Lack of Self-Control

Brain slugs have no sense of personal space. They do not understand either intimacy or inappropriate contact. This is a major obstacle to their infiltration of human society.
—Brain Slug Infestation: Cause and Avoidance, Chapter 2

Mel and Jordan swung by the grocery on the way home. There was a sale on microwaveable meals. Pad Thai, curry, jambalaya. Mel doubted they tasted anything like the real thing, but they were better than trying to live off bread.

There was a box of tissues on sale, too. Mel grabbed that as well.

He watched Jordan at checkout. She had a dozen eggs, a couple pounds of raw vegetables, a carton of yogurt, and more tofu. All whole foods or generic store brands, nothing fancy, nothing extra.

High school had included a basic home economics class that covered the basics of not dying of food poisoning as a bachelor and what the difference between an APY and APR were on a credit card. It had been one of the few classes Mel had any real interest in, given that he knew he was going to be kicked out as soon as he came of age. Staring at Jordan's—or really, the brain slug's—selections, he wished he could talk to her about it. They were sensible choices, economical. Probably closer to what Mel should be buying himself.

He wondered if, when he had his first real paycheck, he should learn to cook. Not like a course or anything, but maybe check some recipe books out of the library. Watch some videos online. Try a few things.

Home again. Groceries away. Mel microwaved the gumbo. Jordan ate a pound of celery, her teeth crunching through the unwashed greens like she was cracking bones. They ate while watching another nature documentary, this one on a coral reef, in a scene of such cozy domesticity that they might have been roommates for a thousand years. Brushed their teeth, one after the other. Which left Mel thinking about the box of tissues in his room.

Mel excused himself after the program was over. He lay atop the bed, in his jeans, eyes open and one hand down the waistband of his trousers. Trying, very hard, not to do anything more. Or to think of Jordan. That one memory of her exiting the bathroom, naked, swept unbidden to the forefront of his mind.

"Not a slug fucker," he whispered to himself, as he turned back to the book. Yet he couldn't concentrate. Hard already. His eyes scanned the same paragraph, over and over, not really getting the sense of the words.

A long hour. Then, the flush of a toilet. The closing of his roommate's door. He waited, ears intent. Until at last, he tiptoed out in the dark. Preparing excuses in his mind, if she came out. Couldn't sleep. Just watching some TV.

The television was muted. Mel, shirtlesss, shivered. A fever in his flesh as he scrolled through what was available. Ending up on some ancient documentary titled The Human Animal. A naked woman appeared on screen. Walking forward. Stomach and breasts slowly swelling in a timelapse progression of pregnancy.

Mel rewound and watched it again. The tissues laid out on his chest. Jeans unzipped. Excuses momentarily forgotten as days of pent-up desire found expression in swift, **** strokes with fingers and thumb. Eyes locked on the screen as he replayed those few seconds over and over. Mel had never really had a thing for pregnant chicks, but stimulation was stimulation, and something about the changing body worked for him. The sight of those growing breasts, of that little parasite in her womb growing bigger and heavier, making her gait shift, the nipples darken and swell; her placid, serene face as her body grew...

Until his hips jerked and something hot hit his chin. Spurted sticky and thick under his fingers. Soaked immediately through the thin tissues on his stomach.

With a silent curse and shaking, sweaty thighs, Mel cleaned himself up. The wadded ball of cum-damp tissues went into the trash can in the kitchen. All evidence of his crime disposed of, he quietly cleaned himself up and went back to his own room.

A little guilt haunted Mel as he lay down once again, this time to sleep. Not for getting off so much, but for having to sneak about doing it, and in the living room. He berated his own lack of self-control. It was something he should have waited to do in his own room, with the door locked. If Jordan had come out and seen him, would his half-assed excuses have really worked? He needed this place. If they threw him out for any reason, he was on the street.

Anxiety mingled with post-climax lassitude. Mel did not want to imagine the dreams that would haunt his sleep. Yet at some point, with his eyes closed against the mattress, the darkness claimed him.

A **** need to pee woke Mel in the middle of the night. He opened his door, bleary-eyed and barefoot, but froze on the way to the bathroom.

The electronics on the TV and in the kitchen offered a dim light, and Mel's eyes were adjusted to the dark. He saw a dark shape on the floor of the kitchen. A moment later, he recognized it as the lid of the trash can.

Jordan, naked and pale, was in a squat by the bucket. He could clearly see her thin legs, the bony knees, a dark shadow that hid her crotch. She pressed something to her mouth. Cheeks hollowed as she sucked at it. With a sudden sick realization in the pit of his stomach, Mel realized she was sucking on the cum-soaked tissues from his late-night masturbation session.