Being an adult isn't all fun and blowjobs

Fear is a survival instinct, easily perverted into bigotry. Some politicians seeking momentary advantage tried to rile their constituents against the "alien menace." William Martin was one of the first and loudest. His wife Meara died in their home and became host to a ghola; the testimony she gave of years of abuse was not accepted by the courts, but sank Martin's career. Around the globe, bigots found themselves arrayed against an isolated and downtrodden minority who just happened to have centuries of experience in asymmetric warfare. They had expected to adapt old hatreds to new faces and found that their enemies were neither powerless nor constrained by human laws or morality. There are still Martinians, but those who become perceived as threats swiftly find they are not untouchable. The ETs gave them something to truly fear.
—Anaïs Nineveh, The Exodus: A History, Chapter 4

Mel opened his eyes to a familiar cracked ceiling. Thin, over-starched sheets. He heard the murmur of the other older teens, some snoring, some talking to themselves. His heart hammered in his chest. Silently, he slid out of bed and padded on bare feet toward the bathroom. They didn't lock the doors at night, but there would be a monitor to check on them. The tile was cold, and he shivered; the hallway longer than he remembered.

The bathroom was so dark he couldn't see a thing. Had to wait, shivering, listening to the drip of a leaky faucet until his eyes adjusted enough to make out the bare grey shapes of the stalls. He went to the farthest one, nearest the heating vent; that way, the seat wouldn't be icy cold. Passed the broken mirror with its spiderweb of cracks above the dripping sink.

The families tended to come right before Christmas. Not after. No one adopted between Christmas and New Year's, and much of the regular staff took their holidays. That made it the quietest, loneliest time of the year. Mel sat on the seat, shivering, shriveled up, arm around himself. Alone again. Always. No family, no friends, no . . .

"Pssst."

The sound, to his right. There, in the wall, just about waist height, a hole. Someone had crudely scrawled "18+ Only" by it.

A small finger slid through it. So dark he couldn't tell anything more than the shape of it. Carefully, he touched it. Their fingers latched together.

"You wanna?" the girl's voice said. Familiar, but oddly echoing.

Mel's heart pounded. This wasn't . . . who was . . .

"Come on," she said, suddenly breathless. "I think we both need this."

Mel's tongue was stuck in his mouth. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. This wasn't how . . .

Rachel's labia engulfed his nose. Hot juices spurted onto Mel's face and into his eyes as her hips bucked, frotting herself against his face, her hands tangled in his hair. Little soft pants emerged from her throat. Though he couldn't see it, Mel could imagine the taller woman's eyes half-lidded. He coughed, tearing up as her thighs clamped onto his ears, the back of her feet resting on his shoulders. Down below, he could feel a pair of tongues working his shaft like an obscene popsicle, which told him where Jordan and Jenny were in this whole process.

Mel's hands came up to grab Rachel's buttocks, but she was still moving with a stiff, almost mechanical grind, her pussy rubbing from his chin to his eyes, angling her lower body so that the stiff clit ran over and over, seeking stimulation. His tongue dove out, lips trying to catch the clit without scraping her sensitive bits—and they were all sensitive—with his teeth. After some oral fumbling, his tongue found her stiff, swollen nub. Her body moved on its own, panting, quickening as she focused her grinding on his mouth. As he closed his lips around her clit and began to softly suck, her panting increased, and her gyrations grew smaller, more frantic.

Rachel's nails dug into Mel's scalp as her buttocks tightened and quivered in his hands. Her pants gave way to a brief, strangled cry—and then all hundred and twenty pounds of her was sitting on his chest, and she stared down at her coughing, bleary-eyed boyfriend. Mel blinked up at her and gave a weak smile—and then he went cross-eyed as a hot mouth closed over his sensitive glans and a long-pent load traveled up the length of him to burst in ropes of sticky white need onto a waiting tongue.

From the doorway of the bedroom, 'stasia gave a small clap.

"Sorry," she said. "But you're not supposed to wake sleepwalkers. And Jenny and Jordan managed to keep her off of you, but, ah, you were apparently already excited, and that got them excited."

Mel couldn't see Anastasia very well, because of the pale mass of his girlfriend's thigh obscured his view, but he got the impression the dark-haired woman was rearranging her pajama bottoms.

"I'm going to go put coffee on, whenever you need it, Rachel," 'stasia said.

The chastity cage plan, which Mel and Rachel had discussed last night, failed for the simple problem that Jordan hadn't kept the cage, handing it off to another brain slug, not expecting to need it again. The two brain slug hosts, however, had communicated via the magnetic letters on the fridge that they would keep an eye out if Rache went walking in her sleep again.

"This is getting to be a habit," Rache said as she climbed off Mel. "Although I can't say this isn't a great way to wake up, holy shit."

Mel cough-laughed as he sat up. "Maybe I should get up early and visit you in the early morning. Maybe that'll keep you in your own bed."

Rache, who found her panties and sleep shirt on the floor outside the bedroom, gave him a smirk. She kissed his forehead, then made a face. "Is that what my pussy tastes like?"

"Kinda tangy, slightly salty, hint of ammonia," he said. "No complaints."

"Pfft. You know some of that is probably my urine, right?" Rache said.

"If it makes my girlfriends happy, then I consider drinking a bit of pee not just a duty, but a pleasure," Mel said, voice putting on an air momentarily like an earnest Shakespearean actor.

That made Rachel laugh—and also, he noticed, blush so hard that her ears seemed to glow red for a moment.

They broke apart then. Rache needed coffee and to get to her classes. Mel, Jordan, and Jenny went through their stretches and exercises. Shower, dressed, and out into the dawning day; the sun rising earlier and earlier, now they walked out into the grey light, the lights on the passing cars and trucks not strictly necessary but still bright in the lessening gloom.

Jordan and Jenny hung close. Mel had told them about the class and the meeting with Molly before bed. As usual, it was impossible to read affect on their placid faces; the slugs on their necks had pulsed with what Mel considered interest, however, and they had been more touchy than usual, often rubbing his neck as he was chopping spinach or boiling water for ramen, or stroking his chest or stomach at night. Whether that was anxiety or marking territory, Mel wasn't certain.

The dream stayed with him. There hadn't been any gloryhole in that stall in the orphanage. No way for there to be; it was an outside wall. Yet dreams were like that. Putting together incongruous bits. Revisiting old ideas. The kids in the orphanage had stories about the bathrooms. One guy was going to be thrown out after he hit 18 had supposedly cut his wrists there, bleeding into the toilet. They'd found him on his birthday. Mel rubbed his own wrists and shivered a little. He hadn't thought about that as an option. Not seriously. Yet the older teens never joked about it. They felt it too keenly.

What would I do if I woke up tomorrow back in the orphanage, and this was just a dream? Mel wondered as they approached the Cosmic Fill-Up. No girlfriends, no half-sister, no friends, no apartment.

He rubbed his wrists again, felt the pulse beneath his thumb. Mel had eyed that broken mirror. How easy it would have been to tug a sharp shard out of that.

But I didn't, he told himself. I didn't give up.

Bobbie and Blair were there already. Jordan and Jenny signed in and then went to hold hands with them, no doubt catching up on the brain slug news. According to the schedule, Mel needed to clean the interiors of some of the drink dispensers, a multi-part process that required gloves, augmented reality goggles, and a little wand-like attachment for the swifter. Before he could do that, however . . .

"So," Ha-Yoon said. "How did it go with Molly? Tell me everything."

Mel gave a nervous smile. His boss was way too invested in his family and social life. She was, however, basically the only person he could reliably talk to for about nine hours of the day, and she had arranged the whole meeting with Molly in the first place.

"She seems nice. Québécoise. Grew up in Montreal. Found out her dad isn't her biological dad, so she's going to ask her mom about my dad." He took a deep breath, not sure how much of this was an invasion of Molly's privacy. "Asked me to do a cheek swab. Just to confirm."

"Smart," Ha-Yoon said, with a nod. "Tall? Blonde? Big tits?"

"About a head shorter than me. Black, or, I guess, mixed-race. I didn't ask her bra size. She is smart, though, she's going to Bryn Mawr College, majoring in Xenotechnology," Mel said. He looked Ha-Yoon straight in the eyes. "Please stop trying to get me to have sex with my sister."

"Boo, hiss," Ha-Yoon said with a smile, which was absolutely not agreement. "You are absolutely no fun."

"My sex life is not your crackfic," Mel shot back, remembering a word he'd once heard. Then, hoping a change of subject would help: "How are James and Autumn?"

That was good for an hour. Ha-Yoon followed Mel as he geared up to open the drink dispensers and clean their guts, going into anatomical detail of Autumn's healing process and James' new infatuation with a trend for a new implant that went into the tongue to help record data for an oral sex study, although apparently it had other uses with some erogame, which Mel didn't really understand.

"It's your basic teledildonics play," Ha-Yoon tried to explain. "One player has the tongues and licks or fellates a virtual object; the implant registers the position and intensity of their licking and transmits it to a sex toy—or a music synthesizer program, or anything else. I think some guy in Iqaluit has been using it as a random number generator for his role-playing game."

"Never really had a chance to get into gaming," Mel said, thinking of the free browser games on the school computers, and the slightly dodgy underground of free or pirated game programs that the kids had managed to hide in various folders when teachers weren't looking. Sometimes companies donated games, but they didn't tend to last long in an orphanage. Mel remembered playing Monopoly with a spinner because they weren't allowed dice. Once, he had to play as a paperclip, and they ran out of fake paper money.

"There's the famous dick!"

Mel looked up as Amelia stepped into the store, all smiles and stretchy maternity pants. She was wearing a too-tight zip-up hoodie, and Li'l Mel was there in his sling and little blue skull cap. Ha-Yoon greeted her with a hug, then vanished like a reverse ninja. Leaving Mel standing there to reassemble the drink dispenser and deal with one of the sixty million approximate people who knew what his cock looked like.

"Hi, Amelia," he said with a smile. "Your usual today."

"Don't change the subject," Amelia said. "You know your video has over 100 million impressions?"

Mel's grin felt like something plastic and artificial.

"That many? I didn't know," he said.

"Seriously, though. That's a marketable asset," Amelia said. "Which is why I want to do a video with you."

"Uh . . . I don't know if my girlfriends will be comfortable with that," Mel said.

"You don't have to show your face. You can wear a condom. I just need to suck you off," Amelia said. Li'l Mel chose that moment to open his eyes. He yawned and made a noise that was not a scream, but felt like the prequel of a scream. Amelia didn't even hesitate. Her hand went to the zipper, pulled it down, and revealed no shirt, no bra. Just a plump brown breast with a dark nipple, which swiftly went into an eager mouth.

"Sorry," she said.

"No need to apologize," Mel said, because it seemed the polite thing to say. He was suddenly glad that the augmented reality gave him something else to focus on, as he clicked the last panel into place.

"Look, I know this is a little out of the blue, but I am going insane doing the single mom thing. I need socialization. Maybe a little something for my social media," she said. Then, she played her ace: "I can't pay you, but I'll make dinner."

Mel hesitated. He remembered Molly's question about what he ate. His own misgivings over a continued diet of ramen and Quench. He pulled off the augmented reality goggles.

"I appreciate the offer," he said. "And I'm not unwilling to help, but I made a promise. No sexual contact with anyone else. It's a health thing. You understand that, right?"

"But you said you had to get permission," Amelia insisted. "So if you got permission, you'd let me suck your dick?"

Jenny emerged from the direction of the cleaning closet. She approached, face placid, as she saw Mel's pleading eyes. Amelia's face when tight, and Mel knew she was looking at the dark head of the brain slug that peeked around Jenny's neck. Old prejudices die hard. Feeling awkward with his gloves, Mel started to sign and speak:

"This is Amelia," he said, trying to fingerspell her name and feeling the lack of practice. His sign language exhausted, he tried to explain. "She's a sex worker. Union. Been having difficulty adjusting to maternity leave. Ha-Yoon showed her the video I made with Two-Clicks, and now she'd like to do something similar for her . . . um . . . online presence. In exchange, she's offered to cook dinner."

"I just got back from an STD screening. I can show you the paperwork," Amelia said, addressing Jenny directly. "We'll use a condom. You can all come and watch, make sure everything goes smoothly. I just need . . . a real dick. I feel comfortable and safe with him, and I kind of owe him for helping me give birth, and . . . and Mel's been so nice to me. You get it, right?"

Jenny seemed to absorb this. Her dark eyes held Amelia's for a moment, then went to Li'l Mel, who was still feeding. Finally, she turned to Mel.

"I told her anything had to be cleared with my girlfriends," he said. "Our relationship comes first. I don't want to do anything to endanger that."

The brain slug host nodded. Then she reached into her front pocket and pulled out a slim metal wallet. She withdrew a thin cardboard card and offered it to Amelia. Mel saw it said Spicy Slug, an email address, and a website. Amelia accepted it.

"So, I'll, um, email you?" Amelia asked, and Jenny nodded. The young mother smiled and looked relieved. "Great! Um, let me get some milk and . . . I'll see you later!"

Mel nodded. Not sure what he had just agreed to, exactly. Jenny hadn't exactly given a thumb's up. So maybe this was the opening step in a negotiation?

Why does it feel like most of my adult friendships have come to revolve around my dick? Mel wondered.

At lunch, Jordan and Jenny held hands. Mel assumed they were sharing information. Blair had already left for the day, but Bobbie was there to eat with them, in her blue shirt and black work pants. Her curly brown hair was in a ponytail today, held back with a blue scrunchie.

"Hi," he said, trying to sign and speak at the same time. "I've started ASL classes. Still learning. I don't know many signs yet, but I'm trying to practice a little when I can."

Bobbie gave the little salute, the horned brain slug on her neck dipping its head at the same time in perfect synchronization. That had to be deliberate. It made Mel feel like a babbling toddler, but at least it was an acknowledgment of effort.

After he finished his rice bowl, Mel collected everyone's trash and wiped down the table. The physical effort of cleaning, minimal as it was, felt like a release of tension Mel wasn't aware he was holding. There had been a time, not long ago, when life had seemed simple. Apartment. Job. Roommate. Now he had two roommates, three girlfriends, a half-sister (probably), and friends—he was pretty sure Ha-Yoon, Amelia, and 'stasia counted as friends. He was less sure about Detective MacElroy. He frowned and pulled out the trash can to replace the bag, which was full.

Sometimes, if felt like there were too many moving parts. Maxine. The Other Mel, the masked one in the wheelchair downstairs. He hadn't fed either of them in a while, and he wondered when that shoe was going to drop. The government's interest in him was something almost too big or vague to grasp. Was it a coincidence that he'd been selected to room with Jordan and a government agent went undercover using his identity? If they were different agencies—or different national governments—it might be entirely possible. Left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing. The only ones he could really ask about that were Other Mel and MacElroy, and the brain-bat sometimes seemed to have her own agenda.

Detective MacElroy also had a vial of Mel's sperm.

Supposedly to test Mel's DNA. Except when Ha-Yoon had tested his DNA, she'd used a blood sample. When Molly wanted to test Mel's DNA, she had taken a cheek swab. He chewed his cheek, wishing high school biology and anatomy courses had covered more about such things. There was only one thing Mel was positive his semen could be used for, and he hoped to hell it hadn't just become an unwitting sperm donor.

It felt like being the paperclip on the Monopoly board, unsure of the rules, using random bits and pieces to navigate a life that was navigated by a flick of a spinner, with no set goal or way to win.

He sighed.

Being an adult isn't all fun and blowjobs, Mel thought. But at least there are blowjobs.

He didn't see the couple come in, because he had hauled the trash bag out through the back. Yet they were there when he returned. A smiling man with short blonde hair in a blue polo with a red stripe across the chest, brown leather jacket, and pleated tan slacks. Based on the lines from the nostril to the mouth, Mel judged him to be older than himself, twenties at least. Taller and with broader shoulders, but the beginning of a paunch. No one that Mel would glance at twice on the street.

Beside him, walking arm in arm, was something that looked profoundly unnatural.

It was woman-shaped, wearing a blue sari with a red sash, and a wig of dark, straight black hair. Yet the skin was wrong. Mel wasn't sure how he could define exactly how it was wrong. Like how in old science fiction and horror movies, there were puppets and animatronics that were clearly physical, present, detailed, yet fundamentally not real in some essential sense, the skin and features too inelastic, or lacking the little tell-tales of breath and heartbeat. This person had that quality, for all that the skin was a pale olive, touched with makeup at lips and cheeks.

The eyes caught and held Mel's attention.

There were no eyes.

Two holes, poked in the mask of a face. Something stared out at him from behind that mask. Something profoundly not human, slightly glistening or reflective, like the eyes of a spider or crab, or perhaps the dark faceplate of a space suit, polarized to protect an astronaut from the glare of the sun.

"Mel Arkwright?" the man said, with a smile. He stuck out a hand. Mel blinked, tore his gaze away, and shook it. A too-firm handshake, gripping the fingers rather than the palm. "I'm Denis MacArthur, and this is my partner, Aloa. Detective MacElroy thought you might be interested in meeting an interspecies couple."

"Uh . . . yeah, sorry, didn't mean to be rude, just surprised," Mel forced a smile at them both. "She mentioned a couple, but I didn't know you were coming today. Would you like to sit?"

He gestured at the recently cleaned table. The two sat opposite him, and his eyes were drawn back to Aloa. He heard a voice—low, deep, resonant, and very clearly not coming from her. It sounded almost as if it was coming from within his own head.

<<Hello, Melville,>> the voice said. <<I am pleased to meet another rishathran.>>