How I Proposed To My Wife:
AN ALIEN
SEX STORY
JOHN SCALZI
Subterranean Press 2007
How I Proposed to My Wife: An Alien Sex Story
© 2007 by John Scalzi.
All rights reserved.
Cover © 2007 by Bob Eggleton.
All rights reserved.
This chapbook has been published to accompany
the hardcover version of Subterranean #4.
Electronic Edition
ISBN: 9781596064805
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
www.subterraneanpress.com
Everyone wants to know how I proposed to Claire. Well, it’s complicated. I have to set the scene, and the scene begins in the office of Ben Rosenwald, editor-in-chief of New World Man magazine, during the monthly story-planning meeting.
“All right, everyone,” Rosenwald said, as the meeting lurched to its close. “Time to pick an alien story.”
There was an audible groan in Rosenwald’s office as the editorial staff registered what I gathered was its ritual disapproval. I was wedged into the corner of the office, taking notes on how the meetings were run and doing my best to keep a low profile while I was getting my bearings. It was my second week on the job— low man on the staff writer totem pole.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Rosenwald said, mockingly, to the groan. “Poor, poor set-upon editorial staff. How horrible it is for you to have to write something about aliens every month. It’s almost as horrible as having an actual job. You know, one where you’re required to lift something, or ask people if they want fries with that.”
“Jesus, Ben,” said Nick Venice, the music editor. “Don’t you ever get sick of it? Every goddamn month, another story about aliens.”
“Of course I get sick of it,” Rosenwald said. “Like I give a crap about the Durangs, or the Cli, or the Sefhuans. But, look, people—”
“—‘It’s Our Thing,’ ” the editorial staff mumbled with profound lack of enthusiasm.
“It’s our thing. Yes,” Rosenwald said. “Playboy has boobies, New Yorker has smug little cartoons, New World Man magazine has its monthly goddamn story on what it’s like to be an alien. If we didn’t have that, Nick, we’d be out of business and you’d be back to doing whatever it was you did before I hired you.” Rosenwald paused, thoughtfully. “What were you doing before I hired you, Nick?”
“I was writing a novel,” Nick said.
“No, what were you really doing,” Rosenwald said.
Nick squirmed in his seat and mumbled something into his neck.
“I’m sorry, Nick, I didn’t quite catch that,” Rosenwald said.
“I said I walked dogs,” Nick said.
“Oh, that’s right,” Rosenwald said. “You and your shiny creative writing degree from Vassar were scooping poo from the butt of executive canines.”
“I went to Sarah Lawrence,” Nick said.
“It doesn’t matter which small, expensive college you pissed away your parents’ home equity to get a useless degree from, Nick,” Rosenwald said. “The point is without the monthly alien story, you’d still be walking the dogs and taking your WriteMate to the coffeeshop to convince the baristas you were all sensitive. So let’s have a little respect for the monthly alien story, if you please.”
“Not that trashing Nick isn’t fun,” said Debbie Austin, the managing editor, “But if we actually want to end the meeting, we need to pick a story and a writer.”
“We could do another sports piece,” said Jerry Sims. “I have a friend whose wife works at Parkerson. You know, where the alien kids go to school. She says the Sefhuan kids there have a sport where they throw daggers at each other.”
“Like mumbltey-peg?” Debbie asked.
“I don’t even know what that is,” Jerry said. “But Sandy said these kids chuck the daggers right at each other’s heads. There are knife gouges in the gym walls.”
“We just did a sports article two months ago,” Rosenwald said. “And it was awful.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Jerry said. He’d written it.
“It sure was,” Rosenwald said. “And anyway, we need to go in an entirely new direction. How long has it been since we did an alien sex piece?”
All eyes turned to Ted Winston, Rosenwald’s assistant and NWM’s unofficial archivist. “That depends,” he said. “Are we talking same species alien sex, alien sex with aliens from different species, or alien sex with humans?”
“Alien-human sex,” Rosenwald said. “That sounds like a winner.”
“Thirteen months ago,” Winston said. “Well, sort of. It wasn’t really human-alien sex. It was more like humans with humans dressed up like aliens.”
“Now I remember,” Rosenwald said. “Also: Ick. Who wrote that?”
“I did,” said Brenda Jones, directly in front of me.
“How was that for you?” Rosenwald asked.
“I may never be clean again,” Brenda said.
“Hmmmm,” Rosenwald said. “Maybe something a little less squick-inducing. What do we have on alien courtship?”
“Courtship?” Winston said. “Actual rituals, or just dating?”
“Either,” Rosenwald said. “Or actually, just the dating part.”
“You know, I don’t think we’ve got anything on that,” Winston said.
“We could do that,” Debbie said. “I have an old college roommate who’s high up in the Xenology department at Columbia. She’d probably know all about that.”
Rosenwald waved his hand irritably. “No academics. Our readers like models and tech toys. They don’t give a crap about what some PhD has to say about anything and you know it. I have a better idea. One of you should date some aliens.”
“Excuse me?” Nick said. “Date an alien?”
“Why not?” Rosenwald said.
“Is it legal?” Nick said.
“Ted?” Rosenwald said.
“Legal in every state but Alabama,” Winston said. “There it’ll get you 15 months.”
“For dating?” Rosenwald said.
“Well, no,” Winston said. “For sexual relations. The state legislature refuses to recognize aliens as sentient, so consorting with one of them is technically bestiality.”
“Alabama,” Rosenwald said, and snorted. “What a shit hole. Look, I don’t want anyone to screw an alien, I just want one of you to go on a date with one. You know, dinner and a show. Or whatever their version of dinner and a show is.”
“How would you suggest we go about setting up a date?” Debbie said. “I don’t think any of us want to put up a personal ad looking for an alien partner. That sort of thing follows you around.”
“I have friends at the embassies,” Rosenwald said. “I’m sure we can get some staffer from at least a couple of them to go out on a date. Alien interns. Whatever. So. Who wants this one?” There was a distinct lack of raised hands. “What about it, Brenda?” Rosenwald asked.
“Hell, no,” Brenda said. “I did my time on the alien sex beat.”
“It’s the alien courtship beat,” Rosenwald said.
“Close enough,” Brenda said. “No way. You can fire me.”
“Nick?” Rosenwald said.
“I don’t think my wife would appreciate it,” Nick said.
“You’re married?” Rosenwald asked.
“To a barista,” Nick said.
“Well, that’s an awkward conversational nugget,” Rosenwald said.
“Give it to the new guy,” Jerry said, and pointed over to me. “He hasn’t done an alien story yet.”
; And here’s where I enter the story.
Rosenwald turned to me. “Charlie. Yes. The second week’s not too early to take on something like this. You’re not married.”
“Well, no,” I said. “I do have a girlfriend.” That would be Claire.
“Is it serious?” Rosenwald said.
“We live together,” I said.
“I lived with my first wife for six years, and according to her, I wasn’t serious about it the whole time,” Rosenwald said.
“I think we’re pretty serious,” I said. In fact, I’d been trying to figure out a memorable way to propose. “I don’t know how she’d feel about me dating an alien.”
“Hmmmm,” Rosenwald said. “Do you like Italian?”
“What?” I asked. “Sure. Why?”
“I’m going to get you a reservation tonight at Little Gino’s,” Rosenwald said. “Take your girlfriend, have a nice dinner on the magazine, and convince her that you’re not going to leave her for an alien. Fair enough?”
Little Gino’s wasn’t just some Italian place; it was the trendiest restaurant in a city of trendy restaurants. If I called to get a reservation on my own, I would get a hearty chuckle out of the Maitre d’ before he hung up on me. I wasn’t entirely sure I even had clothes that would be appropriate. “That would be fine,” I said.
“Great,” Rosenwald said. “7:30. I’ll call Gino and take care of it.”
“Hey,” Nick said. “I’ve done an alien story before. How come I didn’t get a reservation at Little Gino’s?”
“Christ, Nick,” Rosenwald said. “I saved you from a life of shoveling dog shit. I think I’m all paid up, don’t you? Now all of you, get out of my office. I’ve got calls to make.”
“They want you to do what now?” Claire asked.
We were sitting at a table at Little Gino’s. The food was perfect. Claire looked perfect. I had managed to find a sports jacket that was marginally acceptable. It would have been the perfect place to propose, except for the little fact that I was asking Claire for permission to date other creatures.
“They want me to go on a date with some aliens,” I said. “For a story.”
“A date,” Claire said. “With a bunch of aliens at once, or one at a time?”
“I think they want me to do the dates sequentially, one alien at a time,” I said.
Claire spun her linguini on her fork. “I told you you should have taken that PR job with the hospital.” Claire was an internist at St. Joe’s downtown. “The pay was better. And you’d have health insurance.”
“I’m dating a doctor,” I said, and smiled. “I think I’m covered. Anyway, I don’t want to do hospital PR for a living.”
“Oh, and dating aliens is so much better,” Claire said. She was teasing but she was also slightly annoyed. “That’s a story every boy dreams of writing.”
“I’m not going to run off with one, you know,” I said, spearing one of my eggplant ravioli.
Claire coughed behind her linguini at that. “I’m not jealous, Charlie,” she said. “I figure if you didn’t sleep with Chuani back in college you don’t have a xenophile thing going.”
I looked up at that. “How do you know Chuani made a pass at me?” I asked.
Claire crossed her eyes, fetchingly. “Please,” she said. “Chuani told me about it after it happened. After you turned her down she had three Long Island ice teas and then banged on my door, wailing and apologetic and swearing she’d never do it again. Then she threw up the ice teas and passed out on my floor. A classic moment all around. Chuani was a sordid little thing, you know. She slept with Alison once.”
“Your roommate?” I asked, surprised. Alison was very conservative.
“Oh yeah,” Claire said. “Another Long Island ice tea-related incident, I suspect.”
“Wow,” I said. “Lesbian xenophilia.”
“I don’t think they got very far,” Claire said. “I came back to the room and they were both semi-naked and comatose. I’d guess they got as far as nipple play before the lights went out. Well. Nipples for Alison. Not really sure what you call those things on Chuani.” She fed herself the linguini on her fork.
“Still,” I said. “Not something Alison would want to get around. Experimentation like that wouldn’t be looked on very positively where she works.” Alison was currently working as a congressional staffer for a Republican representative from Provo.
Claire shrugged and swallowed. “It was college,” she said. “That’s what college is for. Which brings us back to your current thing.”
“What about it?” I said.
“Well, what are they going to want you to do on these dates?” Claire asked. “If all you’re going to do is go out and get coffee, that’s one thing. But there’s not much of a story in that, is there?”
“Ben said he doesn’t expect me to attempt sex with any of them, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I said.
“That’s what he says,” Claire said, and pointed her fork at me. “But you know he wouldn’t mind. It makes good copy.”
“I don’t care if it won me the Pulitzer,” I said. “I’m not going to have sex with an alien. For one thing, I wouldn’t know where to start. That was part of the problem with Chuani.”
“Ah ha,” Claire said. “Now the truth comes out.”
“Seriously, Claire,” I said. “No alien sex.”
“No sex,” Claire said.
“No sex,” I said.
“Are we to have sex?” Ttan asked me, as we headed for dinner.
“Uh,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“My boss suggested that was to be expected with you,” Ttan said. “And I am ready to do my part for the Sefhuan delegation.”
Lie back and think of England, I thought. “It won’t be necessary,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Ttan said. “I lubricated my under-carapace just in case.”
I thought of all the many ways I so did not want to follow that comment to its logical conclusion. “I’m sure,” I said. “But I thank you for your willingness.”
“Okay, good,” Ttan said, and visibly appeared to relax. “Because, no offense, but you’re really not my type.”
“Because I’m human,” I suggested.
“Because you’re a guy,” Ttan said. “I’m not gay.”
“You’re a guy?” I asked.
“I’m a dominant,” Ttan said. “Sefhuan don’t have sexes like humans do. But we have positions.” He held up a segmented claw to tick off the categories. “There’s dominant, sub-dominant, passive and neutral. We don’t usually have sex with other Sefhuans of the same position. Our diplomatic protocol tells us to treat human males as dominant. So we’d have the same position. That would make having sex with you gay sex. And I’m not gay.”
“So it’s okay to have sex with me because I’m human, but not because I’m a guy,” I said.
“Basically,” Ttan said. “I mean, I could still do it. I can go sub-dominant if I have to. Or you could play a passive role. But I don’t think you’d really want that. I studied your people’s anatomy before our date. It doesn’t really work. Not without trauma.”
“I’d like to avoid trauma,” I said.
“Right,” Ttan said, and then his antennae shot up. “Hey, how hungry are you? Because I’m not really hungry at all, and at the Sefhuan Athletic Club they’re having a jard competition tonight. If we hurry, we can get there before it starts.”
“Is that something you’d do on a normal date?” I asked.
“Sure,” Ttan said. “We all love a good game of jard. You and I might even get a chance to play.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’ve never played jard before.”
“You’ve played darts before, right?” Ttan said.
“Sure,” I said.
“Same concept,” Ttan said.
Claire pulled back the curtain of the emergency room station where I was being stitched up. “Your date stabbed you?” She said.
&n
bsp; I winced as the intern working on my shoulder plunged the needle back into the skin. “I think you have to be holding the knife for it to be considered an actual stabbing,” I said. “The knife that did this was thrown at me.”
“Your date threw a knife at you?” Claire amended.
“We were playing a game,” I said.
“That involved knives?” Claire said.
“We were playing jard,” I said. “It’s a game where the Sefhuans throw daggers at each other and get points for how they throw and where on their opponent’s carapace the dagger lands.”
Claire pointed to my shoulder. “I think you might have noticed that you don’t have a hard carapace before someone started flinging knives at you.”
“Should I give you guys a moment?” the intern said, to me and Claire. “I don’t really want to get in the middle of this.”
“Hi, Carl,” Claire said. “You’re fine. Sorry. How is his shoulder?”
“It’ll be fine,” Carl said. “It’s a flesh wound. The knife missed the artery. If you want to you can take over.”
“I’d better not,” Claire said. “There’d likely be another stabbing.”
“For the record, I won the jard game,” I said. “Ttan was disqualified because he injured his opponent.”
“Oh, well, that’s just great,” Claire said. “You’re in the hospital with a knife wound, but at least you’re a winner.”
“Ttan felt really bad about it,” I said. “Although I think he was more worried about how much trouble he’d get in with his boss for suggesting we play the game.”
“Are you going to have him charged for assault, at least?” Claire asked.
“Come on, Claire,” I said. “That’d be like charging someone for assault because they knocked you down with while playing basketball.”
“You can’t get stabbed with a basketball,” Claire said. “Look at you. You go out for a date and you come back with trauma.”
“It would have been worse if I slept with him,” I said.
“Yeah, okay, I think I am going to leave now,” Carl said.
“Relax, Carl,” Claire and I both said. We were both quiet for a minute while Carl industriously worked on my shoulder and tried his best not to hear anything more.