, as I swallowed hard.

I heard Mr. Fields move next to me to pull the prior screen, removing Ted's wizened face from the screen. I breathed a little easier.

"I don't think I'm ready for this," I whispered. I shut my eyes tight, remembering Dan's warning about public displays of emotion. This was hitting me harder than I thought. The rest of the museum was very interesting, but this was bringing it all home. All those years I spent on ice, all the people who got old and died while I slept.

"Well," I said, a forced smile appearing on my face, "I'm ready to go back, sir."

"Would you like me to set up an internet connection between the database here and your apartment?" asked Mr. Fields. "That way, you can access this information from home."

"Yes, sir," I said. "That sounds good." I wasn't sure how long it would be before I felt prepared enough to access it. My life was too damn complicated.

"I think we've seen just about everything," said Mr. Fields. "It's a good time to get something to eat."

I nodded and weakly got up from my chair. This was not what I had expected. Maybe a good meal would help me think clearer.

After finishing up our tour of the museum, Mr. Fields and I walked over a few blocks to a seafood restaurant that he recommended highly. I tried to collect my thoughts along the way. There were a lot of memories that the visit to the museum had awoken in me. Along the way to the restaurant, we passed a building that Mr. Fields pointed out to me as the site of the last gay bath house.

"I have never been in a gay bathhouse," I remarked somewhat wistfully as we passed the building. "During college, I was warned that the Chicago ones were filled with old trolls."

"Yes," said Mr. Fields, "by and large that part about the trolls was true even at the time this closed down. Although there was virtually no one less than 30 in the gay community to begin with. The only ones left were the old guys.

"Though even before then this was mostly filled with old guys too," smiled Mr. Fields.

We turned the corner and walked for a few blocks. "Palacio's Fish Market" was the name on the building we eventually entered. Oak paneled, the walls were decorated with past scenes of the San Francisco's wharf in long-gone times.

"Here's something interesting," said Mr. Fields, leading me over to a large aquarium Inside was something that appeared to be a fish. A rainbow color, the creature was about a foot long and didn't have any eyes. It resembled a stingray in its oval shape and the undulating fins that framed its form.

"That's a Europan fish," said Mr. Fields. "This is a creature from another planet."

I stood there stunned. Dan had told me about life being found on the Jupiter moon, but this was something else. This was real. I watched the creature move along the bottom, my mouth open to see something so unusual.

I was still staring at the creature when Mr. Fields tapped me to tell me that our table was ready. The place was crowded but we didn't have to wait too long to be seated. The seats and tables were wood as well. There was a nice balance of sophistication and informality and the other diners seemed to be enjoying each other's company. Like the restaurant I went to with Dan in Chicago, there was a mix of families and couples.

"I recommend the seafood salad," said Mr. Fields.

"Sounds good," I said, barely skimming the menu.

I wasn't really interested in what I put into my mouth. My attention was focused on being there. For some reason I couldn't articulate, I felt a sense of anticipation, of a moment passing too fast. The uncovering of the archives at the Legacy Project and seeing Ted as a wizened old man made me realize how much I had missed. Here I was, sitting with a guy more than a hundred years old who was the last of his kind, one of the few I could speak to anymore.

"I don't know what to ask you, sir" I blurted out. "There's just so much I need to know."

"Well," said Mr. Fields, "I have much to tell."

We sat at the restaurant for nearly three hours. The waiter who was handling our table came by more than a few times to politely try to urge his table to turn over. A generous tip from Mr. Fields seemed to assuage the waiter's concern.

During that time, we talked. I asked whatever I could think of, until I couldn't think of any more questions to ask. Mr. Fields answered as well as he could. We talked about his life and experiences, how the world had changed so much while I slept. We discussed how some things like instantaneous travel and miracle medicines had made the world so much better. We debated the strictness of the morality I saw all around me and how it made things seem so much more difficult than they should be given all these futuristic advances. I could not understand how in a world of plenty, people seemed to take great pride in how they did not require many material comforts.

We talked about how gays had disappeared from the world, slowly at first and then more rapidly around the midpoint of the last century. We spoke of the culture that had disappeared in its wake. Being a sheltered boy from Iowa, I was not too familiar with what I could identify as a"gay culture," but I instinctively knew it when I saw it. The fashions, the music and the symbols of an era, were now gone.

Mr. Fields seemed carefully measured in responding to my questions.

For the most part, he kept his opinions to himself. Predominantly he discussed what had happened before and how the world evolved to its present state.

As we rose to leave the restaurant, I found myself being stopped in the lobby. A middle-aged balding man approached holding what looked like a pen in his fist.

"Chris Hoover?" he asked, standing between me and the door. "I'm Bob Gryzwacz from NAP Today. May I ask you a few questions?"

"Mr. Gryzwacz," said Mr. Fields, stepping quickly between the reporter and me, "Mr. Hoover and I are talking now. You should submit a request interview in writing to Mr. Hoover."

"My apologies, sir," said the reporter. "But I just have a few questions for Mr. Hoover if I could. . . "

"This is not a good time," responded Mr. Fields, succinctly. "There will be plenty of time for that later." With a polite bow of his head, Mr. Fields grabbed my arm and led me outside. Thankfully, the reporter didn't follow. Talking to the media was the last thing on my mind.

"You really do need to speak to them at some point," said Mr. Fields as we walked back to his home. "The media is very interested in hearing your story.

"I suggest you may want to consider a journal more reputable than NAP Today. They do a lot of yellow journalism at that paper."

"I would have no idea what I'd tell them, sir" I replied.

Mr. Fields shrugged. "I believe you could come up with something."

A well-stoked fireplace warmed the room as Mr. Fields and I sat down after dinner. More talking, but this time more casual and relaxed, speaking about his adventures around the world and his life before and after things had changed. I drank some of the herbal tea offered and found it very tasty.

Despite our rather lengthy conversation over lunch, there was one question I hadn't asked. I couldn't muster up the courage somehow.

"How come you never became straight, sir?" I asked.

Mr. Fields sat back and thought for a second. "That's a rather long story," he said. "I did have the opportunity to do so, but I agreed to not do so."

I shrugged. "What's the long story, sir?" I asked smiling. "I'm not too pressed for time."

"Well, I was involved with an activist group here in San Francisco," said Mr. Fields. "Our group had a long history of opposing these genetic changes and had arranged a multitude of marches. San Francisco was one of the few 'safe' areas around."

"Safe, sir?" I asked, somewhat concerned.

Mr. Fields shifted, "it's not as though it was dangerous to be gay.

It was just that the gay movement got caught up in a lot of the political backlash, not the least of which is the 'Man Forward' movement."

"Joshua Hernandez," I said, my mind going back to what I had heard and read.

"Exactly," said Mr. Fields, pointing a finger at me. "I don't know of any political leader who has had more of a profound influence on modern society. And he was perceived at the time as 'anti-gay' because of his position on gender."

"I have been reading quite a bit about him," I continued. "Was he as anti-gay as I think he was?"

Mr. Fields paused for a long minute. "I don't think he was the least bit homophobic," said Mr. Fields, his voice breaking slightly. "He was just someone who had certain ideas that resonated - things about men and women and how we should regard those differences between the genders. He was an explainer such as though the world had rarely seen before."

I paused myself, not realizing that I had been sidetracked. That seemed to happen a lot when I spoke to people. The name of Joshua Hernandez kept coming up frequently.

"You were talking about how you refused to accept the change?" I continued, changing the subject back.

"Yes, yes, I was," said Mr. Fields, clearing his throat.

"Around the time the scientists introduced the technique to make adult gay men straight, things change quite a bit," he continued, raising a finger. "One thing you need to understand was how all this genetic change came about in the first place.

"When they discovered a treatment for children in the early part of the last century, gay adults were pretty much left alone. After all," he shrugged, "there wasn't much they could do about the situation. The climate improved considerably after that and there was even sort of a cachet about being gay that didn't exist before. People wanted to talk to homosexuals and find out what made them tick, since there were going to be fewer and fewer of them with every passing day.

"After the adult treatment was developed, there was a shift in attitudes," said Mr. Fields. "People starting looking at gay people and asked 'why are you still here?' It became more and more difficult to fit into society. There was a lot of social pressure to fit in, particularly with the North American Patriarchy and its principles coming into existence."

"As I said, I was a member of a fairly radical group of gay rights activists. Our group held a number of meetings on how we were going to address the situation. As time went on, we found fewer people attending these strategy meetings. It became clear that a lot of the people were taking the treatments and dropping out.

"So," continued Mr. Fields, "we had one last meeting and decided we had to do something."

"Did you?" I asked.

"At the final meeting," continued Mr. Fields, "it became very clear that almost everyone was being pressured by friends and family to take the treatment, I included.

"It was decided that we could not justify staying gay," he continued, "so we decided to leave it to luck and drew straws."

"Straws?" I asked, somewhat amazed.

"I would be a little amiss in not pointing out that there was a bit of alcohol being imbibed that evening," continued Mr. Fields. "But in retrospect, the process seemed fair. Some folks would have to be left behind.

"So, there were thirty straws and three that were short. I was one of the short straws."

I put my tea down. "That was it?" I asked. "Your whole life decided by that moment."

"In a way," said Mr. Fields, with a slight chuckle, "although, shortly after we picked the straws the other two men who picked the short ones decided to get the treatment. So, the selection process was apparently not very well respected."

"And why didn't you go ahead and do it?" I asked.

Mr. Fields shrugged. "I saw it as some sort of sign. I knew that some would have to continue to be gay, if only to speak about the experience."

I sat there, not certain what to say for a minute.

"You were a brave man, sir," I said. Mr. Fields shrugged, like it was nothing extraordinary.

"You know I've refused that treatment, sir," I said.

"So I have been told," said Mr. Fields. "That certainly is your right."

We sat for a while longer, silently watching and listening to the flames crackle in the fireplace. After a while, Mr. Fields punched on the tabletop and a clear bottle with green liquid appeared along with two wine glasses.

"Is that what I think it is?" I asked.

"Yes it is," said Mr. Fields as he poured us both a glass. "I read about what happened to you and I thought I would get something a little special for your visit."

"Isn't this stuff still illegal?" I asked.

"It is in the NAP, but not Quebec," said Mr. Fields. "You can bring in one liter when you travel."

I looked at the glass in front of me, hesitating. The stuff in the bottle had two different meanings for me. On the one hand, it had made me so drunk and stupid that I rolled into a cryogenic chamber without thinking. On the other hand, it was the stuff with the peculiar properties that had saved my life. This green stuff had a lot of meaning for me, some of which I could never hope to express.

I picked it up and took a sip. Not as bitter as I had remembered. Mr. Fields explained to me that it was sweetened by the Quebec bottler before shipping. We continued to chat and drink our beverages. Before long, I had emptied the glass.

The effect took a few minutes, but I realized I was feeling the heat of the fireplace. Sweat was starting to form on my brow. I was feeling rather drowsy as well and began to yawn.

"I think it's time I showed you to your room," said Mr. Fields, noticing that the alcohol had enhanced my exhaustion.

Quietly, we went upstairs and he showed me into the guest room. Leaving me alone, which I greatly appreciated, I dressed for bed and tucked myself under the covers. I realized at that point what a long day it had been.

As I lay there half asleep, I thought about how well Mr. Fields had decorated the house. It was very nicely done. Good color sense everywhere. I didn't see much of that anymore. I turned off the lights and quickly fell asleep.

As I slept, the images came to me, vivid images of memories from long ago.

I remembered that small rowboat. Dad and my three brothers were in it. I must have been about eleven. I sensed that much from the ages of my brothers. It was cold; it must have been a morning in the early spring. The Sun was barely above the horizon.

As usual, Phil was at the back trying to steer it. He must have been about thirteen or so, a few inches taller than Dad at the time. Tommy, who must have been around eight, was at the very front peering over the side of the boat, staring intently as the waves arose from the wake. My then nine-year-old brother Mike was sitting next to me in the middle, his tongue outside his mouth as he tried to hook a particularly slimy worm on his pole. The scene was so vivid in my memory.

We were out fishing, one of the things Dad used to like to do on the weekends. I hated it myself. Quite frankly, the rocking of the boat made me a bit seasick.

Dad spent a lot of time talking to all us boys while we were in there. I remember that he talked a lot and that I never said very much. My brothers were a different story. I don't think I ever heard them talk more than when they were in the boat with Dad.

I sat there quietly while Dad talked to me. In my dream, I didn't understand a word he said. His speech seemed garbled. He reached his hand out to me. I didn't know what to do.

A knock on the door woke me up. Mr. Fields let me know that breakfast was ready and he was awaiting my appearance.

After eating, I expressed my deepest appreciation and bid my host goodbye, with the promise that I would return soon and we could talk some more. Mr. Fields politely shook my hands and wished me well. His eyes looked distant. When I arrived home, I made arrangements to send a nice display of flowers to my host with a note of thanks and a promise to keep in touch.

Man Forward, 11 of 21 (M/M Oral) by JT Michcock

Chapter 11: Searching for Something

Sunday, December 20, 2122

I laid on the bed, the covers pulled up to my neck. I peeked down, noting that I was naked under the sheets.

The guy, wearing a bathrobe, walked unannounced into the bedroom. About my height and age, he was blond and very fair. I had picked his face out of an online magazine, he was one of the few guys I saw who didn't look like a former marine.

"I'm Brad," said the blond guy as his face lit up in a toothy smile. I returned the smile.

"Hi, Brad," I said. "Why don't you make yourself more comfortable?"

Brad loosened the tie around his robe and removed it. Underneath, he was nude. A smooth and muscular body came into view as I removed the covers to reveal my own nude body. With a quick movement, Brad was in bed on top of me.

The first thing we did was to kiss. Not innocent pecks, but open-mouth Frenching. His tongue reaching into me, mine into his, a cacophony of saliva being shared between us.

We rolled on the bed, our bodies pressed against one another. Our arms were all over the body of the other, feeling the contours and shapes of one another.

I ended up on the bottom. I looked into Brad's bright blue eyes and saw his toothy grin returned, a lust-filled grin at that. Reaching up, I grabbed the top of Brads head and began pushing him down on my body.

His tongue pressed first at my neck and then he began moving downward. I gasped my pleasure as his mouth focused his attention on the pink areola on my chest. Liking and lapping, he took the nubs into his mouth and began to suckle them, his teeth occasionally biting on the tips and sending jabs of electricity through my body.

His tongue moved further down my body, coating and caressing the contours. I cooed with each lap and shivered as he entered my belly button.

Moving lower, he finally reached his target and took my tool into his mouth. At first he contented himself on licking lightly on the foreskin, inserting his tongue under it to swab the pink head. I grabbed on the top of his hair, guiding him further and further onto the shaft.

Well lubricated, I could feel my cock grow larger in his hot mouth, the breath from his nostrils covering my crotch, the sweet feel of his tongue stimulating the underside of the shaft. I moaned my satisfaction as I continued to urge my cock to impale his throat.

For a long time, I simply toyed with Brad, allowing him to service me, to keep me aroused. I decided to move forward.

Arching my back, I moved my cock further into his throat. I began bucking against his head in an ever-increasing tempo. Soon, I erupted inside him and I felt his mouth suctioning and swallowing my load. My orgasm seemed especially strong as I realized how my sweat-covered body seemed depleted by the torrent.

I settled my ass to the bed's surface and I looked at the face of my lover. Brad's mouth still covered my cock and he looked up lustfully at me as he hungrily devoured the load I had fed him. I smiled sweetly. Brad released my cock from his mouth and began licking my package clean of the sweat and saliva that covered it.

As I removed the head covering, the first thing I saw was Dan standing there, a not-too-pleasant scowl covering his face. I was wondering when he'd get my message.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," I said snidely, lifting my cum-soaked body from the couch.

Dan smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, more of a barring of teeth. I moved past him and into the shower area. I knew what he was going to say.

"You realize that you should have spoken to me before arranging this interview," said Dan, following me into the shower as was his practice. "The Dean isn't very happy about this."

I stripped off my garment and tossed it into the garbage bin. "I could care less about making old man Willis happy," I snorted.

A look of puzzlement covered Dan's face as I headed under the showerhead.

"What the hell's gotten into you lately?" asked Dan, his voice expressing both annoyance and concern. "First you blow off a key lecture and now this . . . NAP Today interview."

Lifting my eyebrows slightly, I looked at Dan. "I dunno, I guess I'm bored shitless and wanted someone to know about it. Besides, this Gryzwacz dude is kind of cute."

Dan snorted. "I don't think he's your type."

I walked out from under the shower head and over to where Dan was standing. I looked at him, eyeball to eyeball now. "I can talk to whoever the fuck I want to," I said, my voice going about an octave below where I thought myself capable. Turning around, I returned to the shower to continue washing up.

I recognized the look in Dan's eye. Rage. Mentally, I was picturing his fists balling up as he watched me go into the showers. It was his right to hit me, but he chose not to exercise his prerogative.

Dan just stood stewing silently until I finished washing off.

"I'm not going to stop you," said Dan, his voice meeting my own lowered pitch, "but that rag is not something that's condoned by this University."

"I can't help it if this isn't on your preferred reading list," I said as I began dressing. "I just want to get a few things off my chest."

"Okay," said Dan solemnly, turning and leaving. "You realize that there will likely be repercussions." This was a fight he didn't want to pick.

I dressed myself and headed out. There were a lot of things going through my head. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to be out there, to have people hear what I had to say.

Gryzwacz showed up at the interview almost a half an hour late. We agreed to meet at the campus hangout. I sat there nursing Cokes until he arrived. When he did finally show up, he saw me immediately and headed over.

"Sorry I'm late," said Gryzwacz, "ERB tied up with folks shopping. We still have Christmas on December 25th."

"That's comforting," I said, letting out a deep sigh.

"So," continued Gryzwacz, "you don't sound like you want to be here."

I paused. "Good observation," I said. "I hate this place."

For the next couple of hours, I expounded on this dissatisfaction. Gryzwacz had pulled an electronic pad out of his pocket and began writing notes furiously.

From the expression on his face, I was giving him what he wanted. A few times he looked up from his pad when a few of my more blunt opinions came out. The expression on his face looked almost pained -- and confused.

I railed against what I perceived to be a rigid and deterministic society. I saw it all around me, from men obligatorily bowing their heads to women while at the same time placing the same women outside the spheres of leadership. Where was the justice in that? I argued. How could women allow themselves to be so rigidly controlled; how could a society be so short-sighted in its opinions such that there was barely a handful of gay people left?

After a while, I calmed down a bit and we talked about some of the day-to-day differences between my world and the one I occupied. Daily life had some interesting contrasts, some I would never have anticipated.

Almost immediately, I started discussing how more inconvenient life had become. I expected automated everything. Instead, the systems that abounded seemed designed to provoke physical exertion, with people having to walk to stores, carry bundles and otherwise move about despite technology that made it unnecessary.

The banning of remote controls for what passed for television these days struck me as an amusing way to force people to get off their butts and change channels. Gryzwacz also pointed out how the lack of remote controls inspired domestic tranquility, with men less prone to rapidly explore the other offerings. Besides, since the number of available broadcast stations was small, with only three or four stations filled mostly with news and tame drama and comedy, there was not too much to flip through. Society as a whole didn't like inactive people sitting in front of television sets.

We talked a bit about my own journalistic ambitions. He said he would have to talk to his editor. Before leaving, I handed him a datacard with some of my writings. He thanked me for my time and headed out.

Sitting in the hangout, I looked around at the others in the room. Students gathered around tables, final exams were coming up and varying looks of concern were on each face. The expressions conveyed a wide range of emotions, all of them familiar to me from my own past, but seemingly very distant at this point. But I was the only one who sat alone. I downed the rest of my Coke, put on my winter coat and left quietly.

Monday, December 21, 2122

As I walked into the office, Merilee peered up from the screen.

"I'm reading the article," she said, rather matter-of-factly. I moved behind the desk and peered over her shoulder.

"I Hate This Place," was the title of the article. After Merilee finished reading, she got up and gestured for me to sit down.

I read through the piece and remembered saying the words, but I was somewhat taken aback as to how strongly I put it. Some of the words I used were particularly harsh. Gryzwacz's presentation was pointedly unbiased one way or another. There were a few comments from Dan, identifying him as a University official and my coach, noting that no one expected the transition to be easy.

"The department's had more than a thousand emails so far," said Merilee.

"Really?" I asked. "Are they good or bad?"

"A mix, mostly," said Merilee. "Many folks want to let you know that you'll be fine after a while."

"Doubtful," I grunted. "I just don't belong here." Merilee looked over, her eyebrows raised.

"Everyone belongs," she said quietly.

We both sat there quietly, not saying much.

"I have to talk to Dan," I said after the silence had grown too uncomfortable, rising to get up.

"I wouldn't," said Merilee. "You probably want to wait."

"Is he mad?" I asked.

"Not mad," said Merilee, "but he's concerned about you. Je's also talking to Dr. Willis about the implications for the University and they're busy now trying to come up with some sort of press release."

I sat back down, my teeth clenched. "Dammit," I yelped as my fist hit the table. "I have no idea how the hell to make you people happy."

"You don't have to make anyone happy, Chris," said Merilee, calmly putting a palm over my fist. "But you seem to be getting more aggravated every day. Everyone expected that you would have gotten better by now."

"I know," I whispered.

"Personally," said Merilee, "I think you need to give it a little more time. What about that Christmas invitation from Eric?"

Eric had offered to gather up a few members of my family to meet with me over the holidays. I told him I would have to think about it. I wasn't certain if I wanted to see the descendants of those who had long outlived me. I sure wasn't looking forward to visiting my old house - I knew it would be the same.

"I haven't decided," I said.

"Well, other than moping around your apartment, I don't see what's to be gained by not meeting with your family," she continued. "I know that our Christmas time was just as important as your holiday."

I looked up at Merilee. As usual, she had that comforting smile on her face. I returned the smile.

"Okay," I said, with a sigh. Merilee could prove very persuasive with just a look. "Beats banging my head against the walls of my bedroom, I guess."