Eerie Unison

This is a work of entertainment only. No brain slugs or hosts were harmed in the making of this magazine.
—Slug Fucker Monthly, January 2055

Mel knelt, just like the woman in the magazine. Jordan stood over him. The fingers of her right hand held his eyelid open, so he couldn't blink. Couldn't look away, even if he wanted to. Her other hand stroked the semi-translucent alien slug that protruded from her crotch. Its body shifted from pink to green, the tiny antennae nubs on is head seemed to swell. Jordan's face was placid, serene, eyes vacant.

He awoke just as something hot and sticky spat from the alien slug's mouth.

Sunday. Mel noticed Jordan gathering her clothes in a laundry basket. She was back in her athletic pants and wifebeater. No bra. Mel wasn't sure she even wore a bra. He gathered his dirty wash in his garbage bag and followed her out the door. Spicy Slug—Soong, Mel reminded himself—was waiting out there with her own laundry basket, in nearly identical clothing.

No sign of Antonio, which Mel felt obscurely glad about. In her wifebeater, Mel could see a series of bruises on Soong's upper arm. Something about the dark splotches, healing toward yellow, struck a memory. Kids that came back from abusive households. His jaw clenched, not sure what he should say to her. Yet Soong's face was the same as always, showing nothing.

Five flights of stairs. The credit chip in their hands bought coin-like tokens, the tokens bought packets of detergent and fed the ancient, apparently indestructible washing machines and dryers. Jordan and Soong dumped their laundry in the same machine, and sat side-by-side on old orange plastic chairs bolted to the floor, holding hands. Mel wished, for a moment, he had something to read. Not that he thought Brain Slug Infestation: Cause and Avoidance would be appropriate.

Instead, he took a deep breath. He walked over to Soong and dropped into a squat, so that his eyes were at level with the seated brain slug host.

"Those bruises," he said. "Are you okay? Did Antonio hurt you?"

Dark brown eyes wide. Mel could see his own reflection in their depths. Yet they gave nothing away. No sign of recognition. No word of reply. Next to her, Jordan was staring at him too. Same vacant expression. He apparently had their attention, but he had no way if he was getting through to them.

"Look, all I'm saying is if you need to get away from him, come to our place. Okay? If you need help."

The words felt like what Mel should say. Sure, he was practically broke, had barely moved in, and had no idea what he would do if Soong actually took him up on the offer, beside let her sleep on the couch and maybe call a social worker. A part of him felt silly even making the offer. He was treating her like an individual, when she was something else. Part of a whole hive. And she held hands with Jordan every day. If anything happened, no doubt Jordan would know about it long before Mel did.

He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, not sure what else to say.

It made the rest of laundry day even more awkward. Mel let the minutes tick by. Washing. Drying. Folding. He followed them back up five flights of stairs, trying not to stare at the butts that were at eye level just two steps ahead of him on the ascent.

About two minutes after Mel had put his clothes away—which, since he still lacked any sort of containers or furniture, meant smoothing out the garbage bag on the floor and stacking pants, shirts, underwear, and socks against the wall—when he heard the door to the hallway open. Mel poked his head out of his room, and saw Soong step inside. Then he saw that Jordan was holding his copy of Slug Fuckers Monthly.

His head whipped around, to where it should have been—under his bed, where he'd left it—but that patch of floor was now bare. The two brain slug hosts sat on the couch, Soong in what Mel had come to think of as his spot, the glossy magazine between them. They held hands, palm against palm, and as Mel watched, they slowly read the magazine together. Much slower than when Jordan had gone through the magazine on her own. Pausing at some pages. The brain slugs on their necks shifting colors in eerie unison as they stared at the sexually-explicit images.

Mel sighed and made himself a cup of ramen. There didn't seem to be a point in interrupting them, and it wasn't anything Jordan hadn't already seen before. A part of him half-regretted his offer down in the laundry room. Soong—or the brain slugs—might have misread his intentions. They'd probably already marked him as a slug-fucker. And he had absolutely no idea how to deal with that. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the social situation he was now stuck in.

As he slurped up noodles with one of the pairs of plastic chopsticks that came with the apartment, Mel tried not to get excited at the fantasy that maybe they'd have ideas. He was already having weirdly sexual dreams about his roommate, had gone too far with his last little "experiment." Mel knew he needed to keep himself under control. Didn't want to **** his roommate, or lose his job and housing, which he could all too easily do.

Yet his balls throbbed, dick stiffening as his imagination ran away with the idea. If this was some porn scene instead of a movie, he'd walk over there and unzip, let them fawn over his cock like the jizz-addicted cum sluts that Slug Fuckers Monthly assured him they were. Offer Jordan her salty treat straight from the source instead of digging it out of the trash. And would cum enough to have plenty to share with her fellow brain slug host girlfriend.

Except this was reality. They weren't girlfriends. They were both hosts to alien parasites, sharing some unknowable communion that was probably like the two hemispheres of Mel's brain trying to figure out one of his old math teacher Mrs. O'Brien's trigonometry problems. Nor was Mel a porn star with the confidence to just whip his dick out and try his luck...and whatever else he was or would be, Mel didn't want to be a creep like Antonio. He could still see the bruises on Soong's arm.

It was almost a relief when, at last, they finished. Soong stood and, without a glance at Mel, left the apartment. Jordan took the magazine back to her own room. Mel frowned at that, not sure if he should argue the point of ownership. He tossed the empty ramen cup, washed the chopsticks, and went to his own room. Tomorrow was another day off, and he wanted to go to the library and check his email. He needed to finish reading Brain Slug Infestation today so he could return it.

So a lazy Sunday afternoon of reading gave way to dinner on the couch, and a documentary on the invertebrates in the Mariana Trench. They finished the ritual of brushing their teeth, and Mel said good night. Tomorrow would make it a week since he moved into his new home. A week since he had met her.

Or should I say them? Mel thought, as sleep claimed him.