The-Man-Who-Folded-Himself-David-Gerrold

Man was made to mate with woman. Man was not made to mate with man.
But does that mean man must not mate with man? No matter how many arguments I marshal against it,
I am still outvoted by one overwhelming argument for it.
It’s pleasurable. I like it.
So I rationalize. I tell myself that it’s simply a complex form of masturbation. I know it. This is
something more. I respond to Dan as if he were another person, as if he were not myself. I am both
husband and wife, and I like both roles.
Oh my God—what have I done to myself?
What have I done?
Rationalization cannot hide the truth. How can anything that has given me such happiness leave me so
unhappy? Please. Someone. Help.
* * *
I put the pages down and looked at Don. The mood of the moment had abruptly evaporated. “You’ve
read this, haven’t you?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze; he simply nodded. I narrowed my eyes in sudden suspicion. “How far
ahead of me are you?” I asked. “One day? Two days? A week? How much of my future do you know?”
He shook his head. “Not much. A little less than a day.”
“I’m your yesterday?”
He nodded.
“You know what we were about to do?” I held up the papers meaningfully.
He nodded again.
“We would have done it if he hadn’t stopped us, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes,” said Don. “In fact, I was just about to—“ He stopped, refused to finish the sentence. I thought
about that for a moment. “Then you know if we are going to—I mean, you know if we did it.” He said,
“I know.” His voice was almost a whisper. Something about the way he said it made me look at him.
“We did—didn’t we?”
“Yes.”
Abruptly, I was finding it hard to talk. He tried to look at me, but I wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Dan,” he
said. “You don’t understand. You won’t understand until you’re me.”
“We don’t have to do it,” I said. “Both of us have free will. Either of us can change the future. I could
say no. And you—even though you have your memory of doing it, you could still refuse to do it again.
You could change the past. If you wanted to.”
He stretched out a hand. “It’s up to you. ...” “No,” I shook my head. “You’re the one who makes the
decisions. I’m Danny, you’re Don. Besides, you’ve already—you’ve already done it. You know what
it’s like. You know if it will... be good, or if we should . . . avoid it. I don’t know, Don; that’s why I
have to trust you.” I looked at him. “Do we do it?”
Hesitation. He touched my arm. “You want to, don’t you?”
After a moment I nodded. “Yes. I want to see what it’s like. I—I love you.”
“I want to do it too.”
“Is it all right, though?” I held my voice low. “I mean, remember how troubled Don looked?” “Danny,
all I remember is how happy we were.” I looked at him. There was a tear shining on his cheek.