Journey into the Police Box
The tattered, yellow classified ad burns the tips of my fingers. I release it into a gentle London breeze after holding it in my possession for weeks. The message – “M4M. One curious and brave soul to travel to the ends of space and time and back again. Meet at Dalston Junction, Aug 25, 10am.” Video copies of The Quartermass Experiment ruined from playback after playback, multiple editions of The Mountains of Madness with more dog ears than the Westminster Kennel Club, a DVD collection that all but guarantees socially-induced abstinence – all of it has led to this. The answering of a cryptic newspaper ad. The perfect beginning to any grand sci-fi adventure marking the point where a cog in the machine transcends mankind and views the world As It Really Is.
Now I stand in the shadow of my Black Monolith. Four sides of Egyptian blue wood paneling. Public Call flanked by Police Box is all you really need to know. A three dimensional gateway to the fourth and fifth. My dreams materialized before my eyes right here on a crisp Autumn morn in Daltson Junction. Who would step out to greet me? The meticulously unkempt Tennant (10)? The magnificent flop of Smith (11)? The classical styling of Pertwee (3)? Perhaps he who shall be, Capaldi? A galactic storm rages in my gut as I feel my swimsuit area begin to swell.
The entrance slides open. Tom Baker steps out. The fourth doctor. 1974-1981. Planet of the Spiders to Logopolis. “Why don’t you step inside?”
An extended hand. I hesitate to take his hand only because I fear any sudden movements will reveal just how excited I really am right now. I deliberately remove one hand from my groin accepting ‘Doctor’ Baker’s invitation, making sure I carefully shuffle my feet into the TARDIS. Here’s to hoping I’m bigger on the inside than the outside.
I am nearly blind with horniness. My mouth waters with sexual desire. I never thought I could be ‘into’ older men, but doctor’s always know what is good for you. My head spins with fantasy as I follow the Doctor deep into the interdimensional vehicle – my eyes forever transfixed to a rear-end that is both supple and firm. Oh, but were those mail-order x-ray specs real! Fantasy would dissolve into reality before mine very eyebulbs! Patience is a virtue.
We walk through a black void with no end in sight. I had expected a the gold Skinner Box I was familiar with. Perhaps a steel doctor’s table in the center decorated with a bottle of aged-whiskey, a bowl of fruit, and various cheese-and-cracker plates. The Doctor is a man of refined taste and intellect, I expect his lovemaking to match. I picture him pouring us both a glass of whiskey. Ice? Of course. He drops two cubes in his own glass. Three and a wink in mine. After just one glass of whiskey, I am drunk. Not on alcohol, but passion. The appetizers now decorate the floor. Our bodies locked in embrace on the cold steel. As he thrusts his tongue into my mouth we travel not to another time or place in the universe, but another dimension of unbridled eroticism. His eternal hands unbuckle my belt and slide down my trousers. A pearl forms at the end of my Dalek. He whispers soliloquy in my ear,
‘I’ve traveled both time and space
each to their end
I’ve never experienced anything like you before.’
I imagine I am now standing, the Doctor sitting on the table’s edge. We are kissing. A hand gently brings me to my knees. I shall tame the Zygon.
‘We’re almost there,’ we have marched through this black expanse for nearly an hour. ‘Thank you for answering the ad. I’ve been quite lonely as of late and have been searching tirelessly for someone to share this with.’ My boxers stick to my crotch. I’m ashamed of the mess I’ve made with my hot desire and I fear the Doctor will boot me out of the Police Box on some desolate planet if he discovers what this all means to me. I can not be afraid, though. ‘Fear is what the brave must swalloweth to become thine Gods’ –The Taming of the Foulest Beast, Game of Thrones. ‘Here we are.’
A lone spotlight shines on what appears to be a stereo system. Two beanbag chairs rest on either side of the system. Nothing is as it seems. The Time Lords have a knack for masquerading their transdimensional devices to the human eye. We sit in the bean bags. I close my eyes. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. His lips against mine as we warp to another world?
‘Stevie Knicks sings backup vocals on track 8.’ Heartland rock pierces the gentle hum of the TARDIS. ‘Not a lot of people know that.’ I open my eyes to see the Doctor, seated in the other bean bag hair. ‘We love you JL is a note to John Lennon.’ He gently nods his head to the music while reading the liner notes printed on the back of the ‘Hard Promises’ sleeve.
‘They’re one of the best selling bands of all time and I still feel like they’re pretty underrated. But I don’t know, that’s just me.’ Where is the steel table? Where is the whiskey and cheese? My knickers have long dried. ‘Pretty much everything they put out in the seventies and eighties is solid. Not to mention Tom’s work with the Wilbury’s. Talk about a supergroup.’ I feel sick to my stomach.
‘And he wasn’t afraid to speak truth to power, either. Listen to The Last DJ sometime.’ I look around. There is literally nothing other than the stereo system and our beanbag chairs. I try to visualize the Doctor setting the record down, walking over here and… We’re at Something Big, so one more track and maybe we’ll make love at the end of side A.
‘What do you say we Damn the Torpedos?’ I wish this was a euphemism. I mean, why even tell me the thing about Stevie Nicks if you’re not going to play side B? It’s a good album, but by Even the Losers I’ve grown from fidgeting in my beanbag to standing and walking toward the exit. ‘Tom had to pay for a lot of the recording sessions out of his own pocket on this one,’ The Doctor looks to me. I think I’m going to take off, I tell him. ‘Oh, well we can listen to some Mudcrutch if you want.’ No, that’s fine, I’m getting kind of tired anyway. ‘Alright, well let’s hang out again sometime.’ The Doctor does not get out of his beanbag chair.
An hour later I have finally stepped back out into Daltson Junction. A flash of light and whipping wind tells me the Police Box is teleporting to another time. Another place. I don’t turn around to watch. Around 3 o’clock on a Sunday I head back to my flat and decide to rewatch Lost.