Feast And Famine
By E.S. Wynn
"I have to apologize, David." Ellis said, his one good eye rolling, moist with emotion. "But your lady is just so beautiful, I can't keep my eyes off of her."
"That's okay, Ellis." I gave him the edge of a grin, sharp with teeth. "You can look, just don't touch."
Don't marry a Tyallian. My father always said. Stick with your own species. Human girls know they're the least desirable females in the galaxy. They'll always stay true. Only Tyallian females have their pick of men, and they know it.
Tritileia is a Tyallian. We've been married for twelve years. In twelve years, she's never strayed from my side once. In twelve years, she's only had bedroom eyes for me.
I watch men as they watch her, their red-vesselled, jaundiced eyes tracking her graceful, quantum-perfect movements, her ripe, swaying breasts. When their eyes meet mine, I smile, give them the sharp edges of warning teeth. Primal. Effective. None have been rough enough to challenge me back.
"How do you win a girl like that?" Darryn asks me, his plain, austere features twisting around a cigarette as tightly as his guts twist around an empty hole where too many women have cut him with their infidelities, their agendas, their selfish cruelties. "Where did you two meet?"
"Brintoo colony." I cut the words with more teeth, a silent threat to set a wall between him and what is mine. He hardly notices. He has eyes only for Tritileia, for the perfect curves of her seductive, swaying hips. "Friends introduced us."
Friends have followed my father's advice. In twelve years, I've seen the men I work with, the men I grew up with court grotesque parodies of womanhood, seen them chase after easy Human females with jowls piled upon jowls, with wide, equator-spanning rolls of adipose tissue that descend over hems of pants and seem to grow their own breasts beneath wings of sweat-slick hair, eczema-cracked skin, broken, jagged smiles. Find the ugliest woman you can and marry her, my father's voice guides them. Everyone wants a Tyallian. Eventually, they all stray.
Eventually, they all stray, but not my Tritileia. Eventually, every beast of a woman I see walk the aisles with men I respect falls on her knees before some other man, opens her thighs for armies of eager, mindless pricks hungry for connection, those willing to quench themselves anywhere, heated by the thought of conquering another man through his adulterous wife, as if occupying her genitals makes them superior to the man paying her bills. I smile and smile, each sharper than the last, but I trust, I understand, I know.
Everyone wants a Tyallian. No one wants a human woman.
When there's a surplus, we get picky.
When there's a famine, we get gluttonous.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over thirty books, the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing (and the associated magazines: Daily Love, Weirdyear, Yesteryear Fiction, Farther Stars Than These, Flaming Filmreel, Linguistic Erosion, and Smashed Cat Magazine.) He manages dozens of websites, has written hundreds of articles and short stories for a number of publications, has taught classes in literature, marketing, math, spirituality and guided meditation, voiced fifteen albums as a voice actor and even spent time working as a model for stock photography. He has a bachelor's degree in English, has been trained in Reiki and other forms of energy healing and is a proud Freemason.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Feast And Famine
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