I’m more than willing to suspend my disbelief to enjoy a good TV show. I’ll ignore loud explosions in deep space, grin and bear anachronisms in historical dramas, and even nod through a paradox or two. But one thing I refuse to believe is that at no point in his long long life has Doctor Who gone back in time to fuck himself.

I mean COME ON. He used to look like DAVID TENNANT, for crying out loud! And Matt Smith: all gangly limbs and twinking nerdery. You would, wouldn’t you?

One of the things I enjoyed most about the book The Time Traveler’s Wife (if you haven’t read it then it’s about a dude who accidentally time travels) is that in it, when his teenage self meets another teenage self, they wank each other off. It’s not described in detail, but it’s straightforward enough that it made me go ‘omg realistic portrayals of identical-selves masturbating is exactly what has been missing from all time travel.’

So, in that spirit, here are a few of the sexual encounters that would happen if I had a time machine.

Time-travel threesomes

I don’t really want to have sex with myself, if only because I don’t tend to fancy women that often, and I suspect I am exactly the kind of person who would annoy myself by being obnoxiously loud and eating all the nice crisps at parties. So I don’t think me and me would make a good couple. However what we WOULD make is an excellent threesome double-team.

In the past I’ve turned down amazing sexual opportunities because I’m too jealous of the other girl involved, or because I’m scared that the guy I’m with will enjoy the other person more and be permanently disappointed with my own mediocre vagina. However, with a time-travel threesome, I wouldn’t need to worry about that, because I am basically the same person.

I’d pick and choose some of the less exciting fucks I’ve had in the past, and spice them up by introducing my future-self halfway through and watching the guy’s eyes widen with delight as he realised all the tingling possibilities. I’d join an ex or two in some double-penetration, strapping one on so I could fuck me while I was being fucked. I’d head to the first time I used a strap-on at all, and sit heavily on that guy’s dick at just the moment his prostate pushed hard squirts of spunk out of him. I could pop back to last night, when I ground heavily onto my partner’s dick while he wanked me off with a Doxy. Past-me could still do that: I wouldn’t want to ruin her fun. But while she was doing it I could be biting his nipples or letting him suck mine.

Being the first

Is this creepy? I think perhaps this is creepy. In my head it’s super-romantic, but I don’t think we need to worry about creepiness given that time travel is impossible, so if you’re thinking of writing angry letters, please save them for the day when we manage to break all the laws of physics and invent an actual Tardis.

It’s 2002, or thereabouts. A guy who – in 2002 – I’ve never met, is masturbating furiously and desperately wishing he could hurl away his virginity. Late one evening on his way home from a friend’s party, he runs into a woman. Old enough that he wouldn’t usually look twice, but young enough that he definitely would. She invites him into her Tardis, and because he is probably only 18 at this point, I will spare you the pervy details.

What’s important though is not necessarily what happens then, but what happens years later, when he runs into me for what he thinks is the first time.

“Wow. You… you look really familiar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You look like this person I knew once, ages ago.”

“Oh really? What was she like?”

“It’s kind of a funny story actually. It’s how I lost my virginity…”

Fixing mistakes

Picture the scene: it’s three AM outside a shitty nightclub – in one of those vaguely Mediterranean ‘party towns’ that are magnets for young people who want to get drunk and sweat on each other. Two girls who are far too young to be there are sitting on the laps of two guys who can’t believe their luck. The guys are young too – not yet mature enough to realise that if you really want to get laid you need to avoid drinking twelve shots of AfterShock. They’re all snogging, and having a whale of a time.

One of these girls enjoys it so much that she tries to take the guy somewhere quieter to fuck.

“Give me a sec,” she whispers erotically, then runs to the bins and sprays rainbow-coloured vomit  in a decorative arc over the pavement. She wipes her mouth.

“I’m done. Let’s go.” The guy nods, looking a little queasy himself, but clearly game. The girl leads him to what she thinks is a secluded spot. They snog again, briefly, before he backs away. It might be the taste of her sick-washed mouth, but our heroine decides it’s probably just because he’d rather do other things. She pushes his head down between her legs, pulls her knickers to one side, and he licks at her with eager enthusiasm – this is clearly a dude who’d rather taste cunt than cocktails.

In the faint distance she can see the nightclub lights illuminating her best friend and the other guy, snogging on a chair. Her cunt twitches with pleasure but she’s far too pissed to notice.

At this moment the sky splits, and a time machine appears. An older version of the girl leans her head out of the time machine and – in the manner of a Mum yelling at her kids to get inside for dinner – she shouts:

“You fucking idiot! Everyone can see what you’re doing! You’re not in a secluded spot at all, you’re in a field right next to a busy road! Go home and sober up or in ten years’ time you’ll have to write a blog post about how much you regret this whole sordid incident!”

Time travel sex – watching and wanking

Of course it wouldn’t just be about joining in or changing the path of history – that’d kind of imply that my sex Tardis would mostly be about regrets. I’d probably spend most of my time popping back to my favourite moments. That first ever threesome with two guys, which fulfilled a list of long-held sexual desires so spectacularly that I still remember it in a sleepy, dreamlike way. I’d watch as they kissed each other, and look out for the expression of shining delight on my face. I’d take mental photographs of every beautiful moment: as they fucked me, as they fucked each other, as we all tangled together in a huge pile of happy fucklust.

I’d visit a few fetish clubs to watch myself get beaten.

Head to old bedrooms in which I frotted tirelessly against exhausted ex-boyfriends.

Watch a few of the hottest boy snogs I’ve ever seen.

It would be like having a live-action replay of some of the best fucks, and the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. Hot and horny but also tinged with wistful nostalgia.

Maybe one of the best things I could do if I had a sex Tardis would be to leave little notes for myself on the morning of each hot encounter, saying:

“This one, tonight: this one’s special. Drink it in. It’ll never happen the same way again.”