It's my first day working as an escort and I couldn't be more nervous. As if hurtling through space isn't terrifying enough.
The Outpost is very different from my home planet of Earth. In some ways, it feels like a lawless wasteland, in that there are people from every species across the galaxy doing literally whatever the fuck they want, whenever they want, but in other ways, it's place of structure and order. There are certain unwritten rules that anyone who steps foot here must abide by. No fighting inside the taverns -- if you want to start a ruckus, you'll have to do it outside under the starry sky and before witnesses. No stealing -- which roughly translates to "don't get caught stealing or you'll find yourself at the receiving end of a baseball bat."
And most importantly, if you see someone who's not supposed to be here, don't, under any circumstances, report them to The Guard. A place like this is a beacon for criminals and runaways. To report someone would be to upset the balance of The Outpost. Yes, it's where space travelers stop to rest and attempt to pawn random pieces of junk, but it's also a haven for outsiders and degenerates.
My employer is named Mara, and she's the owner of Mara's House, a home for escorts of a wide variety of species. Some prefer their sexual partners to have a certain number of limbs, or extra eyes, or even gills. Mara's House caters to all preferences. I'm one of only three humans under her employment, which makes me kind of a novelty in a place like this. She's arranged for me to meet up with a male at ten o'clock sharp at some motel on the outskirts of the main hub.
I'm referring to my client as a male instead of a man because I never assume that anyone is human -- on The Outpost, it's more likely that they're not.
My six-inch heels clack ostentatiously against the black pavement as I walk towards the crumbling motel. I pick up my key from the front desk from a three-eyed attendant who barely gives me the time of day. I throw a glance over my shoulder as I scurry down the dingy hallways in search of room 307, my paranoia running ahead me like a loosely leashed dog. The peeling walls reek of cigarettes and despair.
While prostitution is illegal under the Empire's rule, The Outpost is not considered to be under any particular planet's jurisdiction. Not that the Empire has ever cared about technicalities; if they wanted to bring the hammer down on this place, they most certainly could.
My knock lands softly against the door to room 307. I'm almost hoping that nobody answers, and I can turn around and go back to Mara's. Of course, she would probably spin me right around and send me off to another client.
It's a good thing I didn't assume that my client tonight was human, because when the door swings open, I am greeted by a tall, lean male with striking blue skin and bright, violet eyes. His dark hair flops messily over his eyes, desperately in need of a trim, and he's dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. One of his shoelaces is untied.
He doesn't strike me as particularly threatening. If anything, his downcast eyes suggest he might be a bit shy. Well, that makes two of us.
"Hello. I'm Persey." His voice is quiet, hesitant.
"Farrah." I wonder if he really believes that I'd give him my real name.
"Um, thanks for coming." Yes, he's definitely nervous.
"That's why you're paying me," I point out.
"Right. Come on in." He stands aside for me to enter, and I attempt to brush carelessly past him like I've done this a hundred times. I hope I'm convincing.
The room is nothing more than four walls, a flickering lamp, and a double-wide bed that's probably hosted dozens of meetings such as this one.
Persey -- I wonder if that's his real name? -- plants himself in the wooden chair in the corner of the room and gestures for me to take a seat on the bed. The sheets feel rather stiff and uncomfortable, but it doesn't matter. I won't be here very long.
There's something about Persey. Blue skin is not uncommon in this part of the galaxy, but his eyes -- irises of a glowing, deep violet, and ringed with gold -- give him away. The baseball cap and pair of sunglasses strewn about the bedside table suggest he was trying to conceal his identity before arriving at this motel. After all, one doesn't need sunglasses here. The Outpost doesn't even have a sun.
Maybe his reasons for being nervous about this arrangement have nothing at all to do with sex.
"You're a... a Xhorthian?" I begin. They're an ancient species gifted with exceptional telepathic abilities, a kind of power so rare, not many understand it. Officially, they're considered a threat to the crown -- in large part due to the activities of their rebel leader, who has a nasty habit of blowing up government buildings on planets under control of the Empire.
"Yeah," he says, chewing on his lip. "You're not going to say anything to anyone, right?" He looks like he might get up and bolt at any moment.
"No, of course not." I suppose it doesn't matter that he's here illegally. I'm not exactly in a position to be reporting crimes to The Guard. What scares me most is that I'm a weakling human and he's an all-powerful Xhorthian. He could probably crush my skull without lifting a finger.
And yet, I don't get the sense that he wants to.
"Anyway," I move off the bed to stand between his legs, trying my best to exude confidence. "Should we get started?"
His violet eyes widen in alarm. "Oh, um, you don't actually need to touch me for this to happen."
I pause. I realize I don't know the first thing about Xhorthian anatomy, or sexuality, for that matter. "You don't want me to touch you?" I ask, puzzled.
"It, um, detaches from my body. My sexual organ, I mean." He pauses, waiting for some kind of reaction from me, I suppose, but at the moment I'm more confused than anything else. He continues, "I control its movements, and I will feel the sensations telepathically. You need only to lay on the bed while my organ explores your body."
Wait, he doesn't even want me to touch him? And I'm still getting paid? This feels too good to be true.
But also... what the fuck?
"Wow," I say. "Why...?" I trail off, not quite sure how to phrase my question. There's got to be some evolutionary reason for their penises to detach from their bodies.
Persey does not seem bothered by my rude question. "For a few reasons. The first, is that if we are killed, the organ lives on and can still ensure the survival of our species. In the absence of a host, the organ will seek out a female and plant its seed inside of her. Second, females of my species are notoriously difficult to impregnate; the uterus is protected deep within their bodies, almost impossible to reach with a standard sexual organ. This makes reproduction far easier, when we can detach. The organ can go inside and find the egg; it's malleable enough to squeeze through even the tightest of spaces... " He trails off, probably not intending to give me a biology lesson.
