Chapter 2

(The Canadian Connection)

Trudy worked at a dental assistant at a nice office on the east side catering to the society crowd and a whole bunch of people with lots of money and no time. I have to admit it bothered me a bit the way she was always asking me to open my mouth wide so she could inspect my teeth and reminding me it was better to brush after eating and not just the paltry once a day right before going to bed. I did like it when she got up close and personal with my mouth and got her face up right next to my lips and looked hard for any defects. Strangely, my dental work was done in the past as well as in the present and some of it was odd because of using different methods and different materials than used in the high tech world of today.

Sometimes I would cut her inspection short by simply introducing my hard cock into the picture and filling her mouth with my demanding meat in a way that I knew she loved but was shy about letting me know she wanted it so very much.

Sheila was in the production crew of a Broadway show and she was always bringing costumes home to be sewed or repaired for the long running show. Unfortunately the title of the show escapes me at this time but I remembered that I had taken an old flame to see it on a rainy Wednesday when we got reduced price tickets for the matinee. It was a musical and in all honesty I hate musicals because they would burst out in song at exactly the wrong moment at least in my humble opinion. Of course in the scheme of things, my opinion had to be right because I was infallible in such matters if the truth be known.

I did remember my date’s name was Gloria and in point of fact her proud ass was truly glorious in every respect and it had spoiled me for average housewife asses for quite some time after that fateful Wednesday evening of anal delight. One of the silly tunes from the show kept running though my brain at odd moments and I remember humming the lyrics in places like Gettysburg and the Little Big Horn looking at the mutilated bodies sprawled all over the peaceful meadow spoiled by rivers of blood waiting to be washed away by the threatening clouds approaching from the North.

I did tell Sheila about Gloria and her fabulous ass and she immediately became bottomless and dared me to a comparison test of her own mounds of carnal deliciousness. I did her hard and heavy and she whined with my passion. I lied to her and told her that her ass was perfection itself and that no other female ass I had ever diddled could possibly compare to hers to the very best of my knowledge.

I never told either girl about my time traveling adventures.

I had made that mistake with the VA doctors once and I came quite close to winding up in a mental facility and some harsh treatment to get me back to “reality” in medical terms and away from outrageous fantasies caused by my PTSD and combat fatigue. After that I was extremely careful about anything I related either orally or in answering a questionnaire about my thoughts.

Strangely, I felt a little distorted in my place in the present because I kept having memories of my trips into the past confusing me about reality and fantasy in the real world.

I decided that my best course of action was to just remain detached from the memories of the past and wait for my next trip which I suspected was not far in the future. I was starting to get those little hints of my mind wandering and caught myself staring out a window simply looking at the clouds racing across the sky in a race that never ended. I wondered where they were going and what they would see when they got there at their final destination.

I sat in the outdoor chair at the local coffee shop and looked blankly at the huge billboard that proclaimed “Canada – The Land that time forgot” enticing New Yorkers to vacation in the northern regions on their honeymoon or for any other reason to get away from the stresses of the modern world. It triggered a memory of my travels north to track the escaping Indians that had wiped out the Seventh Cavalry and General George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of the Little Big Horn. In all honesty, I didn’t really blame the Indians that much because after slaughter of the vast buffalo herds robbing them of their prime source of food, the white men in Washington, D.C. had broken promise after promise to the various tribes and it reached a point of no return in the minds of the skilled horsemen of the golden plains.

I remembered in particular talking in present day to some isolated hermits in rural Canada about the history of the Indians and they kept coming back to the story about the thousands of foreigners that had traveled the routes of the Indian escapees to the east. They kept repeating that they were in the French Foreign Legion and I knew that was impossible because I had never read about such a migration in any history book of merit.

One French speaking hermit told me in his language that they were not really French but then again none of the enlisted men in the French Foreign Legion were actually French but was from other countries and they spoke French as a sort of common language for one and all. He told me that they were actually all from a country that didn’t exist any longer. The former Czechoslovakian Legion of some forty thousand souls that had escaped from the claws of danger and returned to their homeland arising from the ashes of history after World War I. At the time, I thought it to be another wild campfire story of fiction and not related to reality in the slightest.