B: My Alien

My Alien

by Angela Hadley

I stand naked in the cubicle. The uniformed customs officer has taken
my clothes away in her black plastic bag, and left me standing
nervously under the insistent eye of a tiny security camera.

I imagine smirking men gathered round the TV monitor, snickering. I
stand stock still.

My alien will protect me -- he always does. _What shall I do?_ I ask
him.

_Do nothing_, he replies. No sound echoes round this mean compartment,
with its plain, clinical walls and its cheap Formica table. My alien is
inside me; we converse in silence. He doesn't know what they hope to
find amongst my clothes, and nor do I.

She fingered each garment as I passed it over, turning it inside-out
before stuffing it into the bag and holding out her hand for the next.
She stood in such a pose, arm outstretched like a beseeching beggar, as
I faced her in only bra and knickers. I knew she'd not be satisfied
until I stood before her nude.

Her gaze lingered on my breasts as I handed her the bra. She took it in
her fingers, and glanced briefly to my face. I thought I saw a guilty
recognition. She looked away and began examining the fabric, turning
the straps over, then held it up to the light. What she hoped to find
I've no idea.

Shadows played across her face. Her dark hair, coiled sternly into a
bun, glinted in the light. Dark eyes, dark complexion, dark woman. A
mite taller than I, she looked at first to be hard, but I could see the
softer side. The starchy uniform -- well cut to her firm figure --
showed off her shape. I'd guess she worked out. Strength glowed through
her stern demeanour.

She stuffed the bra away with the rest of my clothes and held out her
hand again. I sighed, half turned and slipped my panties off. I dangled
them from one finger, and stood exposed, arm extended, in a mirror
image of her stance. One tough, no-nonsense officer, in uniform, in
charge. One naked, vulnerable victim, defenceless, trying to retain the
merest shred of dignity.

She looked me up and down, took the knickers, and ran her thumbs around
the waist. My warmth still lingered there; for an instant I thought she
would hold them to her cheek, so tentative was her inspection. She
raised them to the light, peered briefly through the stretched fabric,
and stuffed them unceremoniously into the bag.

"Wait here," she said, and took the bag away.

My alien also tells me to wait. For six months now, my alien has been
my inner mentor. He resides in me; I feel him. Sometimes he slithers
round my innards. Sometimes I catch him coiled inside my throat. Always
he is there. Some nights I start as if a belch has jolted me awake. I
am his chosen one; he cares for me. My body -- his abode -- is like a
well-maintained machine. For half a year I've not had so much as a mild
headache. No bacteria, no viruses, can best his attentive
husbandry.

The officer returns, without the bag. She carries instead a box of
tissues and another carton, smaller. She places both upon the low table
in the compartment's corner. Naked, arms folded across my chest, I
watch her open the smaller carton and remove two pale, flimsy surgical
gloves. She snaps them onto her hands in deft, practised
movements.

She turns to face me, her hands palm-upwards before her. "I have to
body-search you," she says.

I raise my eyebrows in a silent question. _What now?_ I ask my
alien.

_Do whatever she says,_ he replies. _She means you no harm, bears you
no ill will._ My alien knows these things. He can tell.

"Put your arms on the table," the officer says to me, "and bend over as
far as you can." I turn towards the table, and place my hands on its
surface. "Further over," she says. "Like this." She grasps my wrist and
moves it firmly across the surface, away from the edge where I'm
standing. The thin latex stretched across her fingers feels cold and
plastic on my skin. I shudder at the thought of where I'll feel it
next.

She's behind me. I crane my neck around, trying to see what's
happening. She's unscrewing the cap of a small tube. Then she moves
slightly and her hands go out of view.

_Don't resist,_ says my alien. As if I could. But he knows this -- he's
just trying to help me.

I feel the officer's slick hand on my bottom. "It's best if you try to
relax," she says. Relax! Bent nearly double, with the inquisitive
fingers of a stranger about to slide into me?

_She's right, you know._

_If you say so,_ I reply. I trust my alien. He's been my guiding light
these past six months. I think of him now, and gently release my
tension. My body presses onto the cool laminate, and gives up its
involuntary resistance,

My flesh is parted. Warm fingers probe, explore. Her touch is gentle
but assured, her examination thorough. Within two minutes there's not a
scrap of my intimate parts she hasn't covered. When finally she
withdraws her fleshy instruments, I feel faintly bereft. This is my
alien, of course. He's made it easy for me. I tell him, _Thank
you._

The officer straightens up, snapping off the gloves. "All done," she
says. "You're clean. I'll fetch your clothes." She takes the boxes out,
as I lift myself clear of the table. The cold surface is streaked with
the mist of my anxious perspiration. How many others has this table
borne the outline of?

She returns with the bag, and up-ends it on the table. I watch her bend
to stop the clothes spilling on the floor. Then she turns towards me.
For a second we face each other, and look into each other's eyes. The
second stretches to another.

_She wants you._

_You sure?_ I ask.

_She wants you._

My alien takes control. I reach a hand upwards to her shoulder. She
doesn't flinch. I grasp her neck and pull her towards me. Her lips
part, though her gaze stays locked to mine. Across the last two inches
her eyes close and our mouths clasp together in a full, deep, lustful
kiss. My body presses against her uniform. Her fingertips trace
uncertainly across my back.

I feel a bubbling belch deep in my throat, and yet I hold the woman's
kiss. The movement rises, and in a sudden, wriggling flash, a pulse of
energy leaps across our interface. I feel the touch of it brush my
teeth and tongue.

Her eyes snap open in surprise. She pulls back, and I release her. She
puts a hand to her throat, not knowing what has happened. She looks
away, startled and confused. She seems about to say something, but
shakes her head, turns and walks out of the cubicle. I'm alone with my
clothes.

She doesn't know. But I do.

My alien has left me.