How to Have Sex with an Alien Girl

How to have sex with an alien girl

Because the publisher is asking me this time to write a few words about the moment of inspiration that made me write the horror story itself, I'll try to enlighten you.

Such an invitation couldn't be more fitting, because from this explanation it will be clear why the whole event that seemed so horrifying to me to an ordinary reader may seem quite banal.

I met Sabrina, the main heroine, at a book launch. She was a gorgeous, wasp-waisted girl with large breasts that made me not notice her huge blue eyes at first glance. Her presence made me forget that I had promised the author that I would say a few words about his book. With my eyes on her, I ad-libbed something and joked and rattled off double-meaning words, and complained that, although I am full of beautiful words, I lack a muse to be their point of condensation, a kind of Alpha and Omega for my literary future.

I'm not a very good speaker, but this time I seem to have outdone myself and pleasantly impressed everyone in attendance, but especially Sabrina.

Naturally, after the launch we went out for coffee, then I invited her to my office, where I presented her with a bouquet of flowers and a book I had written with my photo visible on the back cover.

And because they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, I am putting here a picture of her in my office, taken at the moment I was talking:

I beg readers who are adept at reading body signs to translate for others what her sincere, mouth-to-ear smile means. To me the non-linguistic signals conveyed by her whole demeanor were very clear. She had fallen into my trap - I thought to myself full of youthful enthusiasm, only I didn't realize that it was the other way around: I had fallen into hers.

I realized this after the office episode was finally over and I went out into the wider world where, taking advantage of the presence of a friend, I took a few more pictures.

The photo that follows, only after further study, clarified the matter for me. Although it looked at first glance like just an admirer kissing me chastely on the cheek, I realized that it was actually a kind of taking possession. A signal to the others, because there were others present, something like, "Don't touch him, because he's mine!."

Well yes, I was hers, and on top of that she made me promise to write a book just for her, which I'm still working on from time to time. She had such a sensual way of clinging to me that I could have promised to write ten books, not just one.

In every photograph I took there in the garden, I felt her right breast flattening its roundness against mine and her leg twitching and clinging to mine. It was more than I could bear!

In the end, we took lots of photos together, as well as of her alone, which I was going to use in the upcoming book. I made sure once again that she was 18 and had her sign a paper letting me use any photos of her or us for literary purposes.

In addition to many other things I liked about her was that she laughed heartily and heartily at any joke I told her, no matter how banal, but still without detaching her sensual being from me.

Just for the use of grumblers, I must repeat myself. Sabrina is over 18 and she has given her consent (including in writing) for me to use for literary purposes pictures of her alone or where we appear together. In return, I have also given my consent (but only verbally) to let her harvest my pineal gland and any other glands she wants, if she can get a harvesting kit that complies with current European legislation. (After reading the story you will understand more).

Eventually, as one wave of life after another passed by me, one of them picked Sabrina up and took her somewhere far away, all the way to America to Las Vegas. I think she will try to knock on the door of the Movie Fortress, seeing that she has little talent for literature.

I haven't finished the book for her because in the meantime it seems that it is no longer an urgency for her or for me, but from where she is she occasionally sends me a photograph to see how it has blossomed and blossomed like an intangible hibiscus flower.

Okay, okay, readers may wonder, but where is the thrill of horror you promised at the beginning?

It's a little complicated to explain and almost unbelievable, but the event I'm about to tell you actually happened, although as time goes by it seems to me an increasingly unbelievable thing and I'm sorry I don't have some photos for the moment.

A couple of years ago the summer was warmer, or maybe it just seemed that way to me because of the love I felt for Sabrina, so to rush the writing of the book we moved in together for a short time. It was hard with the adjustment, because I was kind of a "big loner" and couldn't really stand anyone interfering with my habits for very long.

But, to be honest, Sabrina was such a pleasant presence and so intent on humoring me that I almost didn't feel her presence. Perhaps her habit of walking around the house more naked was a little disturbing and made me pay a little more attention to her than to what I was writing, but eventually I managed to concentrate on my writing, no matter what.

As I said, she was trying to humor me and copy a lot of my habits, being one of the few girls in my life who, in addition to wanting me to write a book for her and inspired by her, would have wanted to write a book of prose herself. I foolishly told her that literary talent is sometimes taken by friction, and since then I've seen the vivid expression of speech that she clung to it like a "cat to a plum tree."

That didn't bother me, of course, because he had a gorgeous body and an irresistible smile. What's more, because she was much more of a morning person than I was, she would wake up and make coffee, which she would bring to me in bed with the gestures of a noble princess. The aroma of the coffee made my waking up a little easier and I integrated the day as easily as approximating an integral using the Riemann sum.

The morning I want to tell you about, it wasn't the aroma of coffee that woke me up, but something else, undefined. A subliminal message sent by my reptilian brain had finally reached my higher cortex and after feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as if imminent danger was closing in on me, I suddenly opened my eyes.

Above me, staring down at me with her huge blue eyes, which this time seemed to have metallic glints, stood Sabrina, and she was feeling me with her long, slender fingers on my forehead.

She didn't seem bothered by the fact that I opened my eyes, but only intensified her pressure. As the situation was becoming somewhat bizarre, I finally asked her:

"What are you doing?"

Without taking her eyes off my forehead, she replied:

"Looking for the entrance to the pineal gland."

Seeing I didn't understand, she added:

"To the third eye. The magic eye."

He finally gave up the search, sighing heavily, and elaborated:

"It is said that in addition to many other magical functions the pineal gland also plays a paramount role in the opening and blossoming of talent. I think that's why you have such a way with words, because you have a highly developed pineal gland."

He left to make the coffee, because, I don't know if I've told you, in the morning, before I drink coffee, I'm like the old TVs on lamps: half an hour after I open my eyes I have neither sight nor sound.

After sipping the magic liquid, I reviewed the morning's events for a bit and finally asked:

"Okay, and even supposing you had found the entrance to my pineal gland, how would you have proceeded?"

Her answer gave me chills and, although she was a lovely girl, that's when I decided to cut my relationship with her as short as I could and eventually end it:

"Well, we'll find a way to swap glands so I can become as talented as you."

I watched to see if a smile appeared on her face as a sign that she was joking, but unlike other times, she was very serious and thoughtfully pursed her lips, as if a very insistent thought was hovering around her.

"All right, all right," some of the more grumbling readers will comment, "but why do you still shudder with horror now, when you are rid of her, and an ocean and a whole continent separate you from her?"

Well, that not at all metaphysical thrill I've been feeling lately at the sight of her stems from the last photograph she sent me.

"Eh big deal? a reader in a hurry will say. A nice photo is a sign that she hasn't forgotten you yet, what's more, it also attaches a smiling little heart, which we all know what it means!"

Well, it was precisely that smiling little heart that gave me the creeps, for after I had gone to a great deal of trouble to explain that the pineal gland is located somewhere deep in the brain and that it cannot be reached so easily, she suddenly seemed interested in my heart and evenings before falling asleep she would sit with her ear pressed to my chest listening to it beating.

"Do you hear it beating?" I asked her romantically. It beats only for you."

"Does that mean it's somehow mine?" she asked slyly, and I was sorry that I'd approved rather hastily, because now, looking at the last photo she sent, I wonder:

"What if my words, that my heart is, in fact, hers, were somehow taken too seriously? What if she understood everything word for word, that she sometimes makes this confusion between reality and her imagination?."

After all, a ticket from Los Angeles to Bucharest costs a little less than a thousand dollars and Sabrina is not short of ideas and money, so you can understand why I sleep quite restlessly at night and look carefully on the street for beautiful girls with wasp waists and big breasts.

Kid, you got viper blood

When you're fast approaching 70 and a gorgeous babe barely out of her teens sticks to you like a letter mark, as the song goes, you're bound to find something suspicious.

Except it didn't seem suspicious to me, even if I was just a poor, unsuccessful writer and not a rich footballer. Or I should at least have remembered Ovidiu Haidu's song, the song of my youth, "Puștoaico, tu ai sangue de viperpera." None of these alarm bells stopped me and I threw myself into the relationship headlong and with an enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. Kind of like a bull throwing himself into the bullfighter's red canvas: he knows it's wrong, but he can't help himself.

Sabrina loved spending time with me and especially loved taking as many pictures together as we could. I felt tickled in my former alpha male ego when she would hug me and curl up on me like a big beautiful cat on a tree.

She was a gorgeous girl, with big breasts and a waist like a wasp, with a smiling face that every man passing by would turn his head to. She paid them no heed, for she had eyes only for me, and kept taking lots of close-up pictures of me, because she was delighted, as she said, by my head, which resembled that of an old sea wolf finally docked to find his great love.

I have no idea where she lived or what she did. Selfish as I was, I was glad that she was always at my beck and call, and within minutes of my call she would appear, like the genie in a bottle. She looked at me with bright, adoring eyes, or so it seemed to me, and the days of summer slipped one after another almost without notice.

We used to meet in the center of Brasov and after haunting the cafes on Republicii street we would end our walk in the shady alley under the Tâmpa, where, hidden from the eyes of the world, I would kiss her until I was dizzy with her young girl perfume.

I took her with me everywhere to book launches and exhibitions, and what I liked most about her was that she never shied away from exposing herself to me, and what's more, she seemed to be having a wonderful time. She seemed to me to be a bundle of energy and cheerfulness and I was the envy of everyone around me because of her.

I could have invited her to my house eventually, as I felt that our relationship had progressed enough for her not to refuse my invitation. But I had a sense of danger around her that made me avoid calling her to my house. A few years ago, when I had fallen in love again with a young cad, I foolishly invited her to the house where I lived alone. Within a few months she had taken over my old cottage and began to furnish it to her own taste, and I was not at all at my ease when I finally got home.

'Home sweet home' had become in just a few months an almost alien place, where I no longer recognized the purpose of things and where I no longer enjoyed stepping. Moreover, the relationship had finally ended, but she didn't seem to realize that since she was out of my heart, she should be out of my home. I had to direct an entire play to finally see my house free of the little nuisance.

So, after the little nuisance, as I used to call my ex, I used to show around women the caution of old dogs who had been beaten before. Well, my caution meant inviting them to my house, because otherwise I was dumber than a young puppy dog and would, as I said before, throw myself headlong into any relationship that came my way. I had an excuse, because I was justifying that I was doing everything in the name of literature. I told myself that I wasn't really falling in love, I just wanted to see what it was like to be in love, so that I would know how to describe romantic love in my romance novels. I didn't believe myself and they didn't believe me, but what did it matter if it was all so beautiful.

And yet, even though my hormones weren't quite as active as they were in my twenties they were present there, somewhere in my old body, and from time to time they were demanding their rights.

After a while, delicately, as I did with all the girls I fell in love with, I finally proposed to Cosmine that we go to a hotel for a few hours or even nights of intimacy.

She pretended to think about it, took a few more close-up photos of me, studied them carefully, as she had a very powerful phone on which even the last hair in my beard could be seen, and finally agreed, and even looked for the hotel herself.

The place she had chosen to become our nest of fools was a nice little hotel on Memorandului Street, which also had a little restaurant downstairs. After dinner, it was with some reluctance that I went up to the room. My reptilian brain was warning me of some unclear danger. But the signals from it crumbled to dust as I climbed the staircase behind her and gazed at her butt muscles, round as two globes of perdition. The room was cozy, pretty, and with a generous bed that winked at the delights that awaited me in it.

After such a long wait and a few passionate kisses, I was about to move determinedly to the attack, but she stopped me with a firm gesture:

"You tell me you're an old-fashioned conservative, but I have my fantasies too, so please let me unfold."

How many fantasies could a kid like her have? I wondered and resignedly shrugged, surrendering myself into her hands with guns and baggage, as they say.

She undressed me, threw me on the bed and then pulled out a pair of handcuffs from her capacious bag, with which she fastened my hands to the bedposts.

She undressed too, then, after dancing lasciviously in front of the bed, pulled out of her seemingly bottomless bag a martini bottle and two glasses which she filled:

"You say in all your texts that you like to have a couple sips of martinis before making love, so I complied. Sorry I didn't bring olives and lemons, but I'm sure there's ice in the fridge."

Yes, she found some ice cubes, put them in glasses and approached me with them.

"How can I drink handcuffed like that?" I asked.

"I'll give it to you," she said slyly. I've been waiting for this!"

She brought the glass up to my lips and didn't take it away until I finished it.

I wasn't paying attention if she drank it too, because she climbed on top of me and began to undulate and touch me in a way that drove me absolutely crazy.

Martinis are the same all over, but the one she gave me seemed a little more fragrant and bitter than usual, but I didn't have time to analyze it too much, because she was getting wilder and wilder, so I finally said:

"That's it! Stop boiling me! Take whatever piece of me you want, just start once!"

"Well, if you ask me to, I'll do just that," at last she giggled, and after she had finished kissing every bit of me, she decided to get to work.

After a lapse I didn't realize how long it lasted, during which waves of pleasure flooded me one by one, she declared herself satisfied and got off me.

"So that's what an exhausted writer looks like" - she giggled and handed me her martini glass, which she held, likewise, to my lips until I drained it.

I sighed contentedly and asked her:

"Now that you've fulfilled your fantasy, couldn't you still uncuff me?"

She looked at me smiling and said:

"To be honest, I could have had sex without you handcuffed, because you would have barely fondled my breasts yourself, but handcuffs are necessary for what's to come."

A brief shiver of unease ran through me, as I had described enough evil female characters in my novels to be worried. Especially since the girl said she'd read pretty much everything I'd written.

There was something devilish about her sly smile that did nothing to reassure me, so I asked, trying not to let it show how worried I was:

"So what's next?"

She shrugged, making her gorgeous breasts perk up at the occasion, but I tried to take my eyes off them so I could concentrate on what she had to say. And it really was worth paying attention.

"In many of your texts, especially those written in the first person, you express your desire to eventually meet an alien yourself. Well, your wish has come true!"

"What do you mean by that?" I asked totally stunned.

He shrugged again, my beautiful round shoulders and said calmly:

"I am the alien you wanted!!! Actually, I'm an alien girl."

I don't know if it was from the two martinis I had drunk or if it was just me being more gullible in my own way, but I accepted the fact quite easily. I'd seen too many sci-fi movies about aliens and written too many texts about them not to subconsciously believe that they would eventually show up in my life. My concern was of a different nature:

"Listen, is that even your real appearance, or are you some kind of octopus that has taken on human form only to conquer me more easily?"

She pouted slightly, but it suited her just as well, if indeed that was her real appearance.

"That's a nonsense invented by writers and directors to give a little color and frighten the spectators with their aberrations. There are only people like you and me in the whole galaxy, so stop talking nonsense."

"But how is that possible? Awoke the alien-expert writer in me speaking. Only on other planets there are other conditions and entirely different..."

He cut off my words with a gesture, took another close shot of my head, then after looking at it, said:

"I haven't much time to explain, so I'll be as brief as possible. The first humans appeared in only one place in the galaxy, on a planet called Centrum, which, as you might guess from its name, is located in the center of the galaxy, near the star also located there. After the first humans appeared and evolved quite rapidly, they spread throughout the galaxy and where there were no favorable conditions for life they created them. You science fiction writers have even coined a term for this process and you call it terraforming. Where they encountered mammals that were sufficiently evolved, as on Earth, they intervened in their development to accelerate their evolution. But that's what a lot of people on Earth suspected, so it probably wouldn't be a surprise to you. There's a concentration of what you would call magical forces on Centrum, and every self-respecting human being tries to get there at least once in their lifetime to fulfill their dream."