How Not to Date an Alien by Stephanie Burke Page A

head. “What exactly are you supposed to be hunting in my bed at —” She glanced out the window, noting it was still night. “—o-dark-thirty? Tell me that, Mr. Monochromatic Figment of My Imagination.”
    “I am not a figment.” He stopped smiling. “And my coloring is very nice for my people. It is considered very attractive.”
    “I’ve hurt my figment’s feelings.” She groaned, rolled over and closed her eyes again in an attempt to make him go away. But when she opened her eyes, he was still there and waiting to speak.
    “I don’t have feelings in the way that you mean.” He pouted prettily.
    “Of course not,” she allowed, wondering when she had actually slipped around the bend into insanity.
    “And I am not a figment. I am a Scrimtat from Veta Belga.”
    “Scrimtat, sure,” she spoke around a yawn. “I can tell by your very black lips and your very black hair.”
    “My tongue is black, too. See?” And he stuck out the longest black, forked tongue this side of a freak show.
    “I can see why I dreamed you up.” Her voice went thready. “Each fork in your tongue operates individually?”
    She had to know. There were so many things she could imagine him doing with that, the clitoral pinch being just one of them.
    In response, he wiggled each side, then closed them in a pinching manner.
    Oh, yeah! Now, that’s what she was talking about!
    “Sweet,” she decided. “Good for your all-over clitoral stimulation needs. Now if your dick matches your tongue —”
    She could only hope! Really! If she was going to dream up naked men, then his carpet had better match his drapes, so to speak.
    He slid back, showing off a thick, ringed cock about the thickness of those novelty dildos one gives away at bachelorette parties. And it was solid black like his tongue and his lips. The four ribbed rings that surrounded the sloping head were a nice touch she congratulated herself on imagining.
    “I make good figments.” She grinned, then winced as her head began to pound.
    “I wonder if it’ll all fit?”
    “I am not a figment,” he repeated, one antenna drooping a bit as he sniffed at her.
    “Okay, imaginary adult-friend.”
    “I am alien to your planet, and I have come hunting.”
    “Okay,” she snorted. “I’ll bite, you crazy hallucination… figment… whatever. If you are an alien, what happened to the anal probe? My anus feels just fine.”
    “You are thinking of the Greens,” he sighed. “Odd creatures. Like you can find anything in a human’s digestive tract other than the wastes of what they just consumed.”
    “So what are you hunting?” she demanded, wondering if the drugs had driven her to insanity.
    “Humans,” he leered, licking his lips and fixing his gaze on her. “I am hunting humans.”
    “Right.” She tried not to laugh despite her hangover. “You’re such an entertaining figment. Sorry.” She raised one hand in a placating manner. “You’re an alien, right?” Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes as she settled back into her bed, ready for some sleep. “And the only human you see fit to hunt is a freshly divorced forty-year-old woman who just dumped two-hundred-thirty pounds of dead weight
    and needs to shed about ten more. Try again, imaginary alien. I know you’re a figment of my imagination, because there are much more probable females out there. So I’m going to close my eyes, and when I open them again, you will not be here.”
    And then the pale bastard went and did something that almost made her wet her panties.
    He rose up — well, floated upright — and hovered over the bed.
    The urge to vomit dissolved as she came to the realization that hallucinations rarely floated.
    And if they started floating, she would most certainly not feel the long black braid that smacked her in the face, smelling of vanilla musk and lemon.
    She blinked and attempted to sit up, her mouth dropping open as he rolled over so that he was floating directly above her, facing