Alien Love

Spilling The Cosmic Beans

I was asked recently if aliens had genders. Well, I thought that to be a silly question. I wanted to snicker, but aliens can’t snicker. Our laughter comes out like the sound of a large vacuum cleaner being turned on and off. It’s very embarrassing to us, even when we’re all sounding the same way. You should hear a room – if we had rooms – full of aliens laughing. You’d think the world was coming to an end. And that would be problematic, because if you were with a room full of aliens, you wouldn’t still be here in this world; you would be zillions of miles away on some cold rock, floating out in space. That’s where we live. I can’t speak for other alien forms.

Point being, the world would’ve already seemingly ended for you because you would be on our turf. You wouldn’t like it, I assure you. We find man’s reaching into space to be rather amusing. Earth is so uniquely lovely and perfect for you.

Anyway, of course we have gender. But it’s not like here on Earth at all. We have what you would call males and females – and we don’t have any confusion, trust me. There is no gender dysphoria in the alien realm. It’s guys and gals; that’s it. No guy-gals or gal-guys, or confusion about which bathroom to use – if we had bathrooms.

So our relationships as aliens, romantically speaking, are not what you’d call romantic whatsoever. For one thing, we all look pretty much alike… big old, ugly green heads set on slimy green bodies. Bulbous, dark eyes, like overgrown insects. A male alien doesn’t look at a female alien, and think to himself, “Whoa, she be looking fine tonight!” There is no “looking fine.” He sees her in the same light as he might see his own brother. Now, don’t get all weird on me hearing that.

What really happens is more like a business transaction in your world. Guy meets girls, they exchange a little information, and then they lock wrists. It really does look like shaking hands. There is no pleasure, no joy, no romance. Aliens have no love songs or anniversaries or flower-giving or broken hearts – if we had hearts. We just shake hands, the female goes off and finds a copula plant, and lays the egg there. One egg. Seven years later – you read that right – a big old eggheaded green alien with bug eyes emerges, fully grown. No nurseries, no babies cooing. It’s all business. Boring, frankly.