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Chapter 7

     The Story The Authors
For his part, Neenor didn't understand what the problem was. His own planet of origin, Woydrapekk, boasted a fauna divided into 5 distinct sexes, each a unique cog in the machine of birth and death, as opposed to the extremely limited sexual dualism of this miserable little planet -- why, neither the 'men' nor the 'women' of earth possessed a terrestrial equivalent of the Woydrapekkian chatmatrat or "hole of moist woe," the orifice which the First Gods of his planet had made to fit accommodate perfectly the insertion and pleasure of his own tendrilled y'akwakjhak or "singing club-foot." Philip
As it was, his poor, wrinkled y'akwakjhak had been forced to endure 14 days and nights of warp-speed travel without release. The twelve nutlike glands at its base were painfully swollen with desire and their pores squeezed out slow, single tears of a thick, milky fluid; from these sorry loci rose the barely-functioning mucus membrane or uöginvacz, now dried and chapped and shrivelled in on itself like a sad vindram orphaned by its wojpab; above that the three heads of Neenor's poor appendage hung as if dead, their formerly razor-sharp beaks dulled split and cracked with the dry air of hyperspace travel, their only sign of life being now and again a tentacle's feeble snapping-up of one of the juicy fat crickets which seemed to proliferate in the vicinity of the engine room, despite the unsleeping vigilance of the ship's cat, Ignavia. Philip Welsh
And the sad thing was, Vashondra wouldn't even try to comprehend how spending half of each month crossing the uncaring depths of hyperspace to see her (well, to smuggle uncut Andromedan narcotics to the cheese-mines of the Dalrinjjian moons, too, but...) only added deeper, more intricate complications to Neenor's already overwhelming nautiloid sexual needs. She just crossed her arms and sulked. "Lister, buster, I don't care what you brought me from the twinkling whatever-you-want-to-call-it orbiting Fomalhaut, if you think I'm putting that thing" -- and here she gave a shudder which he found most unsympathetic; were all earth women so devoid of feelings? -- "in my mouth for one instant..." Philip
But in the end it could not be said of Neenor that he was not foremost of all an optimist. With his still very lucrative smuggling business completed he would always return to the dismal little planet to make one last stab at it. Besides, it rather hurt his pride. He was considered to be something of a casanova by all who knew him or of him in all sixteen corners of the charted universe. He had never been one to lack for want of sexual company. He had even managed to score on Xhrtani 5 in the Zintalicod Colonies a half a dozen times and on that place non-governmentally approved non-procreational recreational sexual activity was punishable by an instant marriage after which the unlucky bride and groom were ritually eaten alive by the bride's disgraced parents. In fact, of all the places he had ever been to out of all the uncharted backwaters of the universe this was the only place he had not gotten to so much as first base on. He had a reputation to uphold. So with a heavy heart and an extra three pounds of Tilklaka fluid weighing heavily on his sexual organs he trudged down the ramp to find Vashondra. Lanark
"My angel," she squealed as she caught site of the well-oiled casters he used in place of feet. "Flown all the way down from Heaven to see l'il old me!"

"Have you missed me, my luscious squo-shlx-nrgl of gronchee-eps-ka?" intoned Neenor, barely able to control the swollen tremblings in his exposed voojh-num.

"Whadja bring me from the stars, Daddy?" she purred, inclining leftwards into the shadow of the saucer so he wouldn't notice the blood-speckled nuggets of Gilligan's brain running out of her nose.

"For starters," he replied, "a wif'm -- er, a hanky, oh dr'phzmx of that-which-in-my-alien-physiology-takes-the-place-of-a-heart..."


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