Reproduction.

I sat hunched over a table in an obscure little café I used to frequent. The place was deserted. All the locals go to the nightclubs a few blocks away these days. I just wanted a quick drink, and anticipated another quiet evening at home, alone. My expectations for the evening were low, but I felt like I had recovered from my break-up with Sue, and was thinking more constructively about relationships in general. There are certain things a woman has a right to know, but at what point in the courtship, exactly, does a man lay his cards on the table?

She was standing near the end of the bar when I caught a glimpse of her. Her skimpy red dress and fantastic legs placed her very high on my ‘unattainability scale.’ I spun around in my seat, looking for a waiter. When I turned back around, she was taking the seat opposite me.

Up close, her beauty was flawless: perfect skin, moist lips, intelligent and inquisitive eyes. Underneath all that beauty lay a raw animal magnetism that left her shimmering with sweat, as if she was not immune to the heat she generated.

I asked her if she wanted a drink and she nodded. “What would you like?” I asked.

“Whatever the female of your species would drink.”

We both smiled.

The top of her skimpy dress was held up by spaghetti straps that kept falling off her shoulders every time she looked around, revealing more than just cleavage. We had barely started talking when I caught glimpses of both breasts that were tanned all the way to their perfect nipples. The muscular tone of her arms and shoulders would be envied by a gymnast. I finally flagged down the solitary and aloof waiter and ordered drinks for both of us.

“So, you’re an alien then, huh?” I said, thinking something-else-entirely.

“Yeah,” she said, “but you’d fuck me anyway.” Then she took it a step weirder. “As if you had a choice.”

I sensed, dimly, that she was speaking in literal terms. Her deadpan delivery gave her statements authenticity. “Why wouldn’t I?” I said, and as soon as I did, I could think of two or three, none of which involved aliens, but rather jealous husbands and angry boyfriends.

Before I could put the thought into words, she said, “I don’t have any of those.”

The waiter brought our drinks and left. “You don’t have any of what?” I said.

“Boys friends, or jello-husbands.”

It took me a second to figure out her meaning, when I did, I said, “Oh. So you’re gonna stick with the ‘alien hottie’ routine, is that it?”

She shrugged. “It is what I am. It is always best to be honest, I find. Don’t you?”

That’s when it hit me. ‘Serial killer.’ She had all the signs: No sense of humor; poor social skills; perfect body; glittering high-heels. I chided myself, this was no serial killer, but there was something predatory about her energy and confidence.

You still don’t believe me,” she said. “Even after I’ve read your mind.”

“Excuse me? Even after…? What don’t I believe?”

“That I’m an alien.”

“Oh. No. Do I have to? Frankly, I’d rather not.” This talk about aliens and mind reading was troubling, sure, but I found myself distracted by a rivulet of sweat, inching its way slowly down her breastbone.

“Think what you want,” she said. “I’m in heat. I simply need sperm.”

The phrase was so far over the top that I surprised myself when I quipped, “Well, you’ve come to the right place. What’s your name?”

“Zel,” she said. “Not that it matters.”

“No? Why not?”

“This is a one-shot deal. Once and done. I get your sperm, distribute it to my eggs, the offspring then begin adopting bodies, like me.” She took a tentative sip of her drink. “Or not like me.”

I’m thinking this woman is crazy, but my body doesn’t care what I think—in fact, it has its own agenda. What else could explain the stupidity of my response. “Do you come from a race of beings that all look like you?”

“Hardly,” she said. “You’re not listening. I’m not this body. I just wear it, like you’d wear an overcoat. I can change bodies at will, pick them out for the occasion. I have dozens of them. Would you like to be confused with your overcoat?”

I shook my head.

She took another sip of her drink. “Sometimes I just borrow them. I could animate your body if I wanted to.”

There’s a certain line, the bullshit foul line of social discourse let’s call it. She crossed it. “No you can’t.”

“Sure I can,” she said.

A sudden uncontrollable impulse made me reach across the table, snatch her drink, pour half of it into my mouth, and gargle it before I swallowed. While my arms, hands and mouth were moving of their own accord, I was watching her watch me. She was studying me the way a woman might peer at an interesting butterfly or gemstone. My complete lack of control meant that my face never betrayed the horror I felt. I was disconnected from me, even my face. My emotions passed unexpressed and unseen.

To complete the demonstration, she made me set the glass gently back down on the table in front of her, then she released me, picked up her drink and looked at it, as if to demonstrate how much she had made me gargle, and consume.

I was in control of myself again. Just to make sure, I picked up a napkin and deliberately mopped the sweat and whisky from my face.

The experience rattled me to my core, yet I sat there, dumbfounded. It’s hard to explain how inexplicably intense my desire had become. Despite this fact I said, “This doesn’t sound beneficial to my species,” as if I was reluctant to do whatever she suggested.

She leaned forward and pursed her lips—I think my heart skipped a few beats while I waited for her response. “Don’t be silly.” Both straps slipped off simultaneously. “I take the eggs with me, and distribute them elsewhere. Why would I raze my own farm?" She pulled them back up. "Do the cows need punishment? I don’t punish cows. Do you?”

I leaned forward, pulled her hands together and held them between mine. “Are you from another planet, for real?”

“Another dimension,” she said. Looking askance at our surroundings, she added, “A far better one too, by the look of things.”

None of this bizarre discussion diminished my body’s physical desire for her glistening skin and dilated pupils.

"Pheromones," she whispered. Her amber eyes glowed with lust.

We rose in unison and headed for the café’s small, isolated bathroom and locked the door behind us. She tore my pants off, I pulled the top of her dress down, the bottom of it up. She dragged me to the floor on top of her and pulled me into her, I don’t know how, it happened so fast.

Hanging on to her bucking form, I had the wildest sex of my life, for about 86 seconds, after which she did not try to hide her surprise. “Are we done already?” My face turned pink as I got to my feet and pulled my pants up. “How wonderfully efficient you are,” she said, getting to her feet and straightening her dress.

“Reproduction, that’s our thing.” I mumbled.

She cupped my chin with one perfectly sculpted hand. “I know.”

A portal opened in the wall of the bathroom. Ghostly alien figures lingered on the other side, waiting for her. She released my chin and pushed me gently in the chest, away from the portal. “Your spawn will create my next marauding army, and for that I am grateful. You should be honored.” Then she disappeared through the shimmering gateway without looking back.

Once again, I forgot to mention that I was sterile.