skonen_blades: (Default)
It’s been recently discovered that the sperm swim widly, blindly, stupidly, randomly wriggling.
More or less directionless.
Heads thrashing back and forth more than their tails.
A panicking crowd that doesn’t flock.
They are caught by the sticky surface of the egg.
They don’t seek out the egg.
They are trapped by the egg.
Then, while thrashing wildly, they are absorbed.
Once inside they realign and there is another gate.
The egg is in charge of opening it.
The egg is not docile, waiting for the best and strongest to smash through its defenses.
It is not a victim.
It is not passive.
It is a participant.
Like all good sex.
The sperm is not a heat-seeking ICBM on a soldier’s mission, carrying a payload to a target.
It doesn’t burrow its way through defenses.
It does not drill and thrash through walls built to withstand them.
It is not an aggressor
It is not attacking
It is not autonomous.
It is indiscriminately flailing.
Perhaps in need of rescue.
For though the union annihilates both by mixing them.
The rest die.
The eggs one by one off of eve’s pirate ship plank.
The sperm in their millions (millions!) every time, successful or not.
Their life blooms and exponentially dances outward
In handshakes and spirals, fingerprints and motion
But genesis is mutual, not forced.
The new study states "the egg is not merely a large, yolk-filled sphere into which the sperm burrows to endow new life. Rather, recent research suggests the almost heretical view that sperm and egg are mutually active partners."
This is consent on a microscopic scale.
This redefines the metaphor.
The lies we were all told.
About men and women.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
Our racism was strange to them and their racism was strange to us.

The Quenari only saw in the radio, microwave, and infra-red waves. They had huge bulbous eye apparatus on tops of their head stalks in amongst orange tufts of muppet hair. They had three legs that spread like a tripod and ended in hand-like, eight-toed feet. Three tentacles spread equidistantly around their body stalks and drooped semi-rigid like tails when they weren’t in use. The most alien race we’d encountered so far and the most ridiculous looking.

But aside from the orange tufts of hair, they were all blue. The exact same shade of earth-sky blue.

Under their skin, they had naturally occuring radio transmitters, heat sinks, and microwave generators. To the Quenari there were seven variations of these emitters that made them as different to each other and a Rembrandt was to a Pollock. These skin patterns were invisible to us. The Quenari remained a pallid, uniform blue to our eyes.

And to them, we were all the same boring patches of black, blue, and red that our body heat produced naturally, with no radio or microwaves to speak of. Our translator pendants made us all sound similar so they didn’t notice accents or languages, either.

Their sexual activity was a long five-stage egg donor, carrier, fertilizer, mitosis generator and harvester affair that held no parallel on earth. Again, it was the subdermal beacons that spelled out who was who in that regard. Very social beings and large family units as a result. Our rather quick and internalized procreation was odd to them but our choice of partner was of no consequence. They could barely tell the men, women and genderfluid people from each other and never thought to ask in any case, sensing social awkwardness. Sexual orientation and gender held no meaning for them when it came to us and we were hopelessly lost in the same way looking at them.

Appearance wise, we were mostly homogenous to them and they were mostly homogenous to us.

It changed us. News of them spread and they infested our consciousness like Dr Seuss creatures. Indeed, several children’s books about them were published and were popular.

Instead of calling each other racist or sexist, we started calling each other Quenarish. Or Blue. The ridiculousness of it all altered our society in profound and lasting ways. Subtly at first but more and more, like an unspoken agreement around the planet, we measured each other on the basis of tenacity, knowledge, and strength of character rather than gender or race. As a people, we saw the Quenari as ridiculous and petty and beneath us.

Maybe we substituted one form of racism for another but it helped us.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
I believe that you are not your gender. You are not your race. You are not your occupation. You are not the country you were born in. You are not the language you speak. You are not even your name.

I believe that you are also more than the electrical impulses that give you your thoughts and move your limbs. You are more than a being that can interact with this world physically. You are more than the animals, for better or for worse.

Who are you? Who are we? WHAT are we? When you try to answer this, you see the need for a purpose.

Maybe we’re just here to quest. We are here not just to struggle, but to strive toward. The fact that what we strive towards is unknowable is the reason we strive. The search is the end. The constant movement is the destination. It’s a contradiction that fits.

Art, science, and religion are all trying to explain the same thing.

All questions lead to more questions. That is as much a function of the universe as it is a function of our own perspective. We have not found out how large the universe is and we have not found its smallest particle. The ladder is endless up and down and the road is endless in all directions as far as we’re concerned. Both ends of the telescope do nothing but expand our base of queries.

Imagination bridges gaps. Stories gives us answers. Myths teach us and give us reasons. A person with answers seems powerful because answers calm us. Without satisfactory answers, we turn faster and faster. We become smarter and try to dampen the curiousity with more knowledge. We turn to art to abstract the pull of wanting to know. We memorize religious books and tell ourselves that strength lies in belief, damming up the need for facts, facts, more facts.

The yawning abyss is exactly this.

What calms the journey is direction. Your journey may take you to the stars, to the intricacies of language, to atoms, to your own inner workings, to the physical and metaphysical. It may take you to places on maps either real or imagined. The quest for peace has so many paths.

This holy grail of balance is what comes in and out of focus for us. What gets us out of bed in the morning is not only our awareness of time passing, our bodies decaying. It is the question. As innate as eye colour. It is bred into us and seemingly, only us.

It is why our life form is insane. It is our greatest strength and our greatest flaw. With no curiousity, we would be at peace. This is why we are damned. This is why we are holy.

They say that getting there is half the fun. Since getting there is all we do, then that is why we feel we are missing out on half of something.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
April 30/30


Gingers have a rhubarb patch
Brunettes have a thicket.
Blondes possess a flaxen thatch
So guys know where to stick it.

Brunettes have a licorice ruff
Blondes a golden ticket
Gingers have a copper tuft
So girls know where to lick it

Blondes display a honey crest
Gingers red wine wicket
Brunettes sport a charcoal tress
So everyone can flick it

skonen_blades: (meh)
April 30/30


Once the tangle of sex as an ultimate state is no longer the stamp that fuels your propellers, an entire system of planets open up, new worlds and relationship no longer defined by shades of procreative drives. Friendships untainted by the push and pull of attraction. It’s all a matter of degrees, of course.

I think it was Plato who walked into a summer market at the age of 80, fresh youths on all sides buying food, and he felt nothing for them. Rumps, boobs, abs, legs, eyes, none of it worked on him anymore. He was sexless. Legend has it that he fell to his knees and said “I’m free! I’m free!”

For some this happens earlier. For some, it’s a lifelong state. To know, like, befriend, and/or conversely, to hate, despise and dislike people for reasons that have nothing to do with the attractiveness of their appearance is a strange experience.

One I welcome.

skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30


Lie no longer, sly young man. Each silk caress that carries you home to bed will be a wish that is fulfilled with tiny hands, enthusiasm, and no guilt. I’ve got your underarm worries packed safely into this cotton kit of first-aid brush strokes. Your enamel will strengthen, your veins will widen, and every stroke of cold genius that haunts your mind’s underbelly will be a hallway of light for your allies to reach out for you. You are about to not only go on a vacation, you are about to straight-up BECOME a vacation.

Your fingerprints are in the flan. The food that tempted your heart becomes crumbs at your touch. Each kind-hearted knife thrust cutting up red peppers to feed hole-hearted families of hippo-handed hard-ons was an indigo mirage, thrust up for the benefit of sailors and mermaids lost in the desert. If your expiry date hangs limply in wet rags, if your half-snail shell game of a life is at the flattening point, if your tire pump has become a dust-ridden topaz horse chandelier, then look at what your hands have done to soft surfaces. You can kid yourself that you’ve made no difference here but that’s not the case.

The sheriff’s wife awaits you. In the hot kitchen of summer. The man who enforces the law with good sense and a gun is at work all day and all she does is bake pies in short dresses, wipe sweaty locks of hair off of her amazing forehead, and guzzle lemonade until you show up to take her mind off of the sun-baked forgetful lizard’s eye of a town. She’ll wear his boots and you’ll get better at leaving your self-control at the doorway to her bedroom. It’s not as though you invented rope tricks. It’s just that sitting up straight gets harder to do every day and this, while stupid and carrying a fuse, is lively in a way that hasn’t been wrong since humans first settled townships.

And you’re not even a mailman.

skonen_blades: (haBUUH)
It was that time again. Time for the aliens to mate. I was the first human allowed to watch.

The Kurisk were a unique race. Their minds had raced forth early on while their bodies remained on the bottom rungs of the evolutionary ladder. The Kurisk had become adept at building and smelting and extrapolating when most races were figuring out how to walk upright and club each other.

They enhanced their primitive appendages with wooden and then clay prosthetics, enabling them to make more complex tools, enabling them to make more complex machinery. They built carapaces for themselves out of metal. They built heaters for themselves inside those carapaces to enable exploration of the polar regions. Then they built self-contained breathing apparatus for trips below the water. They built communication arrays inside their increasingly armoured husks.

After that, they added wings and flocked to the sky. After that, gunpowder and kinetic weapons to protect themselves from skyborne predators. After that, they added rockets and escaped their planet’s gravity.

When food became a problem, they managed to make adjustments to themselves to live off of solar and gravitational power while in space and geothermal power while on planets without nutrients. One of them flew near a gas giant and transmitted a blueprint to all his fellow Kurisk about an idea for improvements to survive such an atmosphere. The discovery of lasers was an evolutionary leap.

Every new set of planetary circumstances they came in contact with caused them to race back home and add a new layer to their shells. They were quick learners.

No one knew what their original forms looked like. They were permanently sealed in their massive shells.

Masters of language translators and pleasant to talk to, the Kurisk were curious and inquisitive. A good thing, too. If they’d been warlike, they would have been formidable. They held patents on most of the technology in the universe. They hadn’t yet mastered Faster Than Light or Transport Technology but it was only a matter of time.

In some places, they were referred to simply as The Improvers.

While each Kurisk varied a tiny bit, they tried to remain identical and to keep all of their improvements up to date across their entire race. This made it impossible to tell them apart. Only the Kurisk themselves could do that.

Every six years, they needed to return home to mate. This was the only time they came out of their shells. As a Universal Geographic reporter, they let me visit their world to witness and record what no other race had seen. They saw my own human curiousity mirrored in theirs.

I was about to see a naked Kurisk.

A Kurisk with the designation Arentally, my friend who gotten me this job, was interested in a Kurisk named Mortenoj. Mortenoj was fertile and Arentally was ready. With an agreement passed between their arrays, they started to undress.

It took an entire day. Pressurized suits were collapsed slowly. Eggshell-thin casings were retracted. Reactors were powered down. Connections were waterfall-triggered to regress and bodypit faceplates were folded under and away. Hoses were detached. Complicated suture arrangements and biomechanical virus defenders were temporarily dissolved.

And there, at the center of the enormous, open, bloomed flower of intricate machinery, sat my friend, Arentally. He flopped forward onto the ground with a grunt. Sort of a cross between a vivid green slug and an blue octopus. Utterly disgusting. He couldn’t speak to me or see me without his equipment. He waved a weak tentacle and slithered towards the smell of his mate.

Mortenoj was also out of her shell. The two of them clumsily found each other, sliding across the ground, and entwined. It was very messy and noisy.

I filmed the whole thing with a frown on my face and tried to remain professional.

skonen_blades: (borg)
Kirk’s big dick was three feet long
As thick as baseball bats
Though James T Kirk boned everything
His Jimmy wore no hats
STD’s from outer space
Now rock the cock of Kirk
Females fell in hapless hordes
Towards that charming smirk
6 and thirty inches long
Each inch of cock diseased
His member’s mostly mortified
From all the ones he’s pleased
Those green sores are hot to touch
And blink like spider eyes
And over here a patch of blue
That daily grows in size
Herpes from Orion girls
Form some emerald scabs
Over there the skittering
Of slightly psychic crabs
The end of Kirk’s huge member has
A constant, stinging dribble
The dude had sex with everything
He even fucked a tribble
He’s gotten cures for what he can
From Federation bases
Shots and pills and hypo sprays
For all the separate cases
But most of the infections here
Are mysteries to us
A Tholian infection there
That’s dripping sparkly pus
He boldly went and boldly came
Where no man came before
Slaves and robots, ensigns, teens
Females by the score
Andorians and Romulans
Vulcans, Gorns, Iotians
If Kirk’s ejaculate was saved
It would have filled two oceans
Was this man a slut machine?
A horndog? Kinda. Sorta.
I heard one time on Klingon wine
He even fucked a horta.
Ports and storms, the saying goes
In every port a floozy
Landing parties partied on
He wasn’t even choosy
Now the space Lothario
The Casanova Kirk
The Romeo Rasputin-dicked
Nympho-manic jerk
Contends with constant penis pain
On every itching inch
And swarms of angry aliens
Now want a Kirk to lynch
Kirk’s new mission? Run and hide
From angry, angry exes
In ships the size of Texas
Out of wedlock children searching
For a father chase him
Jealous boyfriends, fathers, sons,
All want to erase him
The problem is that Kirk’s ‘explored’
in every single system
Every planet’s touched his cock
And every woman’s kissed him
So Kirk can’t hide for very long
This justice he can’t duck
It’s what he gets for beaming down
With phasers set to fuck
Good luck Jim, you horny fool
You randy, silly goose
I hope your cock’s not long enough
For them to make a noose

skonen_blades: (whysure)
It’s your wrong and my bad.

When we talk, it’s ritual without context. Stabbing, swimming, fluttering between our humorous anecdote exchanges and banal remembrances, our eyes and minds speak a whole other time period to each other. We reek of ‘what if’ and stink of paths not taken. It’s like our pheromones are hugging, snapping fingers, and high-fiving. Our lips speak to each other and it’s got nothing to do with the words they’re saying.

I want to support you in your goals, my left ear says. I want to see a mixture of your face and my face on our children, my fingers whisper. You make me know that if I had a genie, my first wish wouldn’t be for world peace. You light a campfire near my cowboy heart to keep it warm on this long ride across the prairies. A shooting star of forgiveness and light, making wishes unnecessary. You are a closed door that became an open window.

Sex rises up from your body like steam from spilled intestines on a winter battlefield. A sign of carnage. You have axes taped to your back underneath your wings and your eyes could engrave handcuffs with their strength. The gazelle you have trapped in your mouth speaks through your laugh. You turn inward for a moment and I see bare skin shrugs on bear skin rugs near a warm fireplace while the rain hits the windows. I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope memory.

Let’s make this odd night into an evening. Let’s explore the topography of typography. Let’s separate the L33T from the chaff. Let’s throttle the throttle and have faith in shadows.

We’re both self-portraits. Let’s introduce each other to the artists.

skonen_blades: (meh)
My entire celebrity life is online for people to experience.

There are over a million people looking out through my eyes, breathing in time with me, feeling my exhilaration as six months of rehearsal come to a head and I perform my number-one hits to a crowd of fifty thousand people in a Barcelona arena. My body is taut with the proportions of a goddess thanks to Olympic trainers and amazing surgeons. The online population’s hearts are racing along with mine. They’re smelling the air of a packed coliseum and tasting my Evian in between songs. Women and men both are dialed in behind my eyes and being me.

Each one of them is paying six hundred dollars to experience it. In my peripherals, the ones that have kicked in an extra hundred are chattering to each other and sending me messages. Scrolls of text run up either side of my vision that I have trained myself to ignore.

My encores end with a massive fireworks discharge and the stage goes dark. The crowd screams my name as I strut backstage along with my backup dancers and band.

A swath of names in my peripheral vision pops and fades. Their tickets have expired.

The half a million that are left have paid a thousand dollars each for the backstage experience. My body’s vital signs pump through the optical cables all over the world to wherever they are. Other celebrities are backstage crowding me for smiles and handshakes. Fans with real-world passes are there. There’s one girl with cancer who got her ticket as a last wish. I pose for pictures with her and I nearly cry. All over the world, five hundred thousand people nearly cry with me.

That lasts a half hour. I say a prayer with my fellow performers, we talk about how good tomorrow night is going to be in Los Angeles, and I head down to my dressing room. As I walk down the stairs, many of the names in my field of vision wink out.

There are a thousand people left in my field of vision. The super rich who can afford to be at this level at most of my concerts and a bunch of lucky strangers who have scraped together ten thousand dollars each to get this far.

Once in my dressing room, I undress slowly in front of the mirror and let them stare at my toned, sweaty body. Then I climb into the shower for a long, long time. Even when I close my eyes, I can see the names in my peripheral talk to each other about how amazing this is.

As soon as I reach for my towel, most of the names wink out. There are sixteen left and they have each paid a million to still be here. There are four new names but the rest are familiar to me, almost old friends at this point.

The door to my room opens and my lover with that famous smile. His body is also perfect. He won another Oscar last year. Behind his eyes, people lean forward in their sense chairs, aching with the knowledge that they are about to have sex with one of the best-selling pop musicians on the planet. Behind my eyes, sixteen people brace themselves , ready to athletically fornicate with a dreamy leading man.

The only time we’re alone is when we are asleep or going to the bathroom.

He touches my shoulder, going in for a full, hungry kiss, and my towel dramatically slips off of me and onto the floor.

skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
At first I was smitten and then I was smote
By all of the written-down words that you wrote
Your turn signal’s turning my signals to right
The love of your loving is lighting my light

I’ll burrow a furrow and plough a whole trough
To make sure my offer is getting you off
Your mother tongue’s tonguing the root of my speech
And I’ll beach myself on the shore of your beach

Sillier cilia, labia’s lib.
Phobia’s philia, fibia’s fib
Weather the weather together my dear
Week after weekend, year after year.

skonen_blades: (Default)
Technically, there were still two sexes.

The gene techs realized that there was one way to double the births of a colony that was just starting out. Doubling the births meant a more stable gene pool in half the time it usually took. The solution was obvious but it was hard for the human minds back on Earth to swallow.

Two puberties.

One set of people grew up as women and then changed into men on their twenty-fifth birthdays. The other set grew up as men and then changed into women on their twenty-fifth birthdays.

In theory, this meant that everybody got a turn being pregnant and giving birth. The younger women would be impregnated by the older men and the older women would be impregnated by the younger men. Fertility drugs meant that twins and triplets were common.

Scientists. Too deep in their own experiments and repressed sexual urges to see the trouble they were creating. Freud would have had a field day.

The scientists thought that the men who turned into women would still have aggressive enough sex drives to seduce the younger men and that the women who turned into men wouldn’t objectify the younger women in an oppressive way.

In practice, the young ended up having sex with the young and the older ones ended up wanting to have sex with the young. Second puberty became a death knell. The second puberty women became known as cougars and the second puberty men become known as trolls. It was demoralizing to go through the second change.

The colony doctrine makers tried to make it a law that each person must impregnate at least one person while male and have at least one child while female.

The added pressure of legislation caused a resistance. That resistance became a violent rebellion. People were executed when they turned twenty-five. The colony’s social structure took a downturn into hedonism and savagery.

The colony was branded off limits to the shipping lanes and abandoned. They were on their own. It’s a dare now for new space-freighter drivers and pirates to visit the place and attempt to ‘enrich the gene pool’. The planet is no longer on any official charts and its location is spread by word of mouth.

A colony of young savages. Its nickname is Logan’s Eden.

Now, colonies are populated by either xx/xy humans or xy/xx humans but never both. Everyone gets a turn being male and female and giving birth but rebellion is avoided.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
If you're reading this, then you're human. I believe I have all of your addresses in my communication unit. If the records are correct. I am the Royal Babysitter. I'm drunk and if I don't get fired for this, consider this my resignation.

The queen of Earth is a tragic figure. She is eight years old. I am her guardian. We are all that's left of the royal family. We are two of the eight hundred humans left in the universe. As you remember, Earth itself was destroyed two years ago on Christmas when most people had gone home for the holidays.

Having recently joined the galactic council, there were only initial stage emissaries from most of Earth's countries out in the newly established embassies scattered around the Great Rim. There were long waiting lists on Earth for the new positions that came up. Politically, Earth's future looked bright.

No one was left in the aftermath of Earth's destruction to claim responsibility but it's thought that religious extremists maybe have created the small black hole that destroyed it. No recording satellites survived the destruction. Post-apocalypse analysis by the Vorlan'ta temporal forensic team indicated that the collapse started off the coast of Angola. No known terrorist groups had a home base there and that kind of technology shouldn't have been present there. So who knows? It will always be a mystery.

The influx of xenoreligions into Earth's databanks had been fascinating for the philosophers but tragic for the dominant religions of Earth. When faced with concrete evidence that their beliefs were merely opinions, many of the top-tier religious men of power took a non-tolerant stance to aliens. Backwater hicks. It's because of them that travel off of Earth slowed to a crawl in those early days.

Same with the governments. Before the firewall was circumvented by a few brave teenagers in Texas, Earth's public was only slipped information in drips of highly-spun tidbits. The more information the government agencies could hog to themselves, the better. Our race's inclusion in the council and eventual permissions to leave the planet took much longer than usual because of their caution.

So many more of us might have been out in the universe at the time of the implosion.

Right now, I'm looking at my passport with it's ridged, iridescent surface. I'm looking at the play of light across the simplified Earth embossed on the cover. It runs out in ten years. With no Earth left, what is a year? When this passport runs out, will I even be able to get a new one? Perhaps I'll be issued a default galactic council passport instead with The Late Earth as my planet of origin.

The Late Earth. We are a lost tribe now. Earth's child queen, Abraxa, is guaranteed a seat on the council as a representative of our race. She was left here with me as a punishment while the rest of her family went home for Christmas. The survivor's guilt is eating me alive. As a race with no home planet and a small population base, she has little to no power. And because she is a child, she has no interest in fiscal, economic, or geopolitical policy. We've joined the ranks of the Morcana and Fleezles in terms of innefectuality. We're little more than tourists killing time in between meetings.

Projections say that it will take centuries for us humans to achieve the numbers we used to have. Personally, I'm despondent. There are several races here that are able to have sex with humans and there are even six that are genetically compatible. I, myself, have fathered four half-breed children in the last year. I don't plan to stop. I'm fascinated by the mating rituals of the other races.

If there was anything that destroyed our race, it was our belief in our own purity. I hope that in a century, there are no pure-bred humans left. I intend to dilute our race's genes amongst the rest of the races so that only echoes survive.

I recommend you do the same.

skonen_blades: (Default)
The way my race has sex has made me a natural choice for the role of diplomat, lawyer and event organizer at an interplanetary level.

Our planet adapted to overcrowding by creating new sexes. We have seventeen now. It seems to be holding steady there.

Myself, I'm a tertiary bi-valve post-pubescent fifth-stage spawning facilitator. I'm bright green and quite tall for my age.

I'm needed in the home stretch of our three-day mating rituals. By using what's called the 'augmented reacharound', I help fertilize the egg clusters sprouting out of the backs of the three gene-imprinting tri-spigot chain producers before the eggs are mixed in the chest cavity of a seconday monovalve pre-pubescent first-stage fertilization overseer and then deposited into the senile no-valve seventeenth-stage sacrificial carrier.

That's just the last five hours of the three-day ordeal.

The procedure is exhausting. We all need to be awake for the full three days of the sex. There's a two-day recovery period as well.

The timetable juggling that needs to take place to get sixteen shedules cleared and a will and last rites performed the carrier is a feat of patience and organization. Our social skills are awe-inspiring to other races. We have this ability to bring harmony to all conversations and smooth out conflicts. We can help bridge an understanding between the most different sets of personalities.

By comparison, the idea of organizing a press conference for a dignitary or memorizing some laws seems easy.

I've found a place here on the this planet called Earth. While I can't produce children, I do have the ability as a tertiary bi-valve to mate with this planet's populace. That's a rare thing in my travels. The Earthlings are ready for sex all-year round, much like my own race. Their unions only last a few hours, though.

The lack of complexity is refreshing to me. I'm sure in time it will become boring but my tour at the UN should be over before then. Right now, there is a young male and a older female at the end of bar. They are both looking at me, both unaware of each other's interest in me. I must cut a fine figure with my green skin and Armani suit.

I'll see what I can faciliate. The three of us should be getting to know each other much better within the next three or four hours.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
I was never the same after the astronaut fucked me.

I don’t really know why I had the reaction that I did. Maybe it was because he’d actually left the world that I had come to hate so much. Maybe it was because being to space had given him cosmic powers that left my soul destroyed after the sex. Maybe it was because I was descended from space travelers and my cells recognized another space-faring person inside me and responded with energy I had never before encountered. I don’t know. I have no idea.

I know that I was a woman working in Texas and that I was a prostitute. When he showed up at the door of my office, I recognized him immediately. He’d just come back from the moon. His face was on all of the newspapers.

Famous men come to me all the time. I am trained to purposely not recognize them. They come to me for a normal evening, not to be fawned over. My only thought at the time was that the experience would be novel. I had never been with an astronaut. A few test pilots and scientists but no actual astronauts.

I put on my flawless act, the one he was paying six hundred dollars and hour for, and we made small talk over champagne by the window overlooking a wintertime Dallas. I knew he had a family. Most of the men that come to me have families.

I’ve come to think of myself as an escape hatch for these men. They put me onto their cocks the same way they’d put on a disguise. They slip into me and out of themselves. All mirrors leave the room in those moments for them.

Nothing changes at my own center with these men while I am with them. This is my job, I’m good at it, and I’m distant. I’m further away from myself that I am from the men that pay to spend a night with me. They’re renting me and I’m letting them. That’s the foundation no matter what other false intimacy is built between myself and the client over the course of the evening. Even with my regulars.

Not with the astronaut.

I’ll spare you the details of the look in his eyes, the hand on my leg, the awkward smiling hitch of silence in the conversation that always prefaces the first kiss. I'll spare you the provocative way I was dressed, the cleavage, the legs, the perfume. I’ll spare you the description of his calm confidence, his slow movements, the grin that never left his face, and the first button that was undone.

When his hand, the hand that been further away from Earth than anyone else’s hand had ever been except for his two fellow astronauts on that mission, touched the small of my back, I quivered involuntarily. That was new. I was unsettled by it. It was sensual and sexy and he liked it but it wasn’t an intentional part of the show.

I felt a monster inside of me change position. No, an earthquake. No, an ocean. I don’t know how to describe it. Something larger than me that was somehow inside me clenched and relaxed at the same time.

My legs went a little weak before we got to the bed. Again, sensual and sexy but nothing that I had planned at all. Not part of the show. On some level behind my eyes, I started to panic. I felt like a villager at the foot of a volcano who’d just felt a tremor under her feet.

It gets blurry after that. My usual high level of recall is destroyed. His clothes came off, I laid back, and he brushed the hair back over my ears, off of my cheeks. With a shock, I realized that I was crying. Not crying quietly like a simpering, whining little girl but crying like a wounded beast on the plains. I was screaming through gritted teeth as the tears flooded back across my cheekbones. I was laughing too.

The first of those unequaled orgasms, those real orgasms, tore through me like a library collapsing. The next one was a supernova that created entire universes in my chest and in my head. The one after that set my arms and legs on fire. My skeleton ignited. I froze solid, I begged, I spoke in tongues, I melted, the atoms of my body split, exploded and reassembled. I was swirled through the center of the universe, blinking in astonishment. I saw everyone on this entire tiny planet light up like Christmas lights inside my body. I ceased to matter.

He rolled with me, riding the waves, not shocked at all by my reactions. We might have been there for years or for seconds. I have no idea.

My final orgasm, entwined with his, gave birth to my soul. I disappeared in white light, angels singing, and end of the planet Earth as I knew it. Underneath that astronaut, I died. That’s all I can think of when I try to describe it. My old life ended and a new one began. Everything that had happened up until that point had been a hollow television show lie. My eyes opened and I felt as I was seeing colours for the first time in my life.

He rolled off of me, got dressed, thanked me, and left me there.

I cried. I screamed at the ceiling. I laughed and laughed and laughed. Hours later, when I could move, I put on jeans and a heavy coat without showering or even looking in a mirror and I left. I never went back. In the morning, I took all of my money out of my bank account, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and I left Texas. As I crossed the border, I called my boss and left a message telling her that I quit and thanks for everything.

I don’t know who I am now. That was seven months ago. I’ve visited each one of the United States and I’m hitch hiking up to Canada. As I write this, I’m sitting on my backpack on the side of highway near Seattle.

It’s 1971 and I am gloriously lost. I am emptier and fuller than I have ever been.

skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
Different strokes for different folks, it’s been said, in one way or another in seven million languages across the galaxy, and nowhere is that saying more appropriate than the Pangalactic Singles Mixer.

It’s an entire planet set aside for races to 'get to know each other'. It happens once every Universal Flarn which is ten and half of our earth years. That’s when the majority of the mating seasons in the universe coincide. The minority that don’t line up with the Flarn and wish to attend force themselves into hibernation, freeze themselves, put themselves on pause, hold themselves in stasis or simply meditate deeply until the time that they can join in.

There are over a billion species represented. Random mating is the order of the day. Finding out information and language about a species happens quickest during coitus, they say, and the more plentiful the better.

To preface each encounter, each race is given a ‘race card’ that they communicate to each other in pictograms on their datapads to find out if sex between a given being’s race and a proposed mate is at all physically feasible. If it is, they quickly ascertain what customs they can afford to do away with and what customs they will keep. The races that kill during or after mating, for instance, usually forgo that denouement at the Pangalactic Singles Mixer.

Janice and I were selected from over eighty thousand applicants. We are radiant and healthy by earth standards. We’re a bit of a rarity in the universe, us humans, seeing as we can engage in sexual intercourse whenever we feel like it. For most of the races, there is no sex until a mating season that is hard to avoid or resist.

The stink of this planet is incredible. Every single race’s raging pheromones waft heavily through the air. The aquatic races make the ocean reek of vanilla, the avian races pepper the air streams, and us land-lovers stumble through a thick fog of undiluted sex.

The planet, predictably, is pink with these gusts of love. It also a Wednesday by our human calendar this year, traditionally Hump Day. Janice and I giggle at the joke as our pupils dilate wide open in the miasma of attraction. Every breath is a new erotic spice.

We are approached immediately. With a quick squeeze, we let go of each other's hand and turn, naked and smiling, to the duty at hand.

A plantform from Karssis shows me his datapad and wiggles his stamen in query. I nod, and it rubs some pollen on my head that quickly burrows into my brain, grabs control of my motor control, and forces me to walk twenty feet west to another plantform from Allorway whose sweet smell of fennel coaxes it out of my brain through the pores on my face. It's painful and I laugh through the grimace on my face. The pollen jumps out of my face, wafts into the air and blooms dark red parachutes of dandelion ecstasy, steering themselves towards the Allorwayan pitcher bowl mouth.

The experience is harmless and I have insight into the cultures of the two species that cannot be described.

I look back to see Janice rubbing herself to climax on one of the horns of an iridescent beetle ten times the size of the shuttle that brought us here. The beetle’s many eyes track her tiny body with clinical interest as she shudders to the finish line.

In the course of the next fifteen days, I have sex the clinically accepted human male way of penetration with seventy-six partners and ejaculate over 46 times. Beings have sex with me and Janice, however, hundreds of times.

Our performance is nothing compared to the Sarvanians, the most prolific maters of the universe. It’s said that they get to nearly all of the species in their time on the planet. They barely have time to report their findings when they get home before dying, exhausted and happy to have attended.

I am scratched by love bugs that burrow deep and lay benign eggs in my liver. They will never reproduce and will dissolve in my bloodstream in weeks. I am tongue-painted with photo-sensitive, fertilized-egg paint over one half of my body. It dries in the sun and disappears. Cheek cells are taken from me for a races that hybrids itself with others. I trade minds with two of the races that reproduce mentally. My gene type is mimicked by those that mate by copying. Janice is lucky enough to find a race that can gestate inside of the flesh on the back of her arms in under an hour. The babies burrow out of her triceps, blinking and crying. She is crying and smiling as it happens, ecstatic.

I am rubbed against, massaged, pounded and washed in juices. I am touched briefly by some races, held for hours by others. Some scare me to drink in the pheromones of my fear in order to start estrus.

Janice and I are deadly to some and some are deadly to us. We smirk sadly to these ones and we walk past. We're too big or too small for others but if it's at all possible, we give it the old college try.

I have sex in the air with six of the flying races, one of whom drops me in orgasm but catches me over thirty seconds later before I hit the ground. It’s the most exhilarating experience of my time there.

That is, until I’m taken into the oxygen-breathable egg sac of an aquatic mammal and my body is dissolved completely and painfully by the breath of her needy eggs. I am dead and completely nonexistent for a full half hour before I am reassembled by her internal genetic generators and deposited laughing back on the shore. My eyes are now a different colour. Not an accident, an improvement by her standards. A flirtation.

Janice has hundreds of similar experiences to mine. Together, with our boundless enthusiasm, we cover 0.0003% of the races on the planet. Rich with experience that will take a lifetime to tell, we return to our docking bay for debriefing.

I will be smiling for years. Janice, too. We will not be eligible for the next run a decade and a half from now, but we’ll read the reports that come in from that future couple with jealousy and grins, taking in experiences completely different from ours as they explore as whole different set of races.

Janice and I have scars from our time on the love planet; beautiful memories. I have new eyes that will stare back at me for the rest of my life. Janice is missing a finger. It doesn't matter when I die now, I will die happy, as will Janice.

skonen_blades: (borg)
We called the rich kids ‘Upgrades’.

They were the ones that had been born with all of the benevolent tweaks and cellular advantages that money could buy. Longer life span, all possible congenital defects erased, optimum health, even faster mental response times.

You’d think that we would envy them. Well, we certainly envied their bodies. They looked like gods. Like they’d stepped out of commercials and into real life.

What we didn’t envy, though, were the mental changes that the parents felt justified in doing to their children.

The Pixelator was one such augmentation. The rods and cones on the back of the eye were enhanced for better than perfect vision. However, a filter was placed between the brain and eye to make sure that all nudity was seen as pixilated blocks of colour. It was put there to keep the kids from seeing naked flesh before they reached the age of majority or until the parents thought it necessary to remove the block.

Of course, it didn’t work. Kids were having sex anyway. The entire experience for them just became pixilated blocks of colour. They lied to their parents about being virgins.

When the block was lifted, some of the kids went and had it secretly reinstated. One glimpse of actual nudity, of actual sex, and they were turned off. Their entire sexual awakening had been in a haze of blurry blocks of colour and they wanted it back.

Playing with the body is one thing, but playing with the mind was always something I felt uneasy about.

I’m grateful that my parents never had enough money to change me.

skonen_blades: (gasface)
It’s dark out there and it’s getting dark in here.

The affair we’ve been having for the summer is ending. It’s as clear as the change of seasons that whatever passion started this fire is nearly burned out.

An hour ago, we shimmied out of our clothes with smiles taped to our faces. We wrapped our arms and legs around each other, desperately clawing and grasping but it was only saddening. Our orgasms were biological muscle contractions and nothing more. That magic reason had fled.

Now he we are. We didn’t even work up a sweat. This attic we’ve been using reeks of pine. There is no bullshit between us now even though nothing has been said yet. This last rendezvous was the final one we’re ever going to have and it’s obvious.

This is the silent re-buttoning of clothes.

skonen_blades: (dark)
She grew up in an abandoned orphanage filled with broken mirrors and black cats. All she knew was defense. She reminded me that even blind people are scared of the dark. She was a black wave rising up from the depths of the ocean in the form of a woman. She swelled to maturity in a way that made men want her.

She used to tie tin cans to the wings of angels and the tails of dogs and laugh at their panicked attempts to get away from the jangling noise.

She set fire to dolls. She bent canes. She snuggled up to cruelty.

I was jealous of her in the same way that stop signs are jealous of green lights, the same way that molars are jealous of fangs.

She excited me like she excited every man. She kicked the darkness awake in all of us. Black, dusty wolves shook themselves to standing in our hearts. Our inner hyenas padded back and forth with whispered, wheezy murder. Our eyes caught the moonlight.

She chose me. I’m still convinced that it was a random, impulsive decision. I longed to be interesting to her but I was only an outlet for her brutality.

She was a deity gathering minions.

When she moved away without telling any of us, we shook ourselves awake for the second time. Our clouded minds experienced a sunrise of rational thought, broken hearts, furrowed brows, and surly binges. We felt betrayed but still somehow privileged.

She moved to Tuscon. We knew that because of the news reports that came in later. We weren’t surprised at the body count or the circumstances surrounding the violence. Her grainy, snarling mug shot stared out at us from big-screen televisions in store windows.

Even with the death that still clung to us like a nursing child, we counted ourselves lucky to have known her.

Such was her power.

skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
Shapeshifters are untrustworthy. It's not their fault.
They see the world for what it is, through a kaleidoscope.

Us regulars, we only get to see one viewpoint of the world. People react to our outer shell with no variation. We can get fat or thin or muscled over the course of a lifetime with some cosmetic surgery here and there, perhaps, but for the most part, we remain unchanged. This inescapable fact colours how we percieve the world.

Shapeshifters are both invisible and at the same time, all things to all people. They sense the fantasies that will make their missions of espionage go smoothly. That general likes the young girls, especially bobbed brunettes with scars, for instance. That high-ranking banker woman is pining for an old love. It's a simple trick for a changeling to make itself resemble that old love in order to grease the information tracks.

This ability to make any human bend to their will gives the ‘shifters a much truer insight into humanity than we regulars will ever possess.

It make the changelings unreliable, regardless of the punishment chips and id tags we install to make them subservient and identifiable to us. They don’t set out to fool us. They just have fuses on their minds because of what they are. They start to despise all humans, not just their mission targets.

After that, they fall in love with each other.

The thing is, a ‘shifter will never be satisfied with a regular. They can only be truly pleased with another changeling.

It’s like putting two mirrors face to face and creating an endless hallway.

Two shifters, embittered and ready to defect, will rent out a motel room. Once inside, they will shudder with changes. They will have a game of trying to match what the other puts forth. Clothes will disappear, bodies will melt and flicker through age and skin colour. Body parts will grow, shrink, or disappear in an ongoing fluidic transition from one form to the next, faster and faster.

They will see how aesthetically perfect they can make themselves and then how repulsive. They will pull out their entire repertoires. They will become children and old people. They will have sex with each other in every possible way, heating up the room.

After they have exhausted their options of humanity, they will start to delve deeper into the imagination, beyond human forms. They can only do this with each other in moments of unbridled ecstasy.

Dragons, dogs, octopi, half-imagined air creatures made of bone clattering with sexual hunger, panthers, chittering car-sized insects, and misshapen sculptures of flesh with many holes to fill.

The changes become too fast and quick for their minds to keep up. In a mutual orgasm of delight, they die, leaving behind protoplasm.

It’s not uncommon. About twice a year, two of our shifter agents will stop answering their phones. It’s only a matter of time before we track down the hotel where they ascended to another plane of existence.

If they weren’t so useful otherwise, we wouldn’t employ them.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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