Afterglow - the Real Power Behind a Literary Sexual Encounter
by Mitchel Whitington

Afterglow may sound like some component of a romance novel, and it usually is, but it also one of the most powerful elements of a written sex scene. Simply defined, afterglow is the activity that occurs immediately following the sexual encounter. Your characters may be cuddling, kissing, arguing, or leaving - you may find out that the sex itself isn't as important in your story as what happens afterward! It is your chance to give the readers a deep, personal insight to the characters involved. That's easy to state outright, but the best way to understand the power of afterglow is to look at a few scenes that use it. For example, consider the case of two characters, Matthew and Alison. They've just made love, and the scene picks up...

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Don't you have a strong opinion about Matthew at this point? How about Alison, putting up with his attitude and behavior? Keep those opinions in mind, but consider a slightly different ending to the same love scene...

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You come away from this second scene with a much different idea about Matthew and Alison, even though the fact that they had sex didn't change. As you might be able to tell, no matter how much forethought and detail you put into the actual description of the coupling between the two characters, they can be defined in greater detail by their actions when the big event is over.

But don't add an intimate encounter in your story just for the heck of it - think of a sex scene much like you'd think of a backgammon game between two characters. Just like there's no good reason to have two characters sit down and play an ordinary game of backgammon without explanation, there's probably no good reason for them just to have sex - unless you can use it to further the plot or develop the characters. An ordinary backgammon game becomes very important if an argument ensues afterwards, and one character shoots another with a .44 magnum. By the same token, a sex scene is crucial to your story if you use it correctly - and afterglow is the perfect mechanism to employ. To carry the comparison even further, if you were having trouble writing all the drawn-out details of the backgammon game, it would be enough to set the game in motion, then pick it up at the interesting part after the game. The same applies to sex scenes!

Many writers are intimidated by writing about the mechanics of sex - I know that I am. Most of the scenes that I've tried to detail sound like something right out of Penthouse Forum: "Carrie screamed loudly as Rodger thrust his throbbing missile of love into her silky passage of warmth..." Well, you get the idea. The turnaround in my crafting of intimate scenes occurred when I attended a session on romance writing at a conference where the entire focus was "afterglow."

As the speaker wove her tales, I immediately saw the potential power in the prose. After all, the moments immediately following the lovemaking session are when the characters are most vulnerable, completely raw. They've just shared the ultimate personal experience with each other, so all pretense is stripped aside. What happens? Does the guy fall asleep, the girl start to cry, or do the two catch their breath and go at it again? Anything is possible, but the one fact that is certain is that their behavior will expand the reader's view of their character.

If you're having trouble writing your sex scene, just leave out the act itself! Get them into bed, or onto the kitchen floor, or in the front seat of the 18-wheeler, and give the reader a sentence or two to let them know what is happening. From that point, jump to the afterglow scene and start working your literary magic.

Think back to the two examples at the start of this article. In the first one, it would be extremely easy to picture Matthew going out to rob a convenience store later - he just seems like that sort of fellow. Would the second-article Matthew do that? Of course not! In fact, you probably wouldn't be surprised to learn that he later revealed that he had written a love poem for Alison. And in the first example, why in the world would Alison put up with such behavior from her lover? If I were to act like that after a romantic interlude with my wife, I'd find myself sleeping out in the back yard. Perhaps that version of Alison has a weakness that she has to overcome later in the story.

There are a thousand ways to portray the same two characters in the exact same situation. Their actions not only told you more about them, but also painted a mental image of the surroundings that they were in. In the first example, you probably envisioned the pair in a cheap apartment. The scene for the second Matthew/Alison in your mind's eye was most likely a lush, romantically lit bedroom with candles all around. Let's look at one more alternative to the scene:

I've used the same basic setting - the conclusion of two people having sex - for three completely different scenes, and in each one you get a very definitive feel for the characters. Never once did I describe the mechanics of the sexual encounter, yet in the afterglow scene you had a preconceived notion about it by the time that you finished reading. Afterglow is that powerful - quit worrying about writing sex, and use its afterglow as a mighty tool in your writing!

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Mitchel Whitington has published in many genres, from comedic fiction in "Uncle Bubba's Chicken Wing Fling" to his latest travel guide to haunted locations in the Lone Star State, "Ghosts of North Texas." Find out about his new book at www.ghostinmysuitcase.com.

Alien Sex or
What To Do When
Your Partner Isn't Human
by R. S. Nailor

Sure, you've just finished watching one of the popular sci-fi shows and there was a scene where one of the regular cast had a pseudo sensual love scene with a quasi-human. His arms enwrapped her body, their lips locked in an intimate moment of bliss, face to face they are having that almost love session. Better than 99% of all alien contact that involves sex will be of a heterosexual nature; either species offering the male or female.

Have you noticed in the movies and on TV that most aliens are usually pretty humanoid? Ever wondered why? Easy. Alien actors are hard to come by unless computer graphics are used. Yet, for the writer, aliens are but a dime a dozen. A sex scene between a human and some sort of hybrid aardvark octopus isn't necessarily awkward to write, but could get complicated to convey in words.

It is our mind set. We can visualize a scene inside our brain but sometimes can't get the proper words to explain the intricacies of octopus tentacles with suckers and an aardvarklike tongue extended from its nose, to meld with our human counterpart. For the writer, placing the pulsing suction of the alien's suckers on her breasts and the thrust of his long narrow nose bringing her to screams should give your reader's imagination a bit of food for fodder. You could do a lot with tentacles, suckers, or nose whether the alien were male or female. However, if you want any hope to adapt your story to a Hollywood screenplay, you'd better stick with humanoids.

Of course, sex doesn't have to be necessarily with a space type alien. There are many other types that can be included in the mix: fairies, demons, robots, ghosts, Sasquatch, mermaids, and the list goes on.

Again, this list of possible love gods/goddesses will be humanoid and have the corresponding sexual anatomy necessary for the love scene. Do you remember Babylon 5 and the twelve sexual organs of the humanoid ambasador? Uninhibit your mind and imagine the power behind a coupling of that nature. One alone might be good for us, but think what it might have been like for him. This is where the art of writing and imagination can delve into the depths of wonder. This is where the alien doesn't have to be human in their sexuality.

What does this mean? Sex doesn't necessarily need to be sex as humans relate. Remember the movie "Cocoon" and the sex scene between Earthman Steve Guttenberg and Antarean Tahanee Welch? Steve experienced one heck of a sensation when Tahanee's character shared herself with him. Another instance would be "Starman" with Jeff Bridges and Karen Allen. Again, somehow, even though it is not fully explained, Karen becomes pregnant by Jeff and is now carrying his child.

Back in 1983 there was a television series entitled "V" about visitors from space. It revolved around aliens coming to our planet. There were a few angles that involved romance between these aliens and us. In fact, one story theme was about a young human girl, her alien boyfriend and their offspring.

Even if your non-human character is of the fanciful, demonic or mythological, the act itself can be described beyond the realms of mere mortals. Perhaps your mermaid and sailor can mate in the swirling waves of the ocean, your demon and innocent maiden make love in the throes of a fiery passion pit, or a leprechaun become full sized to exercise his manly acts. Use your imagination to give your non-human creation the best possible sex.

Now exactly how sensual and sexual the science fiction and/or fantasy story gets is each writers own decision. Usually sex, the act itself, is normally downplayed with the strategy of foreplay getting most of the attention. I am not saying that the story should be sanitized of sex but only if the act itself is important to the plot do you need to let your reader's libido run rampant. This is true of almost any element; IT MUST promote the story or plot.

Sex is the interlude and is best left to the imagination of the reader; build it up and then bask in the afterglow. Your reader can fill in the blanks if they know what it is about or it will be left as blanks if the reader is too young.

So let your characters come alive with sexuality and sensuality. It might be just what the doctor ordered to help you market your work.

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R. S. Nailor is Poetry Editor and Production Manager for the Emporium Gazette. His manuscript, THREE STEPS: THE JOURNEYS OF AYROLD, is currently in the final stages of editing. He has short stories included in three ebook anthologies from 23House and numerous articles and poems elsewhere on the internet. You can visit him at Lore's Webs.

FROM ANOTHER ANGLE
by Susan Long Turner

SEX AND THE MULBERRY BUSH?

Here we go round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
So early in the morning or at night,
Noon--or anytime

Frequently dealing with sex in a novel is something like going round the mulberry bush. We go around in circles, not only having nightmares over writing the scenes, but also keeping the sexual tension going throughout the book. Fortunately, there are a few clear-cut strategies.

"Who is going to read this book?" That is our initial question. Author Lila Guzman suggests reading lots of published works in our chosen genre. "How much sex is there? How far does it go?" Then she advises the writer to imitate the sexual level of other works in the target area and to read the publisher's guidelines carefully.

Writing online, Malle Vallik, former editor of Harlequin Temptation novels, says "one of the most common problems I came across was that I'd be reading a fantastic romance about Jake and Emily, felt I really understood what drove each of them, found the conflicts believable and intriguing." Then when Vallik reached the love scenes, the Jake and Emily she knew had disappeared. Romance clones who were having a generic love scene replaced them.

"Who were these imposters and where were the characters I was rooting for to have a happy ending (and great sex)?" Romance clones replaced the lovers with a generic love scene.

Malle Vallik joins Lila Guzman in urging us to examine love scenes by authors we like and see how they do it. Does she/he describe everything or leave a lot to the reader's imagination? Does she use dialogue to indicate increasing passion and show what the couple is doing rather than actually describing it?

The former Harlequin editor ends the article on a humorous note. "How to tell your mother you write great sex scenes. Sorry, that one is up to you!"

Before and after sex, how do we keep sexual tension alive and moving the story onward? Did you ever hear the term Love Racks? I hadn't until I found it online in an article by William C. Martell WRITING SEX SCENES AND LOVE RACKS a Reproduction from Raindance Film Festival Ltd., 2002.

While talking primarily about films, the technique works equally well for the printed word. Martell defines the Love Rack as a torture device pulling your hero and heroine in two directions at once, threatening to split him/her in half. "It's the reason why they MUST NOT have a relationship." When two people are attracted to each other and an obstacle is keeping them apart, the torture can become unbearable. This builds thrills and suspense right into the relationship. Literature is filled with forbidden relationships.

Love Racks can also be used in scenes to create suspense. This adds suspense right into the love scenes increasing the passion and tension at the same time. "Put your characters on a Love Rack and let the torture and suspense begin!"

Now that we have a few concrete tricks of the trade to steer us, we can drop that frozen fear of writing sex scenes and keeping the sexual tension uppermost in the romance novel. After a writing session, we'll soon be looking at a computer screen crammed with words of exhilaration, passion, and suspense

Once again, here we go, only this time we're not circling 'round the mulberry bush. We're dancing 'round the mulberry bush!

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Susan Long Turner is co-author with Russ Turner of "Wings Born Out of Dust" which is available now from 23 House Publishing and is also available in trade paperbacks and hardback at other major online bookstores. Visit her Website

McTammany's Bed of Roses
by Sharon Pennington

When I gathered that first yellow rose from the stoop outside my door, I wasn't looking for love or romance. As far as I was concerned, sole-mates were a good pair of running shoes, and I had an abundance of those.

There was no eternal flame, except perhaps the one inside my chest when I indulged in Tito Escobar's spicy tamales and salsa. The only arrow Cupid ever shot in my direction went straight through my accountant's algebraic heart and into that weasel of an auditor, Leonard Bean, of the lofty firm Tibbles, Bean, Bean and Rainbird.

My accountant turned Leonard's proposal of marriage down flat and my books had been bleeding ever since.

Love? I didn't want it, and I sure didn't need romance.

I found the second rose on my pillow, its pink petals like the blush of a schoolgirl upon receipt of her first orchid. I had figured the initial rose a mistake. I hadn't been on anyone's short list of prospective dates since my twenties. The second rose piqued my curiosity. The third, as white as bleached cotton, appeared on my dressing table.

It was damned annoying. I didn't like puzzles. I wasn't good at them, and lacked the patience to solve them. I didn't have the time.

I was a busy executive: powerhouse, power up, power haircut. I relegated, delegated, orchestrating mergers and corporate buyouts. The name of the game was money--and the name of the money game was Margaret Meara Muldoon, of the Port Logan Muldoons, the sixth generation shipping and finance Muldoons.

With the fourth rose, red as wine, soft as velvet, the dreams came. With the dreams, came Duncan McTammany. A little past midnight, in a maelstrom of mist, he appeared at my bedside. The handsome Scot in his rugged glory, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the color of fertile soil and tied with a strip of black ribbon.

I stifled the burst of nervous laughter. I had to be dreaming. Only a mystical man's man, a wraith, would wear that strip of finery in his hair.

He grinned like the roguish devil he'd been when I first created him. I was thirteen going on thirty, well into my Alexandre Dumas phase and thought it my destiny to write of swashbuckling adventure and unbridled passion.

That was before my brother, Daniel, died a soldier and I became heir apparent to the Muldoon throne--much to Father's dismay. He hadn't counted on losing his only son to a foreign jungle, in someone else's war; never imagined relinquishing the corporate reins to his youngest daughter.

"As I've lived and breathed," McTammany said with a flourish. "If it isn't little Maggie Muldoon come a callin'."

I squeezed my eyes shut, scooted further under the covers. "You're not here, Duncan." I felt the mattress give, a shift in the air and linens. Oh God. I smelled roses.

"But you summoned me, darlin' Maggie. No' with words maybe…but you summoned nonetheless."

I felt the warmth of his wide, callused palm on my cheek. Apparitions weren't supposed to be warm. What about cold spots, ectoplasm, the electromagnetic whatever?

"Warm, cold…I'll be whatever you need me to be, Maggie. I'm whatever it is you make of me."

I was too young for senility, too sophisticated for fantasy. It had to be burnout. "I've got all I need, Duncan."

"You've no' got a man."

My eyes shot open. Incensed, I moved to the other side of the bed. McTammany mistified and re-materialized in front of the fireplace.

"Don't do that," I said.

"You're lonely, Maggie. You hate what you do in that monster of an uptown office."

"How would you know if I'm lonely?"

"What good is it being an executive, if you don't execute?"

"What does--"

"Your sister's son, Sean is it?"

I nodded and watched as he raised his hand above the milk-white porcelain figurine on the mantle, the slender ballerina forever frozen in her elegant pirouette. There was the stir of energy in the room. McTammany's outstretched fingers trembled. The ballerina shuddered, and rose above the flicker of tea candles and a few framed photographs.

I gasped, and blinked. "W-What about Sean, Duncan?"

"He's smart as a whip, an independent thinker…trained by the best." McTammany's downward finger whirled; the ballerina twirled. "Folks like him, and trust him. You canno' do better than puttin' Sean Muldoon O'Hanlan in charge of the family fortune."

I rose, clutching the silk robe in front of me, walked to the fireplace, snatched the figurine from thin air and returned her to the mantle. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you want to, darlin' girl. You need to because a part of you is dying. You're a writer, Maggie Mae. Go, write."

"I can't just dump everything --"

"Of course you can. I know the perfect place for it, too. That little cottage in Nantucket your da always hated and your ma couldn't get enough of. It's quiet, secluded and you should see the roses, love. Your gardener's done some job of it, he has."

"I don't have gardener in Nantucket."

McTammany grinned. "Don't you now?"

"So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen." The lights came on. I allowed my eyes a moment to adjust, then leaned into the podium and stared out at the sea of enthusiastic faces filling the auditorium, The Dobbin Literary Society. "I wrote McTammany's Bed of Roses when I was fifty-three. My first novel, and it was a runaway best seller. I wrote like a fiend afterwards, two more novels, then twenty. I'd discovered my muse." Perhaps he'd rediscovered me. "So I thank you for this award. It means more to me than you can possibly know." I gathered my note cards, collected the engraved plaque and silver-handled cane, a constant companion now. I made my exit under thunderous applause and a standing ovation, my first.

In the back seat of the limousine, the driver oblivious, mist swirled beside me and settled in handsome form. "Let's go home, Maggie, love. I'm bored as the devil himself, and you've another grand adventure to write."

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After twenty years helping others with grant proposals and articles in museum and university settings, decided to try something a bit easier--writing a novel. She resides in Texas and is presently working on her first mainstream effort in the romantic suspense genre, Hoodoo Money. Her short story, The Lovely Good-bye, can be read in the December 9, 2002 issue of THE WRITTEN WISDOM.

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By The River
by James G. Rogers

"Jenny, wait up!" It was my friend, Carla.

I stopped long enough to shift the weight of my backpack and push a stray strand of my hair behind my right ear. "Hurry! We're going to be late, and you know Ms. Prissy hates it when we tromp into math class after the damned bell's rung."

Carla caught up, and we headed down the hall, passing the bank of puny lockers for us and our classmates. When we walked by the larger lockers belonging to the seniors, Carla said, "Next year, we're going to rule the school."

"You will," I said. "I have all I can do to keep from flunking out."

"Come on!" Carla said. "You're doing fine."

"That's what a confident, bright person says to someone like me when she doesn't know how to lie convincingly."

"So," she said, "who are you going to the prom with?" Carla was the first-prize winner in the National Nosy Contest.

"Jake McBride is pretty nice."

Carla stopped dead in her tracks so quickly that my satchel slipped off my arm, knocking me off balance.

"What?" I asked.

"Tell me you're not going with him." Carla shook her head and made a face of disgust. "He's weird; major weird. They'll find you at the bottom of the river."

"Give me a break," I said. "He's nice."

"To you maybe, but not to anyone else, at least not to people who matter."

Ouch. Carla had a way of elevating herself on the shredded feelings of others.

"Hey, can you help me with this geometry?" I asked. "I'm in deep trouble."

"Jenny, I can't," she said. "I've got swimming practice. Later tonight? Call me."

I forced a smile. "Thanks, anyway."

"Ask Jake." She laughed and covered her mouth at the suggestion.

We rounded the corner and entered the classroom, just before the bell rang. Miss Prissy glared at us and then turned her back. Carla struck a pose. The others in the class laughed. I looked at the floor and took my seat. Maybe this day would end more quickly than every other boring day of my life.

Listening to the teacher drone on about proofs was more than good enough reason to let my thoughts wander. How coincidental that Jake's image floated across my mind's eye. He was an enigma, and that was part of the reason I was attracted to him. He wasn't a geek, but he didn't fit either, which meant I had no real competition. Still, there was something about him that made me want to get to know him better. It was a long shot, but with even the most remote luck I might even cross the virginity barrier with him. He'd never know what hit him. Cheap entertainment though it was, the dream made me smile.

The bell rang again, and we all piled out.

Jake took the calculus class with the cerebellum crowd. In fact, he'd been put into a senior class for that. I knew his schedule by heart, so it was easy to linger outside his classroom at the right time.

"Hey, Jake," I said. "What's up?"

He looked at me with an expression I couldn't fathom. "Jennifer."

"Jenny," I corrected.

"I'm sorry." He winced and started to walk along side me. "What is your next class?"

"English. Last one of the day, thank God. You?"

"Physics."

"You're a real glutton for punishment, aren't you?" I put another wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

"Gluttony involves overeating," he said. "I don't do that."

"It's a figure of speech."

He looked at me again. "I see."

I stopped next to my locker, and he did, too. "So, did you plan to go to the prom?"

"No, I hadn't thought about that."

"Why? Too much reading."

He smiled. "You can't have too much reading, unless you're a real glutton for enjoyment."

It was my turn to laugh. "You're catching on, sort of. Well, I was hoping you and I could go to the dance together."

"That's very kind of you." He hesitated for a moment. "I don't have a car."

"You don't want your parents to drive you, I know," I said.

He shrugged.

"Why don't we meet at The Pizza Factory and walk the rest of the way?" I asked.

"You are kind to me." His eyes opened a little wider than normal, and his smile literally made my face feel warm. "I'd like to go to the dance with you, Jenny."

I couldn't tell how wide my smile was, but his face seemed to register something pleasant. "Good, then it's all set."

Jake turned into the classroom that featured the future science brains of the earth. I headed for the bottom of the academic barrel of English strugglers.

Carla answered the phone on the third ring, typical for her. I'd slept over at her house enough to know she had Caller ID. When she saw it was me calling, why didn't she pick up sooner?

"You really need to go over the math?" she asked.

I wanted to tell her that, no, I was calling for my health, but there was no point in hiding a little truth in a blanket of sarcasm. "I really need your help. I'm going to fail that test on Monday. I can't believe that witch scheduled it then."

"First tell me you avoided that creepy Jake character."

I related the conversation, complete with all the nuances. Carla made a gagging sound.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," I said. "Who are you going to go to the prom with?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Sam," we both said in unison. The guy was definitely a hunk, and Carla would have done cartwheels down the hall if he'd asked her to.

"Well, I think Jake is plenty nice."

"Did you hear from Betsy?"

"No. Why?" I asked.

"She was going to call you tonight," Carla explained. "She saw your weirdo Jake in the library fanning the pages of one reference book after another. He just stood there, opened each book and kept doing it until he'd polished off the whole shelf. Then, he moved to the next. I tell you, Jenny, the guy is trouble."

"Why was Betsy even there?" I asked. "She never goes into the library."

"That's not the point." Carla's tone could be so demeaning. "The guy is weird. I'm telling you. Don't go out with him."

I told her it was too late for that but not for me to try to understand proofs. I kicked off my shoes, plunked down on my bed and opened the book. It was a long night of dogged, painful groping for just enough luck to float my grade somewhere in the C to D range. That would be a major victory.

A couple of hours later, I turned off the light and slipped between the sheets of my bed. Looking up at the ceiling was a ritual for me, and tonight was no different. I watched the dancing points and swords of light from cars passing the front of my house. The light would enter at an angle from one side of my room, sweep first one way and then the other and then seem to dart out the far window.

When I closed my eyes, I saw Jake's smile. I could almost feel the warmth on my face, and part of me wished it had heated other regions of my body. Still, there was something very different about him. He seemed older, sort of above it all. He wasn't snotty or anything, just disinterested in what so many of my friends and I were trying so hard to be and become. It was as though he'd already arrived at his future and then had decided to come back and see how he'd gotten there.

I shook the image from my mind and sighed at my brain's clear refusal to wrestle with angle-side-angle, side-angle-side and the other elements of the proofs Carla had helped me understand. Finally, I was able to shove those images aside and fill my mind with an image of Jake and me dancing. The dance couldn't come quickly enough.

The next few days dragged, class after slow class, me enduring Carla's and even Betsy's ridicule about my dating Ted Bundy, Jr. After a while, I got so I could pretty much ignore them all. Finally, the day of the dance arrived.

I did everything I could to primp and make myself the knockout I was certain I saw, albeit fleetingly, in the mirror every morning. Makeup, hair, reasonably low-cut blouse, tight jeans. After trying on four of five of each piece, I settled on a combination that worked. My father took me to The Pizza Factory. Thankfully, he dropped me off and left before Jake arrived.

His clothes were simple but not too much out of style. Jeans, a blah cotton shirt, but nothing that would cause anyone to roll on the floor laughing. Inwardly, I sighed.

"I hope my clothing choice is all right," Jake said, as we walked.

I shot him a glance. "You look fine."

"I could sense your concern."

The band was passable. No group would have sounded great in our school's gym. This gaggle of guitars and drums had gotten my vote because they were cheaper, and my parents had made me pay for the night myself. My father had said something about it being character-building and that I'd appreciate it more. I had no idea what the character part meant, but I knew my scrawny bank account hadn't appreciated being raped.

Carla's caution about Jake and finding me down by the river made me wonder what it would be like to hook up with him. That wouldn't deplete my meager funds, and it just might raise my stature in Carla's eyes. God only knew how well she and Sam knew each other. Carla had been so annoyingly coy about it that I felt she'd made the whole thing up.

"Want to get some air?" I asked Jake.

He nodded, and we left the gym. "It's a gorgeous night. Would you like to go for a walk down by the river?"

A small part of me wanted to clutch my throat, scream and run back to my friends, but I couldn't sense any cause for danger.

"Sure," I said.

I'm not sure who reached for whom, but I found my hand holding Jake's. He was strong, and there was something about his gait that said purpose. It took us a good ten minutes to make it down to the river. The nearly full moon glistened off the slow moving mass of water, a silent dark snake sliding effortlessly along.

Jake's hands were on his hips, his eyes focused upward at the vast array of stars suspended like jewels far above us.

"They're beautiful from here," he said. "A very different view."

We sat down on the grass and then leaned back to stare upward. It was a warm night, but I shifted slightly so my shoulder touched his.

"Different view?" I asked.

"Yes, from here the stars look so different. See the constellation you know as Orion?" He pointed.

I couldn't admit I didn't know squat about the heavens. "Yes, I see it."

"See the far right star in Orion's belt?"

"Yeah." I was beginning to see what Carla had meant about this geek. Astronomy wasn't on my list of hot topics for the night.

"There's a planet circling that star, the fourth planet actually. That's home."

"For all the little green men Steven Spielberg uses as extras in his movies, right?"

"No, Jennifer." Jake turned to face me. "It's my home."

It took barely a moment for the laughter to begin, but it finally hit me pretty hard. "Okay, Jake, I can see you have a future as an actor. You didn't even crack a smile. Okay, you got me."

"It's true," he said. "I know you and your friends think me strange. I don't fit in."

I sighed, silently agreeing with them. "They can be jerks."

"But you're different. You're not like them."

"I can be a jerk, too, but I'm not mean."

"They're young."

"And you're not?" I asked.

"I am by my people's standards, but not by yours."

"You're a junior in high school, so you're probably seventeen, maybe eighteen. You do have a presence, kind of an older look. You could pass for twenty, maybe even old enough to buy booze."

Jake laughed and gazed back up at the stars. He didn't say anything for a couple of minutes.

It was my turn to face him---and have some fun. "So, Mr. Space Man, how old are you?"

"Three hundred thirty of your years." There was no inflection of play-along banter or humor.

"I'm not going to give the usual answer that you don't look a day over one fifty."

"I'm telling you the truth, Jenny."

More laughter. "Jake, maybe we should see how all those centuries of life have taken their toll on that body of yours."

"What do you mean?"

I leaned over and kissed him, slowly and fully, tasting his lips in a touching that felt like it lasted an hour.

"That's not an old man's kiss," I said.

"This body isn't three hundred thirty years, but the part that makes up who I am is."

"I see. So you sucked the skin off some poor unsuspecting farm boy?" I punched his arm playfully.

He reached over and touched the side of my face. His hand was warm, and when the back of his fingers touched my neck I felt something strange inside me. It was as though doubts were melting away, replaced by a sense of wonder. It made me feel stupid, gullible.

"Why were you fanning yourself with the pages of book after book in the library?" I asked.

"I was eating, consuming a vast array of knowledge to send back to my home."

"Eating?"

Jake turned to face me again. The moonlight danced across his face. "We are a race of learners. We consume knowledge to live. That's why I'm here, to help gather food for my people."

"Oh, really?" I said. "And then I suppose you throw up on the mother ship, where someone cleans it up, packages it and ships it home like Chinese takeout?"

He shook his head and didn't say anything.

"Let me rephrase it," I said. "You upload all the knowledge into something that zaps it all back to your people on Orion's belt?"

"Something like that, yes," he said. "Your world is a delight, full of the most fascinating knowledge."

"A real feast."

"Yes," he said, "and you gather and organize so much knowledge you never use."

"We waste a lot. Part of being human." I was finding it harder to waste more time playing along.

"You're so fragile, yet so reckless. You crave community, but you push each other away violently. Your poets write of love, and yet you practice death with abandon."

"And what would someone like you know of all these high-sounding things?"

"I've read millions of books here, Jennifer," he said. "I've been to Earth five times in the last two hundred sixty years."

"Enough to feed whole continents full of your green friends back on your little rock in space."

He shrugged and smiled at me.

"Are you finished yet?" I asked.

"With what?"

"It's time to set aside your fantasy, Jake."

"What I've told you is true," he said, "but we can explore your dreams if you like."

"What does that mean?"

He touched my face again, and I felt the warmth.

"You want to make love, to hook up, as you call it."

"I do not!"

"Your heart rate is over eighty. Your respiration is up, and I can feel the desire in your very countenance."

I didn't know whether to laugh, scream, get up and leave---or wait and play along.

"So, what do your people do to make love, take off your skin and rub your brain matter together until the sparks fly?"

"No, Jenny, nothing like that."

I leaned over and kissed him fully. "Let me show you how we do it here on earth."

I sat up and started to remove my blouse.

"That's not necessary," he said.

"Jake, you may have read a lot, but I can guarantee you that I know more about this than you do. Trust me on that, okay?"

He reached out and took my wrists in his hands. "Wait."

There was something in his eyes that startled me. My hands dropped to my sides. He guided me to sit on the grass. Then, he took several steps back and looked at me. I started to say something, but he motioned me to be quiet.

Jake closed his eyes. Barely visible in the moonlight, a slight smile crept across his face. I would have started to laugh, but the sight of his body changing shape and getting brighter stunned me into silence. A human shape slowly changed into a sphere the size of a basketball. It hovered about three feet off the ground.

A voice spoke to me from inside my own head. "Relax, Jennifer. I want to give you some of me."

A calm the likes of which I'd never felt came over me. A band of something resembling electricity arced between us, and I could feel a wealth of learning pour into my mind. Far from creating a cranial mess, it found its way into synapses I never knew I had. I was open, taking in much more than mere knowledge. It all connected, interrelated. It made sense, like understanding every intricacy of a galaxy-size spider web.

I started to cry. The sheer weight of it all was so heavy, the sadness of so many missed opportunities of human experience. Then, a washing of wisdom filled my heart and soul, dispelling the tears, yielding a sense of bona fide hope.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the sphere arc yet another band of electricity. This one touched me in my abdomen. It was as if every sexual nerve in my body was turned on full power. Heat welled up inside me, and I felt all my deepest and most private sensual desires and longings being played like a Stradivarius by none less than a virtuoso. I felt lik Mozart was plucking the very strings of my heart and spirit.

My climax was like nothing I'd ever made happen on my own. The buildup was like the liftoff of the space shuttle, a roar of intense fire followed by the pressing of my senses to their physical limit. When the spasming began, it was almost as if that reaction was an afterthought. I felt I was a part of pure ecstasy, savoring and drinking in waves of joy. Inside my heart and mind was a closeness and harmony I could only express in poetic terms I finally began to understand for the first time in my life.

He was in me, everywhere, touching every thought I thought, enhancing every feeling I felt, raising my senses beyond what I'd ever discerned. My shaking hands reached out but the embrace came within my soul. My arms wrapped around my own jerking body, but my mind, which was turned on at a level I'd never imagined, held the essence of Jake so close to me that we merged anew in ways I imagined no human being ever could.

Hot sweat poured down my face. The sharp taste of salt stung my eyes and ran into my mouth. My heart felt as if it would explode. I didn't care, but I could tell Jake did. I'd have done anything to lock these feelings and Jake himself inside me forever, but I knew at a deep level that I couldn't and survive.

Slowly, the arc between us faded, and I could feel him withdraw. The last of Jake I remember seeing was his glowing essence. Moments later, all that was left was the sound of the river slowly moving by.

"Jenny! Jenny!" Carla's voice was saying. "Did he hurt you?"

Betsy asked, "Are you all right?"

The tears came involuntarily, but I was able to replace them quickly with what was inside my heart. I felt what I can only describe as an echo of an inestimable love for me. It permeated every cell in my body.

"I'm all right."

"I'm going to call the cops," Carla said.

"It's okay, really." I started to stand up but fell back on the ground. My muscles were numb, and the glow from what had to be a massive release of Dopamine made me giddy.

"Did he rape you?" Betsy asked.

"No." I wanted to tell her what he had done, but I wasn't sure I could. A dwindling part of me might have told them both they were so shallow they'd never get it. Yet, they were my friends, and it would have been wrong to treat them so, even though I suspected they'd never understand. My own awareness was only now taking shape, and the thoughts made me feel a kind of contentment I'd never thought possible.

Betsy glowered. "What did the beast do to you?"

Carla touched my face. "You look different."

I smiled and leaned back to look up at the stars. All the constellations were there, perfectly ordered, and all the names effortlessly paraded across my mind's eye.

"Do you guys ever enjoy the stars? Ever think of who might be living on planets circling those distant suns?"

"He must have gotten you drunk," Carla said.

Carla and Betsy speculated about Jake, about how far he'd run after he'd attacked me. I only half-heard their words, preferring instead to remember the volumes of love sonnets Jake had given me amid all the other knowledge. I don't know how long we stayed there that night. I don't know what my friends had concluded about Jake. I do know that even if I lived to be his age I'd never experience again the level and completeness of the joining we'd had.

"Can't wait till Monday," I finally said.

"Why?" Carla said. "We have a huge math midterm."

I stood up and smiled. "I know."

* * * * *

timely thriller, Capitol Chill, is available from BuyBooksOnTheWeb.com either on their Web site or by calling toll-free 1-877-BUY-BOOK. His pen name is James Gardiner. He currently has a traditional agent marketing his second work the old-fashioned way. Rogers is at work on the manuscript for his third novel.