Accidental Human
An alien coming to terms with human sexuality.
Sex. It doesn’t even exist among some organisms. A relatively simple act among many, but among humans, so complicated, so ritualized, and even nonsensical. Religions, politics, culture, art, and even philosophy have been based on this seemingly simple thing. So many rules and laws about how, when, with whom, with what, and where, it would drive even the most dedicated scientist mad with details. And what’s good and acceptable, even admirable, at one place and time is abhorred and despised at another place, at another time.
It is simultaneously an expression of power, of desire, of our conceptions of beauty, of what we believe, of what we’re supposed to believe, and even our status in society. It is everything and nothing, why would anyone even try to make sense of it? And as if that weren’t enough, you mix emotions, introduce love and jealousy to it, and you have a perfect storm of perfectly nonsensical drama and intrigue truly worthy of eternity.
But I don’t care about all that. I’m not a scientist, not even a philosopher, hell, not even a human. I’m just a traveler, temporarily here, temporarily visiting, my biology doesn’t matter. Not sure how I find myself in a human body, with human beliefs and human influences, but that’s not me. Not that it’s all that important who I am, certainly not to me, it’s just not me that’s all.
What is interesting is her. Have I seen her before? Her face is oddly familiar and strange at the same time. No, I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of it, and yet I know her, I see her, all the things the eye can’t see.
Maybe I’ve only imagined it. Apparently human brains like to do that — make up a story, a narrative that makes sense even when there’s nothing to make sense, even when she’s a perfect stranger with no story you’re aware of. But it’s not a story. Nothing about where she’s from, who she is, what she does, or who she likes. More of a . . . I don’t know. A feeling. A blurry memory. Memories that can’t exist. And yet . . . I know her kiss, I know her embrace, I recognize her touch. All of which would make sense if I’ve ever kissed her, embraced her, touched her. Have I?
I can tell she’s noticed me; I can tell by her fidgeting and her uncertain behavior. Have I been staring? I can tell because she’s unusually focused on not noticing me, not looking towards my direction. They say that confidence is sexy, and, well, it’s true, but her sudden lack of confidence, her nervousness, is adorable. I just want to wrap my arms around her as if to tell her it’s okay, that it’s only me, that she has nothing to fear from me. But that wouldn’t be appropriate, not from a perfect stranger, humans have weird customs after all. Even my staring probably isn’t appropriate, not something they would approve of. Well, too late.
Before I go further, I’ll tell you a secret, something you won’t hear from anyone else. People think that it’s a curse of evolution that you become nervous around people that you really like, around those you want to impress. You want to project confidence even if you’re not. You want to show them how cool you are, how together you are, yet here you are all shy and nervous, looking probably like a dork, just when you want to impress the most. That’s a curse, right? Surely, it must be.
There are books on how to fake confidence, how to “fake it till you make it,” and how to put on a front that covers the truth. Books that tell you how to lie, how to be inauthentic, even to play games, play “hard to get” to attract those you want to attract. Idiots writing books on things they don’t understand and haven’t the slightest clue about. And idiots following idiots because they don’t know any better. Because being popular is more important than being correct, the story of the human race. But maybe I’m being a little harsh on these poor creatures.
I may not know much, especially about humans, but this much I know: You play these stupid little games and you win stupid prizes. I think there’s a saying that goes something like this, what do they call it, yes, a cliche. The only thing you win is temporary interest at best, then it’s gone when the lies are exposed and it becomes clear what a dumb twat you are for playing these childish games.
This is a test of evolution. Can you be who you are when it matters or will you play games, pretend to be someone or something else? A test to determine your readiness, whether you’re worthy to go beyond these stupid prizes. Because it’s easy to tell the truth, to be who you are, when it doesn’t matter. Everyone can do that. But can you do it when it matters? When the rest of your life depends on it?
As I approach her I notice that she’s browsing a book called “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” or something like that. I could be wrong; the title doesn’t make any sense. I mean, who hitchhikes across the galaxy? And who needs a guide for something that no one does, that no one would even consider? If it was that easy, I’d be gone a long time ago. I wouldn’t still be here, on this strange planet. But, yes! I remember this book. I haven’t read it, not exactly, but I’ve heard people talking about it. I must save her from this stupid book! This curse of idiots following idiots must stop! I will not allow it! Not today! Not with her!
I rudely interrupt her. Very rudely, judging by the expression on her face. I tell her, in no uncertain terms, not to buy the book, that it’s stupid, that you cannot hitchhike across the galaxy, that it’s a costly proposition even if it were possible, speaking of which it’s not even possible, humans haven’t even invented spaceships yet, but most important of all, 42 is not the meaning of life, it’s a lie!
She abruptly bursts into laughter which confuses me. I’m not sure if she got my point, but she suggests that we continue this discussion in another place, in a coffee shop nearby perhaps. Is this a date? I wanted to ask but didn’t. She nods and smiles ‘Yes!’ anyway.
She buys the book to my dismay. My obvious disappointment and disapproval only seem to amuse her. But as I open the door to leave the bookstore and she brushes past me, I get a whiff of strawberry and coconut, the scent I remember of her. But how could I? I’ve never seen her before. I wanted to embrace her right then and there. Maybe even kiss her. Maybe even tear off her clothes and get to know her flesh all over again. Maybe even . . . Umm, slow down Speedy Gonzales! This isn’t appropriate, humans have weird customs, remember? The ritual of sex, what was it? Whatever it is, I don’t seem to remember, certainly patience and some finesse. Some talking and maybe consent, yes, that would be nice. But what if she doesn’t want it?
Of course she does. Her body is practically begging for it. I’m not sure what she’s saying, what we’ve been talking about, but I’m certain what her body is saying, and it’s shouting ‘sex!’ again and again. So is mine, so why can’t we just go and get on with it already? Oh, yeah. Human rituals. Sex is everything and nothing. We must be patient.
The coffee was fine, and the cheesecake we shared was great, but I don’t know how we wandered into politics, the danger zone of conversation in any language. Because humans have this weird need to mindlessly belong to this or that camp, this or that side, not just on one thing but all things, well most things, whether you have a reason to agree or not. Like religion, you can’t pick and choose, you either believe all of it or most of it, or you’re the enemy of humanity, the enemy of reason, either shape up and be a good, little follower or get out and fuck you! Politics in a nutshell.
What are we onto now? Oh, yes, she’s trying to pin me to the left or the right or God forbid, the wobbling center. I try to convince her that it’s all garbage, that they’re all wrong, all unworthy of your allegiance, that you’ll look back and laugh at the things you believed in your youth, but she’s not convinced. Probably because she’s still young, still unprepared for the wisdom only experience can bring.
Well, I have the experience, thousands of years worth, though I don’t even look middle-aged. Most of that I don’t remember, not exactly, but I still have the wisdom. And while humans are still pretty far behind in technology, they do have one intriguing thing that’s quite useful. Philosophy, of course. A gem only possible because of the invention of language, something that telepathic species do not appreciate because of their lack of language. Well, that’s not quite true, even they have languages, but it’s not the same, there’s nothing quite like human languages. And without them, philosophy wouldn’t be possible.
Yes, philosophy is a thing of beauty, even for these backward civilizations, and so useful to shoot down all of her idiotic arguments and allegiances. So practical, and I’m not even a professional! But unfortunately that’s not enough, not for this woman. She’s got an ego, this one. She doesn’t like to lose, doesn’t like to admit that she’s wrong. One of the most annoying human traits, and she has it. I don’t have the patience for that. I’m on the verge of losing interest completely, from this character flaw alone. So I did what I had to. Did I really have a choice?
Of course, yes, that’s not a genuine question. Of course, I have a choice; I always do. But she doesn’t. Not anymore. If you’re not going to use your free will wisely, what’s the point of having it? That’s not a good reason, I realize, I’m aware that I’m only rationalizing after the fact. But it’s not an empty point. I probably shouldn’t have done it. No, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but what’s done is done. Now she’s just sitting here, waiting for my command, my will.
I swallow my sudden urge to explain myself, why I just had to take her free will away, turn her into an obedient slave without so much as consent or even a discussion. Because she’s still in there, still bewildered, still not comprehending why she suddenly has no control of herself, why she’s dependent on me completely. So I do the next best thing. I apologize. It’s not an explanation but it’s something. And I’m genuinely regretful. I am. Free will is what makes humans interesting among all the species that don’t have it, and I’ve just taken away that one special trait. All because of my own character flaw, the lack of patience. I’ll have to work on that.
She just looks at me like a puppy. She understands my apology, and I’m sure it’s infuriating, how can it not be? But her desires have completely changed. She only exists to serve me now, to obey me in whatever way I require. She has no ego, no boundaries. Hell, even a puppy would have more self-respect. As if to confirm my thoughts, she licks my thumb briefly before looking up at me again.
The guilt rises again, but I quickly squash it, remembering her stubborn arrogance that triggered this unfortunate turn of events. That’s right. You brought this on yourself! Well, at least a little bit.
I fondle her boobs absentmindedly through her silk shirt, thinking about what I’m going to do with her. Both of her nipples are now standing erect, clearly visible even through the shirt. Like a habit I squeeze them one after the other, eliciting a whimper from her.
Then I suddenly notice all the disguised stares around me. I’m practically molesting her in public while others pretend to drink their coffee and eat their desserts. Oh yeah, human rituals. I keep forgetting.
I pay the bill, gather her in my arms, and we enter the night outside. It’s already dark but the evening’s just getting started. She clutches my right arm while kissing or licking my ear, whispering sweet promises that must’ve come from deep down in my subconscious. That’s the thing about telepathy. You don’t have to say anything. Language is optional.
I make a brief stop to pick up some handcuffs, a collar, and a few toys. We have a busy night ahead, and the dinner will have to wait. Until I get to know her again, every inch of her flesh, and to remember this time. But, thankfully, we can skip some of the human rituals, unnecessary for an accidental human and an accidental slave.
Sometimes sex is nothing. But sometimes, sex is everything.
