Egypt, 4,000 BCE: You: the daughter of the Pharaoh. Me: the son of the Pharaoh. It has been ordained by the high priest that we should marry. Let’s get to know each other over some papyrus juice and try and figure out why all the kids in our family are born with birth defects.
The New World, 1547: I saw you wade out to meet my ship with the other members of your tribe. You laughed at my beard and pointed at my shiny belt buckle. Normally I only give three glass beads for ten pelts, but for you I made a special deal and gave four. I have a wife back in Derbyshire, but she doesn’t have to know. Also, don’t worry about the scars on my face. It might look like I’ve had smallpox but I’m clean I swear.
Train to Sacramento, 1929: You: bright-eyed and well-fed, wearing patched overalls and shoes (shoes!). Me: the thin blond girl keeping warm under some straw. You climbed into my boxcar and took an apple out of your bindle. Our eyes met and then my eyes moved to your apple and I watched you eat. I was impressed by the vigor with which you chewed, and the fact that you still had all your teeth. I’d love to share an apple with you sometime. Or better yet, let you hand feed me chocolate-covered strawberries. I’m so hungry. I had dust soup for lunch.
Berkley, 1968: I spotted you on the quad, with beautiful flowing hair and a bare chest, smoking marijuana cigarettes. You saw me looking at you, smiled, and mouthed “Nice crew cut, narc,” which was funny, even though I am certainly not a narc. I would love to get together and smoke a “joint” with you and talk about what other drugs you have tried and whom you got them from and why you didn’t vote for Goldwater. Or maybe attend a SDS meeting with you and be introduced to all the other members, whom I’d impress with my firm handshake and the speed with which I learned all their names. Let’s get “far out and groovy” as all us kids are saying these days.
Washington D.C., 2001: Me: the compassionate conservative with the winning smile. You: the hunk of pure, unadulterated, Wyoming man meat in the office next door to mine. I like how the sweat drips off your bald pate, your cute attempts to smile that just come out as creepy frowns, and how nice you are to your gay daughter. I’d be willing to let you make all the horrible foreign policy decisions you want in exchange for the chance to get your electronic heart thumping. But no one can know about this ever. If you keep this our little secret I’ll let you shoot me in the face, if you catch my drift (I would also be willing to catch your drift).
Robotland (The planet formerly known as Earth), 2500: I was coming back from a day of forced labor in the silicon mine, you were leaving your job at the Museum of Human Aggression, looking foxy in your grey government-issue onesie. Our eyes met briefly before a robot prodded me with a taser and I was forced to look away. I know our mechanized overlords sterilized us at birth and that the resultant hormone imbalances caused us each to balloon up to five hundred pounds, but I would love to let you dig through the rolls of fat to find what’s left of my genitals.<!--EndFragment-->