Chapter 1
Reno gazed up at the luminescent disc in the sky. A full moon would be good for the journey ahead—a long walk to... where? Well, hell—there was a reason why he was out here on this strip of asphalt in the desert and he would remember it momentarily.
Shit!
The moon. The sky. A white light. The images came flooding back. Incredible.
Impossible. But seemingly so real. He’d been gliding down the road in his cherry red ’66 Mustang convertible with a groupie known as “Jack Off Jackie.” She’d chosen the moniker herself, lamenting that none of the guys thought she was good enough to bang, but they’d allow her to whip the ol’ weenie now and then.
Her hand-always seemed to be stuck inside somebody’s jeans—’fly-fishing” as she called it—to emerge with the squirming catch of the day. Only in this case, Reno, felt she was carrying the metaphor too far when she started whomping the head of his slippery eel against the steering wheel—pretending to kill it. Which she almost did before settling into a steady piston-like rhythm which soon became too much for him to bear. He pulled off onto a dirt road and cut the motor to allow her to finish the job—preferring that to weaving all over the road like a late night drunk. He’d suggested they step out of the car so she could milk him underneath the Milky Way, instead of on his new bucket seat covers.
Then, without warning, came the stab of light from a craft hovering directly overhead. At first he thought it must be a police helicopter, but he quickly discarded that idea when he felt himself being sucked away from the car by some unseen force. Then Jackie screaming, “Ohmygod what is HAPPENING? No, Reno… NO!” She unconsciously tightened her grip on his shaft, creating a momentary standoff as he was pulled in two directions at once—stretched to the limit like a maxed out Mastercard—the force winning out, his whanger going THWACK as it slipped her grip and snapped back into place. Slowly, Reno was lifted into the craft, pants still down around his ankles as he got a last glimpse of Jackie standing dumbfounded, mouth agape, fingers still curved into the loose fist which had primed his pump only moments ago.
He must have blacked out because the next thing he remembered was looking up into those EYES. He tried to bolt but realized that he was strapped onto some kind of gurney. He glanced from face to face. There were five of them. Humanoid creatures. Surprisingly close to resembling the sketches he’d seen in magazines. The eyes, of course--huge and black--stood out. And they were all Yul Brynner bald.
One of the aliens stepped forward. Reno sensed that this one was female—not by any distinguishing characteristics—but by some subtlety of manner (he of the highly trained eye). She seemed to be smiling at him. (In the following days, he would see a photo of Sinead O’Connor and say, THAT’S HER!). With a sudden move she seized his tool in a vice-like grip and he cried, “GODDAMMIT, BITCH! THAT AIN’T NO POGO STICK... THAT’S MY DICK!
With her free hand, the alien inserted a speculum type device into the narrow slit of his penis and moved her head in close for a better view. Curiosity satisfied, she began to work him like a squeeze bottle of mustard--a look of wonderment upon her face. To Reno’s chagrin, he felt himself responding—becoming firm in her grip—the initial pain yielding to a sensation of pleasure, as the others gathered round to observe the experiment. He tried to hold back, knew that he couldn’t, and in that moment realized that even for a rock musician, this was the weirdest sex he’d ever had.
She leaned in close to him again and he shot his load all over her shiny bald head.
