Of Aliens and Full Service Massages

THIS IS A STORY whose happenstance did occur to its young protagonist on one recent morning in the year 20__, on the fair streets of B______. (Whoops, sorry, my underline button got stuck. It was last Sunday in Boston.) My name is Cedric, and I found myself at loose ends on this particular Sunday after cutting out early from a comic book convention at the downtown Ramada Inn, which, to my utter dismay, turned out to be full of nerds. Being as it was spring, my thoughts found themselves turning to pretty girls and the soft sighing landscapes that I had heard from friends and family could be located beneath their frilly outer garments. So I hopped a streetcar named Perversion and decided to greet the afternoon with a little erotic massage.

For me, there was only one place a man could go and get a first rate rubdown and pay a perfectly reasonable rate for a little "extra topping"—the Saucy Pear Spa and Sauna, down on Zang Street. If I were to become a rich man (which should happen in the next few years if my boss at The Round and Flat Cookie Company gives me that quarter raise I've been hoping for, then commences to suddenly die and mysteriously leave the business and all his personal holdings to me alone out of the sixteen doomed souls trapped there at the food court with me), I would spend at least three spring evenings a week at the Saucy Pear, and pass the other four by writing sonnets about the touchifying I've received therein. I've tried other massage parlors for a quick sexual fix, but in all my experiences, the dispositions of the women left something to be desired, in roughly the same way that the killing fields of Pol Pot left something to be desired. I mean, is it too much to ask that a woman offer me some little white falsehoods about the size of my executive producer as she strokes it, instead of checking her watch constantly and saying "I can't believe it's freaking May already?"

So on the day in question, I walked cheerfully into the Saucy Pear and sidled up to the front counter to greet Rose, a slim and kindly waif from the local university whom I'd been trying to coax into giving me a massage of her own on a strictly non-professional basis. So far, the rejections she'd offered me had stopped just short of including the phrase "Not in a billion years, retard", so I remained hopeful. Today, however, enthused as I was about the forthcoming erotic buffet, I cooled my heels a bit and simply told her I wanted the 'usual', a phrase which had absolutely no meaning but which made me feel very cosmopolitan, and not so much like the horny, semi-employed couch toad I really was.

"You'll be with Jenny today then, if that's okay," Rose said. Hell, it was more than okay. It was about as okay as Willy Wonka building me a great glass elevator in which I could soar through the sky while looking down at my brand new candy factory—THAT kind of okay. I had been with Jenny three or four times in the past year, and my hour with her invariably concluded with local air traffic controllers advising low-flying jets to be aware of sudden sperm formations which had suddenly erupted dangerously into the atmosphere.

Jenny came out into the lobby wearing fishnet stockings and red satin lingerie, flashing her two thousand-watt smile and taking my hand to lead me back to good old Room Twelve. Let me just take a moment here to describe Jenny. Her shoulder-length black hair was so shiny and flawless that I sometimes thought I could see my erection standing straight up in its reflection. Her eyes were the aqua blue of the water of the cleanest toilet bowl imaginable, and to merely touch her skin, which was as creamy as brand name yogurt, was to have a tantalizing brush with an electrical current that ran straight from my fingertips down through my longshoreman and out its tip in the form of strawberry-scented steam. While her mouth often uttered phrases like "Good morning" and "Nice weather we're having", her pouty ruby lips seemed to physically yearn to alter those meaningless syllables into proclamations of love, romance, and copious swallowing. And her frontnot—no, don't get me started on her frontnot. Seriously. No, I mean it, because I'll be here all day, I'm not kidding. Come on, let it go, already, I'm trying to tell a story here!

We exchanged some friendly words and I proceeded to disrobe and lay down on the massage table, the opulent evidence of my horniness already pointed toward Mars. Jenny rubbed some warm oil onto her hands and then the festival began. Leaning over me with her voluminous moon pies just inches from my face, she commenced to rub me down, first doing my chest, then my legs, then my feet, then my eenie weenie toesies. My McStewart was desperately trying to hail the next cab toward her sultry fingers but she of course took her sweet time before going anywhere near Citizen Kane. Fifteen, twenty minutes went by as we chatted about sports and politics and wondered aloud why it took mankind so many thousands of years to invent something so goddamned simple and obvious as the sandwich. She rubbed my butt, she rubbed my neck, she rubbed all my rubbilicious rubby places with the most gentle rubbiness imaginable. All the while I gaped open-mouthed at her big beams and the promising patch of dark hair visible through her filmy panties, which I had never been able to touch, and access to which was simply not possible for the lousy hundred bucks I could afford to plop down once every six to eight weeks.

Thirty minutes into the massage session, Jenny began her trademark salty talk, an arousal technique which was hardly necessary in my hardened state but which was always appreciated all the same.

"You have a very nice body," she began predictably, making sure her eyes were wandering the full length of Ambassador Willingham.

"Thanks, Jenny," I replied, closing my eyes temporarily to soak in the sweet lies she offered at no extra charge.

"I'll bet you have a lot of girlfriends, Cedric."

"Me? Oh, no, not really. Not too many. The usual, I guess. By which I mean, none. Zero. I had one until last September, but she broke up with me. I don't really even know what went wrong. She left me a note but all she wrote was that she couldn't stand the way I ate fried chicken anymore, and she took off."

"Wow, that's really amazing. How could any woman resist you? I mean, if you don't mind my saying so, your penis is so beautiful...."

"Well, thanks. You know, I work on it a lot."

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you today?" she asked. "I can touch you in any way you like."

"Well, now that you mention it, Jenny," I informed her, "I find myself in the need of some relief today of a handular nature. Think you're up to it?"

"Oh, I think so," she said, and cupped one divine palm on my keeblers while the other took my Los Angeles Dodger firmly and proudly in its angelic possession. The sensation of this could most accurately be described using the following nonsense syllables, presented here in no particular order: OOO AHH GAR WUH NIM HUH SEP BUH AAHHHH.

While she stroked my daydreaming sausage, Jenny began the second round of dirty talk, the substance of which I had always found a little bit unusual, but when a gorgeous girl with big vowels is kneading your keeblers and slowly coaxing an army of funfoam to the front lines for battle, you don't really care what the hell's coming out of her mouth, even if it's someone else's sex organ.

"Oh my, it's so

huge

, too," Jenny whispered in her infamous porn voice, which could draw semen from a wooden spoon. "I wish

all

the Overlords of Zorn had penises this big."

"Me too, baby, me too," I panted, already having to start thinking about controlling the tidal wave of spritz that had been spotted by meteorologists on shore radar and which was about to send a beachful of tourists scampering for their hotels. What was I going to think of today to keep from souping too soon? Was it going to be Kirk Gibson's legendary World Series homerun against the A's again, or maybe something in an Antietam re-creation, complete with images of dying Union soldiers and flying Confederate mud?

"Yeahhhhh," Jenny went on, her fingers squeezing, pulling, dancing, and yanking, "when we descend upon the earth and colonize things the way we need to, I hope they give me weekends off from the Enforced Human Slavery Command so I can occasionally ride a nice hard wangie like yours."

"That would be sweeeeeeet!" I said, my breath coming in stitches now. I opened my eyes just a tad, just enough to take in the exalted image of Jenny's bosom shaking gently as the motion of her hand sent pleasing ripples through her entire body. Yep, it was true, I could kinda, sorta see the edge of one nipple over the top of her bra, peeking out as she did her thing. I offered my mental sympathies to the contractor who would soon have to repair the ceiling above after I destroyed it with the bullet force of my orgasm.

"Sweet indeed, baby," Jenny concluded. "Ready to spritz for me? Ready to show me what you can do?"

"Let me just check my datebook, Jenny," I said, my eyes rolling into the back of my head as she pulled her panties down a tad to expose her pubic hair and just a hint of The Good Earth, which was all it took to send me gaily over the edge. "Is NOW okay for you?"

"Go for it, honey!" she cried. "Show the Zornian Council that when they violently conquer your planet on the thirty-first of May, they're gonna have one huge mess to clean up!"

"YIPPEEEEEEEEEEE!" I shouted, and released between ten to forty thousand gallons of sperm into the pleasant, Muzak-enhanced stillness of the massage room. My elephant jam seemed to literally hover in midair for a split second before bursting colorfully in all directions like a fireworks finale over the Washington Monument, which so tragically looked like a penis but could never know its joys and triumphs. Jenny watched it all in fine spirits and two minutes later I was back in my street clothes, a little fuzzy on the details of what she had been saying to me all along but not really minding.

"Time to sign the agreement, as usual," she advised me, and handed me a clipboard on which I scrawled my name with a still-trembling hand. I had always assumed I was scribbling my John Hancock on some sort of confidentiality agreement to the effect that nothing untoward had occurred in the room, etcetera, etcetera, and I'd never bothered to read it before. Who could make out words on paper when one's head was still spinning from such a legendary beef manicure? I handed the clipboard back to Jenny, gave her an innocent peck on the cheek and all the tip I could afford, and left the Saucy Pear a most happy fella, headed home for a long nap and two or three mental video replays of today's adventures.

As I entered my apartment, I noticed that I had something stuck to my shoe. I peeled a sheet of white paper off the sole, and cursed myself for probably looking like a jackass during the entire walk home. (Like most men, I entertained the bizarre notion that the slightest public faux pas, like mis-combed hair or an unzipped fly or a piece of paper stuck to my shoe, was all that kept women on the street from following me home to shnazz me.) I glanced briefly at the paper and saw that it was the thing that Jenny had me sign. It must have slipped onto the floor and attached itself to my shoe, the bottom of which had been well-lubricated over the years by layer after layer of floor crud from the pretzel place. I gasped like a girl scout exposed to her first sight of wangie when I read what lay on that damnable parchment:

THE UNDERSIGNED DOES AGREE THAT HE HAS BEEN OFFICIALLY INFORMED OF THE PLANS OF THE OVERLORDS OF ZORN TO DESCEND FROM SPACE AND VIOLENTLY CONQUER THE EARTH ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY, THUS FULFILLING THE FULL-DISCLOSURE ORDER SET FORTH BY THE COMPTROLLER OF THE UNIVERSE REGARDING HOSTILE ALIEN TAKEOVERS.

And there below that insane paragraph, I had stupidly signed my name—Cedric Queasyclamp!

Needless to say, I stormed right back to the Saucy Pear and demanded an instant repeat appointment with Jenny. Because I'm a nice guy and I don't like to cause trouble, I did wait in the lobby for an hour and a half or so while she finished attending to a visiting conventioneer from Georgia (lucky bastard—I mean about the attending, not that he was from Georgia), but the second that was over with and Jenny had taken me back and set me down on the table and rubbed me for a half hour until I richtered again, I brandished the piece of paper and told her the jig was up!

"What is this alien stuff?!" I demanded to know. "You never said anything to me about taking over the earth by force and enslaving us in primitive meat mines!"

"Lemon mines, actually," Jenny explained, "and for your information, I said plenty, thus living up completely to the silly terms of that damned Comptroller of the Universe. You were just too sexed up and panting to notice it, babe."

"That's not fair!" I cried. "You can't say anything of any meaning to a guy when you're lending him hand! You might as well rip off our ears and sell them as candy dishes when we're in that state!" I was so angry and so terrified for the future of the planet that I could barely focus any attention on the sight of her naked wetmelon, which she had generously exposed to me as a freebie for seeing her twice in one day.

"Exactly," Jenny said, smiling a little. "We Zornians aren't stupid, you know. I've been telling you, and every other guy who comes in here to get stroked and slurped, about our plans for eight months now, and getting them and you to sign that form so everything will be on the up-and-up when we take over. If just one of you had put your brains ahead of your peace pipes for two seconds, you could have stopped us, but now it's pretty much too late, sugar pie."

"And who else is in on this intergalactic hustle?" I demanded to know. "Is this whole establishment in on it? Are you

all

aliens?"

"Nope, it's just me and Rose who were sent ahead for now. She makes sure to send all the stupidest and horniest guys back to me. We just need to collect seventeen more signatures by the thirty-first and Earth will pretty much be ours."

"Okay, that was just plain hurtful," I pointed out. "If you're going to insult my intelligence, you could have at least had to decency to masturbate for me."

"Oh, I can do a lot more than that, sweetie," Jenny said, bringing my hands up to her pillowy mams and offering me a gentle squeeze. "Today's the twenty-eighth....if you agree not to reveal our little secret to anyone, just until the first fleet of attack ships arrives, I'm willing to offer a very special discount on any service you'd like."

I dropped my hands immediately. "This is one member of the superior human race you can't hoodwink, Honey," I said. "I'm all for a half price lay, but not at the expense of five and a half billion humans, and the entirety of our history on this planet!"

"Well, maybe I can do a little better than half price," Jenny said, and hopped up on the massage table. She spread her legs casually and propped them on my shoulders as she removed her red panties. As I might have suspected, seeing her golden pony naked before me was like looking down on the majestic Grand Canyon, the rolling hills of Ireland, and a full box of Ring Dings all in one moment. In an instant she had taken my rooster in her right hand and snuggled it delicately yet with purpose against the entrance to Virginia's Woolf. "How does seventy-two hours of free spelunking sound to you, dollface?" she asked me.

"Like a satanic deal with a monstrous alien force poised to destroy all that civilization has worked to build for centuries!" I said, and to drive my point home I pushed my San Diego Padre forward into her tight wet juicer, hoping she'd really get clued in to the firmness of my resolve. Then, to make sure she knew damn sure who was boss and that I was not some human schlump to be toyed with, I ripped off her bra and took her love dimes into my mouth as I dotted her secret i's, squeezing those deep space tomatoes in the way I had fantasized for months.

I'm pretty sure Jenny knew by the way I eventually raunch-launched in her mouth that the human race whose intelligence the Zornians so looked down upon was much sharper than they thought. Having proved the essential superiority of the earthling brain, I saw no reason to start showing off by revealing Jenny's secret mission to anyone outside the room. And because I really am a total sweetheart, I even signed seventeen more of her legal releases, using various names and handwriting styles, so her little charade could be brought to a quicker end. Her work here completed, she suddenly had some free time on her hands, which I told her she was going to spend back at my parents' basement as my hot-bodied alien poodie-puppet. She agreed on the condition that I do a few hours of manual labor each day during the invasion, just reloading the Zornian death rays and making sure people died in an orderly fashion, as well as giving her some serious oral attention during all of my breaks. She was going to teach me to eat snuzzer like a real Jupiterian Glukopold, she said. The thing is, Earth was probably going to blow itself up anyway pretty soon, right? So if it's three days from now instead of three hundred years, what's the dif? The point is, I showed Jenny a thing or two about who could be swindled and who couldn't on this planet.

Um, didn't I?

THE PRECEDING PAGES WERE DISCOVERED ON NOVEMBER 18, 2003, IN THE PARENTS' BASEMENT OF CEDRIC QUEASYCLAMP. THE ZORNIAN TAKEOVER OF EARTH WAS THWARTED WHEN IT WAS DISCOVERED BY AGENTS OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL AND BIGFOOT INVESTIGATIONS THAT THE ZORNIAN POPULATION OF THE UNIVERSE TOTALLED SIX ALIENS, AND THAT THEIR ACCESS TO ATTACK SHIPS AND DEATH RAYS WAS LIMITED, TO SAY THE LEAST. THE MASSEUSE NAMED 'JENNY' WAS DEPORTED TO THE MASSAGE PLANET SPESTERUS-17, AND CEDRIC IS STILL EMPLOYED AT THE ROUND AND FLAT COOKIE COMPANY, WHERE HE WAS RECENTLY PASSED OVER FOR A QUARTER RAISE.