**** WARNING ****
Lots of weird sex with fictional people.
This tale is fiction. Any similarity to actual people or characters created by others is purely coincidental.
****
My name is Yember Pilrose.
No, it's not a pseudonym, I'm an alien.
The kind of alien that comes from outer space.
I showed up at Litcon on Friday, and met a few people before sitting down at the bar.
Truth is I was mainly there to visit a panel that was being put on the next day about "extraterrestrial sex."
I got a lot of the usual comments.
You might know this about me already from my author page but I'm normally blue-skinned, with light greenish-blue hair.
That day I was red-skinned and my hair was a fluctuating orange and blonde with darker roots.
I change colors based on my reproductive cycle and I recognize that it's confusing.
I didn't think anyone would really know who I was, and I was mostly right.
I don't have THAT many followers, so I was surprised when one of them figured out my identity and struck up a conversation with me at the bar.
This was one of those magical moments that indie authors sometimes dream about.
Meeting a fan, out in the wilderness.
But it's a little different in my case.
"Hi I'm Yember, I write smut, and you read my smut, so this is a neat dynamic that we have," I would say.
Actually it was a little more awkward, and quite a lot nerdier, if I'm being honest.
I write a lot of medieval fantasy and horror filled with raunchy sex. 2
I think my favorite part of our interaction though was that he never once asked me what planet I'm from.
The "extraterrestrial" world is an interesting place. There are a LOT of multicolored alien babes on your world who are here to "study human mating rituals."
No joke, there's an entire grant program on my planet for Thyrollians who want to go off-world to study sex, which is sorta how I got here.
"Do you think Tannah will ever fuck a bugbear?" He asked.
It was a question that led to another favorite moment that we shared.
Science fiction is such a unique and young genre in so many ways, but the truth is, you humans have been discussing interspecies relationships in your stories for thousands of years, with species that don't even exist anywhere on earth.
"Maybe, assuming bugbears exist on her planet," I answered as if I didn't already know exactly who or what she would be having sex with in the next book.
"Are you gonna to write any other fantasy series'? You wrote that one Cosmic Waves one and I really liked the magic," he said.
"That's another maybe, I'm still up to my nuts in Tannah if you'll pardon the metaphor," I answered.
This was starting to go to my head fast, I realized, and it was rapidly depleting my social battery, AND it was just one fan.
I'd be absolute crap at a book-signing, I decided before ordering another drink.
I refused his offer to pay for it. I may be an alien but I've been on earth long enough to know where that leads.
Our conversation got a little flirtatious, but I think he got the hint a few drinks in that I wasn't going to sleep with him.
I still drank way too much.
Ego trips like that are truly dangerous for me.
It's a kind of high, and there's always a crash afterward.
"You're a goddamn alien Yember, from another planet, and you're here writing stories as if you're a fictional human historian, fuck..." my subconscious started up.
"Write... what... you... know... tell them about the replicator lords on Sierax or the genetic zoning laws of emperor Kartus or... hell, just talk about the hundred moons of Alymphoius... and maybe come up with a more phonetic spelling for Alymphoius."
I battled my own brain all night. It's never really been a match for earth drugs, but then again, sometimes, neither am I.
I got back to my hotel room, completely hammered, with a head full of negative thoughts and no-one to sleep with... not that I'd been looking.
I got really deep into my own head that night.
Sometimes I have to have a long one-on-one discussion with my own psyche to really root out the cause of my dysfunction.
But, sometimes during these discussions I'll shoot stray thoughts out into the aether in the form of naughty texts, idle scribblings or just subscriptions to things I don't want. It's a little like cursing into the void, or screaming into a pillow.
The problem with this system is that, sometimes, the void is listening.
I woke up late the next day, showered and rushed to the panel I was there to see and in my anxiety-fueled fugue I found a seat near the back, put on some noise-cancelling headphones and tried to act invisible for a little while.
I started listening to E.T., the Katy Perry song, and I was thinking about how terrifying earther space travel is when the first speaker went up to do their segment.
I don't really remember what she was talking about. Something about the link between alien abduction reports and sleep paralysis and the sexual nature of both.
It was kind of interesting, but it was immediately overshadowed by what happened next.
She was showing us a slide depicting a sleeping person floating out the window of their room when I got the feeling.
It's a very unmistakable feeling, it's one that Lovecraft would describe as "indescribable" then fail to describe it, because... well, it truly is.
Before I fail to describe it that way I need to tell you a little something about wormholes.
They are tunnels through space that some would call "infinitely narrow" but practically speaking they're about the same diameter as the cosmic strings that hold space together.
For the string-theory fans out there, yes, those strings... probably.
There's a certain algorithm that can find a path along these strings, given nearly any relational criteria, between all parts of a selection of matter, then suck it all through one of these tunnels like a spaghetti noodle, much faster than the speed of light, and the feeling you get right before that happens to you is not like anything else in the universe.
Yes, space is continuous... sorry if I hurt your prime directive. Please don't send the physicists after me, I'm not a mathematician, I'm just a girl who's been pulled through a few wormholes.
When it does happen the world hums and vibrates and kind of rearranges itself and you're left with a feeling that all of your atoms were probably just yanked through the belly-button of the person sitting next to you, and that's all after you get the feeling.
When it happened to me and everyone at that panel we found ourselves suddenly suspended in a purplish metallic room, lit softly by luminous veins pulsing over its weirdly chitinous surfaces.
The stage was gone, the seats were gone, and gravity was... "geosynchronous."
There was a lot of confusion all at once.
A couple people just shook nervously, one woman screamed nonstop, and a bunch of people started spinning as they failed to comprehend action and reaction in a frictionless environment.
"What the fuck is happening?!" a girl cried out as she floated toward the ceiling.
"A targeted time space distortion, or TTSD," I answered, but I don't think she heard me over the noise of the others, whose gazes were slowly turning my way.
"Did you do this?" someone asked, to which I just shrugged.
I wasn't wanted by anyone in the wider cosmos, unless the Criloks were arresting hookers all the way out here now.
I did feel like the ribbed, almost coral-like, walls of the chamber surrounding us had a certain familiarity to them, but I wasn't sure why.
Fine threads of organic material snaked through the air around us, connecting with us and forming weblike shapes that were rigid and helped stabilize our rotational velocities.
As I gripped one of these smooth appendages I caught a familiar smell.
"Marillian?!" I said aloud.
"Hello Yember," a voice reverberated from all around us, her parts vibrating as one to produce the sound.
"What... the fuck..." I began.
"Relax," she said.
"Don't tell me to relax, I TOLD you, it's OVER, send us back, now!!!" I shouted.
