The politically embarrassing Prince Djetth has been marooned on a deserted alien island with a bad-tempered fashionista princess, and left to survive with only the clothes they stand up in, and what they had with them when they were shot down.




“Oh, Djetth! Djetth, you are so … capable!”

Not for a thousand worlds’ tribute had she meant to exclaim aloud. Martia-Djulia would have clapped a chagrined hand to her mouth, but her hands were bound.

Still lying on her side, she scanned the empty campsite, and exhaled in relief. Djetth was nowhere in sight.

“Spread your legs and I’ll show you how capable I am!” his deep voice growled from above her.

Oh no! Martia-Djulia looked up. There he was up in a tree, looking as healthy as a god, grinning lustfully at her. For a moment, she was lost for words.

How commanding, masterful and effective he was. There were times when a lonely fool could mistake Djetth for almost everything a Mate should be. But, she did not want sex with him if it would be meaningless.

And it would be meaningless. No self-respecting Princess could respond favorably to such a crass proposition. Martia-Djulia called on her Royal dignity.

“I out-rank you!” she said with as much icy hauteur as possible, given that she was lying on her back in a glorified compost heap. “According to Imperial Protocol and the rules of precedence, it is not for you to suggest such impertinences.”

Djetth’s expression darkened. He jumped down from his tree with a thump, and advanced on her. She waited shivering for what he’d do to punish her.

*

Djetth could think of a dozen sarcastic retorts, any one of which would put the cock-teasing, gold-digging bitch firmly in her place.

“I most certainly outrank you, my dear, so how about it?” for one.

“Protocol wasn’t a problem when Jason backed you against a structural pillar, parted your legs with his thigh, and swore he had to ‘have’ you, was it?” for another. “Oh, yeah? Perhaps I should thrust your gorgeous, high-class ass against a tree, and show you who’s in charge here!”

She looked aghast, which inflamed him further.

“Why the Carnality did you spread your legs so eagerly for Commander Jason, but won’t for me? I’m the same bloody guy for fuck’s sake.”

He couldn’t say any of it. He could learn, though.

Giving her choices was obviously not the way to go. She chose not to take a risk at every turn. Except for that one time with Jason, which might have been because Jason hadn’t given her a choice.

DIARY OF A JUDGE’S WIFE AT PEBBLE BEACH CONCOURS D’ELEGANCE

Wednesday before going, (and trying to live large on less….)

Tried Priceline Negotiating for a rental car at Monterey airport (and thought of William Shatner in his debauched Bond pose). It took about six hours to discover that one cannot place the same (unsuccessful) bid, or even a slightly different bid, for the same sized rental car from the same location for the same dates.

Interestingly, we also discovered that although the on-site airport car rental companies wanted $99 a day for cars rented on the Friday, prices were as low as $55 for rentals beginning on the Saturday.

We also established that a taxi to The Lodge from the airport cost $20. The Lodge complimentary shuttle from the airport to The Lodge is free (but for a five minute detour to pick up someone from Million Air… $50).

Friday:
Up at six thirty, actually six forty because my dh made himself a coffee before calling me, quick check of stock market and emails, drove to the private jet terminal where we were guests (one has to be early as a jet leaves as soon as the most important host (MIH) who called out the jet arrives…. unless the MIH is graciously pleased to wait.) Corporate and private jets can leave before their scheduled time of departure, air traffic control permitting.

We had a clear drive to the airport, arriving about an hour early. After a while, MIH arrived, and we left earlier than scheduled, by about quarter of an hour, but it’s nice that we could!

Flew. Being the lowest status guest on board, I sat with the hostess on take off, and we got chatting, not that I was in any way attempting to self promote, but I asked her something or other about how high the G5 could go, (G= Gulfstream) and whether planes could go higher depending on weight or on skin materials.

Hostess fixed me up with an introduction to the pilots, and I spent an hour talking with the captains (and making the MIH slightly nervous that I was providing a distraction in the cockpit) about aliens, and stealth, and interrogation by computer, and the desirability --or not-- of tachometers.

We arrived at the Million Air (superb name) terminal in Monterey around noon local California time, having left Detroit just before ten am Detroit time. One of the captains had called ahead on our behalf, and our reserved Hertz rental car (a Pontiac) was waiting for us on the tarmac (or is it an apron when it is almost under the wings of an aircraft?).

Motored to The Lodge at Pebble Beach, admired the bougainvillia and all the very fine cars that were already there, including a number of modern, million-dollar Bugattis no doubt bought on hedge fund managers’ Christmas bonuses.

Owing to the mushroom-like upsprouting of blue Porta-Potties reminiscent of multiply cloned Tardises, and also of concession marquees, we were unable to drive to our guest room, so had to park elsewhere and be transported on the back of a golf cart, which is a lovely way to travel on perfectly paved roads, crowded with celebrity jaywalkers… one of which might actually have been named Jay.

Jay Leno was there, both as an entrant and as the immense wit who tormented the lucky winners of the drawings before and after they made it to the winners’ ramp.

Our room was agreeably large, containing fireplace with two easy chairs, a sofa, a large coffee table, and small drinks tables, two double beds with ottomans at the foot of each, one bedside armchair, a chest of drawers-cum-bedside table between the beds, a workdesk with all the usual connections, a wet bar with refrigerator, the customary large wardrobe containing the TV, entertainment center, and drawers underneath.

The dressing and bathroom area had separate washbasins and vanities. Wayne had the higher one opposite the toilet, our daughter and I shared the one that came with the coffeemaker, the safe, the wardrobe with the bathrobes, and the lighted magnifying m

I read some excellent erotica the other day, purely for my own pleasure.

However, there was one image that I swallowed at the time --metaphorically speaking-- that concerned a spicy root. It was not a carrot, or a sweet potato, or an onion.
It wasn't Mandrake, either!

The image from the story came back to me as I cruised the fruit and vegetables section of my local Kroger supermarket. And I wondered two things.

Did he (the admired author --whose sex may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent) give sufficient thought to his adjectival noun?

Does he cook anything from scratch? (In other words, does he know what the root in question looks like?)

I'm sure he does. I expect the copy editor made an unannounced root substitution at the last minute. There are copy editors like that! On the other hand, maybe (and this could be a possibility) my local store personnel don't know the difference between a Jerusalem artichoke and ginger root.

I've seen green peppers, aka capsicum, sold as vegetable mango.

Good grief! In your world-building, how do you factor out grocery store terminological variety?

Set aside vegetable sex aids for a moment. You may need to do some research in the fruit and veg aisles, even if you mix and match shapes, sizes, skin textures, pits, pips, seeds etc. Your human heroine has to eat in outer space, so not all her food can be unrecognizable (or she'd have to have major allergy testing) or her gut would not be adapted to handle it.

Think Montezuma's Revenge in outer space. Or, if you've visited the shuttle exhibit at the Johnson Space Center recently, and heard that astronaut toilets come with a rear view mirror, don't think about it.

Back to the root of the problem.

This allegedly ginger root as displayed in my local supermarket is about the shape and size of a small, pudgy hand, with gnarly fingers, root filaments like fleshy hairs, and it is beige-gray.

It does sound like Jerusalem artichoke, doesn't it! (I know Jerusalem artichoke. When I had more time, I used to make a very delicious, delicately flavored soup...)

So --and because I'm obsessive-- I just went to one of my many books about the healing powers of produce, and looked at a ginger root. That illustration looked like a chainsawed section of a saguaro cactus.

Now, there may be exciting erotic or alien romance stories where this sort of image would be perfectly plausible in the context, but for world-building, I think one should have sequed into it, using something a little more familiar to the human reader first, before the root was introduced.


For those interested in research, or obsessed with plausible alien anatomy, M.I.T. (an eminently respectable place of scholarship) sells --or used to sell-- a to-scale, and anatomically correct poster called "Penises of the Animal Kingdom".

I thought the plural was Penes, but I suppose a few people wouldn't get the point.

And having Googled that, because none of the three of my dictionaries within easy reach gives any guidance on what a proper person should call multiple schlongs, I'm off to pursue other lines of romantic alien research.

Best wishes,

Rowena Cherry
Insufficient Mating Material
"racy, wildly entertaining futuristic romance" ~Writers Write