Eight hands to hold me

 

 

My name is George and I’m an addict.

Sure, I knew having a fling with a space alien can be addictive, but I always thought I could get away with it.

And if that’s not bad enough, I fell in love with her, too.

Okay, green skin and scales may not be in everybody’s taste – it certainly does make it easy for others to know when I’ve been engaged – a quickly at lunch usually leaves my skin so raw a ton of lotion won’t hide the red.

And maybe I just looked into her deep blue eyes and got swallowed up so that I nearly drowned.

Without her, I feel like a dead man inside.

While a few people feel sorry for me, knowing how addicted a man can get from sex with aliens, most are simply disgusted, trying not to think which part of my body went into which part of hers and vice versa.

And most people think I’m totally out of my mind for loving her the way I do.

But being shunned by my fellow human being is not nearly as bad as being shut off.

Space aliens aren’t human.

They have no lingering feelings I can hope will blossom again into loving me again.

When they stop loving you, they turn off like a light switch.

And I might as well die for all the memory of love she has left for me.

But let’s face it.

But let’s face facts, I’m here because the sex got me hooked, and it’s the sex I miss most

She knew how to make a man happy in ways no human could imagine.

Sure, I heard all the warnings about how people got addicted, and how prolonged exposure would drain more out of a man than merely his sexual appetite.

I thought I was different. I thought I could dabble and not get hooked.

I also foolishly believed that if we kept to out of the way motels, no one would notice and my fellow human beings couldn’t hold against me.

Dabbling his difficult when it comes to alien sex. It is so fabulous you just keep going back for more.

Of course, this caused me to get careless.

I needed the fix so bad I stopped caring about leaving town.

A motel is a motel, and management could care less what goes on behind closed doors as long as I pay them before we do it.

Maybe I should have noticed how my thoughts began to wander during the day when I was not with her, not just a sign of sexual addiction, but of the more serious condition of love.

Other people noticed how absent-minded I was, especially my boss, who warned me about getting my mind right or finding another job.

I tried to concentrate – really I did, telling myself I could not afford to lose my job or my reputation on what I still considered a fling.

I even convinced myself to give up my space alien.

I figured if I didn’t go near her I couldn’t be tempted, and truly believed that over time I might even come to appreciate human women again.

But as time passed, things got worse.

I ached not for human women, but for my space alien.

I got so desperate I threw caution to the wind and went in search of her in broad daylight so that even the few who missed the clues before could see my sad predicament.

This was made worse by the fact that I could not locate her in any of the regular places, as if she had fallen off the planet during those weeks when I avoided her.

I was so sick for a fix of alien sex, I took up with another alien woman.

But it didn’t work – something about a chemical bond with my original girl that I couldn’t duplicate with anyone else.

Mutual friends, sympatric or perhaps terrified at my desperation – gave me word of where she moved.

But they also cautioned me not to follow.

But, of course, I didn’t listen, making the trek to the suburbs to find her.

I was convinced that the moment she saw me things would return to normal.

I even planned to take one of her eight hands and ask her to marriage.

I was not prepared to find her in the arms of another man.

It was too late. Our chemical bond was broken.

I wandered away in a daze, losing myself in the landscape, letting myself degenerate into one of the mass of nameless hobos.

People laughed at me and pointed their fingers, even using me as a warning to their kids not to make the same mistake.

Even as humiliated as I felt, I could not get her off my mind. I hardly slept or ate, but I always thought of her.

After awhile, people stopped laughing. Some felt sorry for me and tried to get me help.

Before coming here, I went for medical treatment, to places full of doctors desperate to find a cure, not just for me but for the thousands of others who couldn’t just dabble.

The doctors tell me my love won’t kill me the way it has others – as if this is a good thing.

They believe they can help me get my mind straight again.

They encourage me to give up my love and learn to hate, which the doctors tell me is the only cure.

I suppose it helps that she has forgotten all about me, and is now making another human male suffer instead.

At times, I do hate her, but only for an instant, and then I love her again, aching to feel her eight hands to hold me again, when I know they never will.