In space, nobody can hear you scream—especially if you scream for ice cream. Or any other kind of cream, or, well, anything for that matter.
“Oh god, I just want to fuck!”
Or that.
Space is big. Big is better. Your manhood is very, very big, but not big enough for space. Uh...
You must be going crazy. You were actually thinking about trying to fuck outer space.
Leaning back in your sterile, padded chair, you draw your eighty-four millionth breath of stale, eternally recycled spaceship air. It's been ten years since you went adrift inside this tiny silver vessel of yours, and you're regretting it. Gods damn is interstellar travel boring. You'd give up one of your balls to a petri dish if that's what it took to grow some sort of companionship out here.
It wouldn't be the first time you've done that—err, the petri dish thing. Not the ball thing. You like your dangling bits right where they are, thank you very much.
Ahem. Petri dishes can be fascinating, if only to get a preview of the types of mold that will be growing on your cold, desiccated corpse as it continuously drifts through the ends of space.
Why did you ever think this was a good idea?
Drumming your fingers on the control panel, you idly stare at the glowing green and yellow lights. They don't even have the decency to blink. See, the thing about spaceships is that they're built to last, and apparently electrical fatigue is a real thing. Blinking lights would require changing voltages and currents and would therefore wear out faster or some such nonsense. The bottom line is that you won't be seeing any blinking lights unless you're in serious trouble.
The stars outside aren't any better, really. There are millions, billions of them in every direction, but they're static. They don't flicker like they would in a turbulent atmosphere. Yes, planetary eclipses do dim some periodically, but you'd need sensitive equipment to even detect that. You'd also need sensitive equipment to detect your chances of getting laid sometime this century.
On a whim, you grab the radio and turn it on. “Hello, if anyone is out there, anyone at all, I want you to know that the captain of the spaceship Voyage is woefully single, very available, and looking for a sexy good time.”
To your astonishment, the radio crackles back to life as soon as you hang up. “What a joyous night! Here, we hast thought we were alone in this empty void. Dost thou have a camera such that we may lay our eyes upon thine handsome features?”
“Yes. Just a minute,” you respond. Your heart pounds furiously, and you almost stumble from shock. That voice was powerful, commanding, melodic, and distinctively feminine. Why, her sound alone makes your heart pump blood more readily to your waist than to your head. You shift uncomfortably in your seat.
After a few flicks and clicks, you switch to full display mode and your tiny screen flickers and comes to life. Your heart skips a beat when her image comes into focus. She's some kind of single-horned alien with a deep blue hue, large shimmering turquoise eyes, and it looks as if her hair is made from a swath of the cosmos rolled up and combed over her head. Her whole picture wavers as if beneath veil of water, but spaceship monitors are notorious for weird visual artifacts and you don't think anything of it.
“Oh! A human. How exotic,” she says. She grins and flutters her eyes flirtatiously. Tilting her head, you get a better look at her features and recognize her general profile.
“An equestrian? Out here? I didn't know your people were space faring,” you say.
“Alas! 'Tis true. Us ponies have not progressed as quickly as your kind, but we are learning as fast as we can. Your peoples' knowledge has been instrumental in helping us get off the ground, but thus far I am the only one who has ventured beyond the cradling womb of our planet. Why, you could even say that we hast gotten ahead of the herd, so to speak.”
“Uh...” Your mind is at war with itself. This is clearly an alien, but right now, all you can think of is just how sexy she is. Ten long years of not seeing another living being must have changed your standards considerably. You bite your lip and try to stay focused so as not to make a fool of yourself. “You keep saying 'we.' Is somebody else there?” you ask. It'd be very bad if you hit on a married, uh, equestrian, pony, thing.
She rolls her eyes up to look at... well, you can't see what she's looking at. All you can see it her soft, fuzzy, curvaceous and lively mug. Large, white reflections shimmer in her irises. “ 'Tis only the royal 'we.' It means 'I.' ”
“Ah.” Your groin approves. It's a good thing your camera only shows your face as well. “Wait—royal? You're royalty?”
“Oh, sorry. Did we forget to introduce ourself? We art Princess Luna, and it is our pleasure to meet you, Mr. Voyage.”
Her name sends gears grinding in the back of your mind. It's been ages since your last contact with the porn—er, neural net, but there's something about her name that stands out. You know you've heard it before, and not in a good way. Keeping your suspicious to yourself, you say, “Voyage is the name of my vessel, not myself. My own name is—”
“It is?” Luna raises an eyebrow before you can finish. “May we still call thee Voyage anyway?”
You don't see the harm in that. “Sure, why not?” You shrug.
“O most joyous of nights. We cannot wait to go on a most large and throbbing voyage, if you know what I mean.” She grins slyly and winks at you, causing your cheeks to flush.
Despite being alien, her expressions are very human. Is it any wonder that relations were good up until that incident where—oh gods! It's her—that Luna—the one responsible for the string of hospitalizations that ground negotiations to a halt for months. Suddenly, the prospect of meeting her in the flesh is much less appealing. You gulp. “Uh, I've heard rumors about you...”
“Lies! Slanderous lies! Those crushed pelvises were entirely the fault of our sister! We can most doggedly assure thee that we knowest the most gentle and sensual techniques for the safe handling of thine sensitive skeleton. And besides, we have lost weight since then.”
“In space, everything is weightless,” you say.
“Bah! Semantics.” She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “We hast lost mass—so much mass that the experience was quite jarring. Is that more to thine liking?”
“Y-yes,” you say. Still...
Closing her eyes, Luna nods. In a soft voice, she speaks, “You might think that we art shameful in our advances, but we do this because we understand. We know what you're going through right now. We know what it's like to be wholly and completely alone year after year, decade after decade. For a thousand years, we were banished to the moon—”
“Wait, you're over a thousand years old?” you ask, like an idiot.
“We art still young and beautiful!” Her roar rattles your tiny vessel. You didn't even know that your speakers could go that loud.
“R-right, of course,” you say after the ringing in your ears subsides.
She looks at you with thin, pursed lips and narrow eyes. Then, apparently shrugging off your sleight, she's all smiles again. “I feel like we have chatted enough. So what dost thou say? Do you wish to know me a bit more... intimately?”
She flutters her eyes, and your heart flutters in response. Yes, she's obviously trying to seduce you, but is that really a bad thing? Your fleshy parts have already decided, and have risen to the occasion. You desperately want to say yes, but there's one tiny detail holding you back, and that tiny thing is your ship.
“My vessel—it's too small for us both. Uh... very small, yes.”
“Pah! 'Tis only a trifle.” Her horn starts to glow with a soft blue aura. “Magic, duh. Mine own vessel is more than large enough to harbor us both. So what dost thou say? Dost thou wish to enjoy mine company? Just say the word and we shall whisk thee over.”
“Uh...” Still, you stammer.
With a half-lidded stare, she gazes directly into your eyes and slowly lowers her head. She's so sexy that it hurts. “We can give thee head. Lots and lots of head. So much head that thou won't believest that thou art getting so much of it.”
“Yes! Oh gods, yes!” you cry.
“Most excellent! 'Tis a date, then.” She winks before her magic washes over you.
You feel like you're floating in a dream. The world shimmers and soon you're in a large bedroom. Blue. That's both a tangible sensation and the color of the room. It's round, like a ball, a big, blue ball, and in the center is a large, queen-sized bed with soft, sky-blue quilted sheets smothered in rose petals. The air smells like fresh nectar and you can hardly wait to start shedding your clothes—but where is she?
Across the bed, you spot a glass dome slowly rising up. Within it are the waving undulations of her starry mane. That's odd; why is she wearing a helmet?
As she raises her head further, she locks eyes with you and grins most mischievously. She raises her head even further and—the glass dome is sitting on a silver platter.
There's nothing beneath it.
“So what if we art nothing more than a head in a jar? We can still show thee a sexy good time. Shall I fetch the weather vane?”
In space, only your bad date can hear you scream.
