Escargot Fuck Yourself

The North American brain slug is still finding its place in the complex ecosystem of Earth. Their survival is not guaranteed. Interaction with humans remains the leading cause of **** for brain slugs and their hosts.
—National Geographic Field Guide to Extraterrestrial Species of North America, Chapter 2

The giant slug filled the bed. Semi-transparent, green, slightly phosphorescent. It was twisted onto its back to expose its foot. A pink slit pulsed there, part of a vertical crease that ran from the tip of its tail to Jordan's chin. Her face was slack, placid, peaceful, but her eyes glowed, and the sensory tentacles on her head were fully extended. The pussy seemed to pulse, part of the regular undulating rhythm of the semi-gelatinous form.

Mel was hard. He throbbed in time to the pulse. He stepped forward, one step, then another. To stand at the foot of the bed and stare down at the massive slug that waited patiently for him. Inside, he could see tentacles squirm. The foot would dissolve into an acid that would eat through his skin. His palms and the soles of his feet grew clammy, but he felt harder. Breathing in that strange scent, her scent.

Someone shoved him. He stumbled forward. Pulled into that warm mass—

The hiss of the shower awoke Mel from the dream, tangled in his sheets, sweating gently. He panted, looked at the door. It was open. He had left it open. Jordan hadn't come in. She was taking a shower. Mel swallowed, took a deep breath, and then swung his legs off the bed. Soon, he was lost in the clam series of sets. Push-ups, crunches, toe-touches. Pulse steadying.

A shower, a change of clothes, and a cold hotdog for breakfast and Mel felt ready for the day—although there was nothing to do today except laundry. Jordan was already gathering laundry in her basket; Mel gathered his clothes, including his uniforms, into the garbage bag he'd come with. When he saw Jordan strip the sheets from her bed, he looked at his own and did the same. It made too much sense not to.

I need to get myself a basket, Mel though. And maybe some new clothes.

For a moment, Mel thought about what clothes he wanted. He'd need new socks and underwear at some point. The jeans would fade sooner rather than later. Then he thought of the drizzly rain and cold wind of the other day.

Hoodie, he decided. A nice, warm hoodie.

Soong met them in the corridor. She and Jordan were in sleeveless white t-shirts and exercise pants. No bras. Maybe no panties. He could see under their arms and realized, for the first time, that there was no hair there. They must shave, though he hadn't seen them do it.

It was weird, following these two silent women down five floors to the laundry room. They bought their tokens, their detergent. It would be cheaper buying it in bulk, Mel realized. Another item for a future shopping trip.

He smiled, as the women settled in, hand in hand, on the orange seats. He was actually planning ahead a little. He had been thinking of the future all the way up until his 18th birthday, and yet somehow he had just let himself be pulled into the flow of things. A rent-controlled, furnished government apartment. A job that hired him basically on the spot. A library within walking distance. A roommate who—

Mel pressed his hips into a washing machine. Felt the vibration. One of Jordan's eyes shifted, tracked him. Her nostrils flared. Instantly, Mel pulled away, tried to think unsexy thoughts. Now was definitely not the time or place. In public, no condoms. They didn't need that trouble.

Jordan's pale blue eye tracked him for a bit. Then it shifted back to stare straight ahead. Mel released a breath he didn't know he was holding. Even though the brain slug hosts had never shown any hint of doing anything in public, Mel could feel the anxious expectation that they might. That wasn't something he was ready for, and he knew it.

Hell, he thought to himself. I've never told them no. Would anyone? If a naked woman handed you a condom and—

For a moment, Mel realized that other people might have very different interpretations of what the woman wanted. Or would consent to. Mel rubbed his palms against his jeans, the small smile now a philosophical frown. What would the average reader of Brain Slug Fucker do? Probably try to—Mel felt heat rise to his cheeks as he visualized a possibility. Jordan's left eye swiveled again, and Mel pressed his straining pants against a machine that wasn't running.

Inconvenient thoughts and even more inconvenient erections. Yet Soong and Jordan rose to shift wash into the dryer. Carried the cleaned and dry wash up to 501. Used the couch as a surface to fold their clothes and put them away in the chest of drawers, then remake Jordan's bed. As Mel sorted his own laundry and sheets, he wondered if the bedmaking was some residual part of Jordan, or if it was something that the brain slug learned. Another of the seemingly unending number of things he didn't know about brain slugs.

Soong and Jordan sat on the couch, and turned it on to a program about the ecology of Boston Harbor. Alien tech was slowly cleaning up the generations of damage to that particular biosphere. Mel lay on his bed, reading from the Field Guide. He wanted to return it tomorrow; most of the chapters didn't cover brain slugs, and the writing was pretty dry.

The knock at the door caught Mel by surprise. The women remained on the couch, thankfully still clothed, as he answered it, not even bothering to check the peep hole.

It was Antonio, in a plain black t-shirt and sweat pants, holding a white plastic bag in one hand.

"Dinner," the neighbor said. His face was freshly shaved, but the bags under his eyes were darker. "Come on. My place. Spicy!"

He gave a jerk of his head. Soong and Jordan seemed to hesitate. Then they rose, as one. Turned, letting their hands fall to their side. Mel followed, curious and, if he was honest, hungry.

Apartment 502 was a perfect mirror of Mel and Jordan's own apartment in terms of layout. Yet it was otherwise completely different. There was a small, glass-topped dining room table with four chairs, two throw rugs, and large, black-and-white photographs of naked women in aluminum frames on the wall. The kitchen was spotless, but there were two magnetic bars mounted on the wall that held knives, a dish drain, a cutting board, spice rack, and some appliances—a blender or food processor, an air fryer, a rice pot, a small mint-green microwave, and a kitchen scale. Garlic hung suspended from the ceiling by a hook.

Jordan and Soong sat on the couch—a government-issued version identical to their own, save for the fleecy throw over the back of it—and the television swiftly resumed the program that they had been watching.

Mel watched Antonio work. The chef—or would-be chef, Mel wasn't sure how high that Antonio sat in the restaurant kitchen hierarchy—narrated his way through a simple meal. Butter, spinach, and rice went into a rice pot for something called a pilaf. Broccoli and water into a pressure cooker set to steam. Butter and garlic into a frying pan for—

When Antonio opened the bag, his stomach gave a little lurch. Small stiff shells, each about an inch long, the soft bodies within partially hidden. He wasn't sure they were still moving, as Antonio rinsed them in a sieve. He knew, intellectually, that they didn't scream as the chef poured them into the pan.

"Snails. Escargot," Antonio said, with a wide grin. Those dark eyes glanced at the two women on the couch. The brain slugs on their necks were visible as dark blotches. "Tasty. You ever tasted slugs before?"

"Never," Mel said. Then, as he met Antonio's eyes, he realized that his next-door neighbor was asking him a very different question.

"We're not—I don't—" Mel started.

Antonio grinned. His eyes went back to the frying pan, which he stirred carefully.

"Hasn't put out yet, eh? She will. Just you wait. Bet she'll be gagging for it. These sluts can't help themselves," Antonio said.

Mel didn't know what to say to that.

Dishes became ready. Plates appeared. Antonio played the genial host. Because Jordan and Soong sat next to each other, holding hands, Mel was **** to sit next to Antonio. There was a serving of rice pilaf and fresh broccoli on each plate; the cooked snails went into a big bowl in the center of the table. Metal forks, spoons, and knives. Paper napkins. Three bottled waters and a dark bottle of some local IPA. Mel had begged off the beer, claiming he didn't drink.

Neither Soong nor Jordan touched the slugs. They ate delicately, each with their free hand, in a way that looked weirdly to Mel like a two-headed creature with a fork in either arm.

He tried the snails. Following Antonio's example, he picked up a shell and sucked it out. A little bit of meat. Salty, slightly fatty. Mostly, Mel thought, he was tasting the butter and garlic.

To make conversation, Mel asked about Antonio. How he had gotten into cooking, what his life was like. Antonio deflected in a way that reminded Mel of kids in the foster program who had seen some shit. Confident, jovial, but light on important details about who, where, and when. Avoiding anything really revealing, he sketched out a life that went from learning to cook at home to working his way through culinary school, working his way up from busboy to line cook at the restaurant, and basic income on the rent-controlled apartment, letting him put away money to study abroad.

Mel nodded, offered his own life. His parents' ****, the orphanage. Lucking into the apartment, the job at the Cosmic Fill-Up. Soong and Jordan had finished their food by that point, but sat at the table, faces turned towards him.

"That's crazy," Antonio said. "No family at all? Never tried to find any? Reach out?"

"Every orphan with access to an online genealogy database tries to find someone. A grandparent, an uncle or aunt, cousins their own age. Someone to connect to," Mel said. "Or just mooch off of. It's the big dream, that one day a relative sweeps in and takes you home. To your real home. Except my parents were only children, and so were my grandparents. Maybe I've got cousins out there, but I didn't grow up with any stories of my great-grandparents. Didn't grow up with any stories at all. There's no connection to the past. All I have is now."

It was a speech Mel used to practice to himself at night. Hoping, if he repeated it often enough, he'd believe it. That maybe killing the hope of some rich great uncle swooping in would make it easier to face the reality that nobody loved or even gave a particular shit about him. Sometimes, numbness was better than the pain of a want that could never be fulfilled.

"That's rough, man," Antonio said. "How are the snails?"

"Good. Really good," Mel said honestly. "You're a heck of a chef. Do I—can I help wash up, or something?"

That precipitated another lesson: how to clean everything that Antonio had just dirtied. Antonio seemed to enjoy doing the instruction as Mel did the scrubbing, but he also taught Mel how to check and clean the filters on the dishwasher, and warned about which brands of dish soap to buy and what to avoid.

"Don't get the scented stuff," Antonio advised. "These brain slug sluts, they don't like it. Strong smells."

"Right," Mel said, tasting the garlic on his breath. He'd need to brush extra carefully tonight.

They shook hands. Said their goodbyes. Jordan didn't look at Mel as she went straight into the bathroom. He leaned against the couch, his stomach full with his first real home-cooked meal in—well, ever. Trying to reconcile Antonio, the nice guy who made dinner, and Antoni,o who couldn't stop saying weird shit about Soong.

Escargot fuck yourself. Am I like him? Is that why he talks to me like that? Mel thought as Jordan brushed her teeth. When she was done, she turned around—and right there, looking straight at him, she took off her clothes. Mel was so stunned that he forgot to look away. Not until she had folded her clothes and put them away, leaving the bathroom open for him.

No more condoms, Mel remembered, as he squeezed a bit of toothpaste onto his brush. Or did I upset her, eating the snails?

Mel wasn't sure what the answer was. Yet he noticed that tonight, the door to her bedroom was closed.