To my haters—the Marty McFlys, Mr. Peabodys, and all the other mainstream trans-temporlians who only espouse neat, basic, linear, heteronormative relations—it’s 2020, can’t we be accepting and respectful of each other now, even if we might be traveling to less-progressive eras to have sex with ourselves?
Beyond my uninhibited older-on-younger-self sex scene, few have gotten to know much of my backwoods, French Canadian universe, as Daylight Enslavings Time: The Rise of Chrononaut has been mostly forgotten, and usually taped over. The sequel, Chrononaut Saves All of the Christmases, and the full-nude reprise in the toy workshop, admittedly, didn’t extend artistic or ethical horizons, but did further destigmatize this way of life with nothing more than fearless eroticism and holiday cheer.
Two feature films—together nearly eighty-five distilled minutes of jaw-dropping, crotch-touching action and self-discovery—are my life and my legacy. Real art holds a mirror up to society and illuminates and exposes humanity’s deepest truths. When I lied to the Rebel Alliance about needing more travel time in Rise of Chrononaut, it was brash, foolhardy even, to jeopardize a future in which the Alliance still clung to a sliver of hope for avoiding mass servitude. My selfish deceptions were purely wet-humping-minded and, yet, that’s what made them entirely human.
Acknowledging and acting on my innermost desires and narcissistic kinks is far more introspection than any of these other uptight, whole-milk time-travelers have ever exhibited. Always so focused on their “mission,” “preserving history,” and they’re so quick to label me a “greasy atrocity” and claim they’re above even considering indulging in a twice-in-a-lifetime, universe-bending boink for the ages with a partner of limitless sexual compatibility.
Rise of Chrononaut is more than an exercise in the creative use of butt doubles; it’s a tacit reassurance to every other likeminded time traveler to know that their self-plowing thoughts are a normal, healthy part of non-linear life. Of course, there is more to life than only establishing perpetual pleasure loops with yourself—even I, myself, break away from my all-I-can-stuff buffet in order to arrive at Mount Colossus before Dr. Murderov (traffic in Summit Sector is, like, way lighter than what I’d told the Alliance), successfully plant the time spike, and warp Murderov back the second he arrives through the transdimensional Soviet void.
I’m still a whole person, but all those prudish TimeCops and Men in Black out there want me to believe that I’m defined by my “twisted porking agenda” and that my urges and natural curiosities should have been reasoned against, prayed away, or sated by a steamy night in a House of Mirrors. I used to hate those bullies and oppressors, but now I just pity them and their insecure projections. I may be a mere work-a-day syrup salesman from a sleepy Montreal suburb—and an occasional hero for saving the world or Christmas—but I at least can recognize that anyone’s true self is the one worth getting to know.
Should the mood strikes, go ahead, express yourself all over yourself. You all know you’ll be gentle. Or rough, if that’s what you’re into.