the conjugation of irregular verbs
by Keren Ziv

Fucking her is like closing one's eyes at an alien buffet.

Hoshi's gathered nearly fourteen alien languages to her tongue (she includes, of course, the varying dialects; especially the ones likes the Xindi have that differ each from another almost as if they evolved not on the same planet but another system); and with them she indulges in almost as many foreign tastes.

Pick up lines made worn and glib through the experience of dozens of bars are the edge of her teeth. She practices them through failure; refines them through success. Each time is another bite, another drink, another inhalation, until she's learned the most common attributes of the species she's with for that night, and it's almost boring (until, of course, the Vulcan, whose species was one which Hoshi had never even aspired to bed).

You've got a beautiful set of vowels.

Fingers entangled in sheet; ensnared in flesh; warm and damp; long, delicate; rough and work worn. The places these hands have been, both sets; the earth of other worlds that they've held between thumb and index; the millions (billions) of words they've created. Between them, perhaps, they've typed the complete works of Shakespeare, inadvertently.

Smells overwhelm her in the confines of her quarters (she finds that the most composed people are the ones in their own beds). Never does she snap a stick of pot pourri, but rather Hoshi lets it set; lets it linger in her hair to drift around her in the faintest reminder to the Vulcan. This is what you created.

This isn't an adventure for Hoshi; she's bedded alien women before and will again. It's a bit of a conquest to her (a game, if you will), as impersonal as that is. Keeps pieces of anatomy mixed up, she does, so that legs never quite twine together and breasts rarely brush against one another. Like a puzzle dumped from a box, she's rather a clutter of sex. Her lips never seem to make it above the nape of the neck. This is pleasure, but nothing more. Mind you take heed of that.

Your diphthongs are truly unique.

Hoshi's detachment from her partner (for they are partners, not lovers; colleagues in carnality; associates in sex; to term it any other such way would appear ridiculous) seems to anger the Vulcan. Fingers edging their way up her ribcage, toward her breasts, trace out questions on the cool skin. Eyes peeking from all sorts of strange places, lost in Hoshi's game of confusion, demand some form of answer.

From beneath an elbow, the Vulcan arches a brow, and Hoshi sighs into her navel.

She's a brilliant linguist, but she can't find the words to answer the Vulcan's queer, unerring inquiries. Who is the Vulcan to ask, anyway, but a stranger in Hoshi's bed? From where does she gather the energy to care as to whether or not her bedmate desire her for more than for what her tongue and fingers can achieve?

Hoshi cares neither to discover nor explain why she's finding the fanny of the universe as though reading Braille, thank you very much. She'd fain developed the familiarity and leave it at that. These are the wrong questions for a Vulcan to ask, and so Hoshi uses it to her advantage, perverts it at her will, because she's got the opportunity and she never lets guests knock twice.

You have the most amazing syntax that I have ever come across.

Hoshi waylays her in the shower; leaves scratches on the Vulcan's back, bite marks on her inner thigh. She isn't given a chance by Hoshi to ask why the relationship continues; there is little noise but the grunting (like animals, Hoshi notes in wry amusement) each makes as they stroke the other with soapy fingers (there's a violence within her, and Hoshi leans over in another game, laying her lips fully on the Vulcan's).

And so Hoshi holds power between her fingers; pinches and turns and whispers until the Vulcan comes, her orgasm sighing to Hoshi's mouth and tasting as unique as they comes in the universe. This soft way of the Vulcan's, the desperation to know Hoshi's rhyme and reason, the peculiar taste of orgasm whilst Hoshi betrays her through an invitation, they're all another way of communication to add to the list of learned tongues.

Is that verb modal?

When she was twelve, Hoshi translated 'The Twelfth Night' and 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' into an alien tongue; she can't now recall which language, but it was her first government work, and she has somewhere amongst her things her first drafts of that. So she's already started on the whole Shakespeare thing. The Vulcan can catch up later.


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