Of course, when I tell people that I was abducted by an alien, they laugh at me. Some listen politely at first, then they laugh; others laugh before I even try to explain. Some ask me if I would I like to tell my story to a doctor? And then there are the endless jokes about probing — I won’t even go into those.
It doesn’t help when I mention that the alien was a taxi driver, or that the abduction occurred via taxi. That prompts people to tell me they were abducted by an alien taxi driver too, and then they tell me their abduction story but it’s always about being taken to the wrong address, or the driver spoke an unknown language, or the like.
“No, I mean a real alien,” I insist, “like from outer space.” But they just laugh louder. It’s embarrassing, even without the probing thing, and the entire bar puts in it’s two cents worth, making me feel like a complete idiot for even bringing it up in the first place.
“Have you told your wife about this?” they ask.
“That’s a new way of covering your ass.”
“Why didn’t I think of that excuse?” chimes in another.
“How much did you have to drink?” asks a third.
“How much did you pay her?” and so on.
I certainly can’t tell my wife that I had sex with an alien. I want to stay married, and divorce could be very expensive. But I swear it’s true.
The taxi-driver was gorgeous, which should have immediately triggered my suspicions. Yet there she was, giving me a toothsome grin, and I do mean toothsome. I think she had a few extra but I didn‘t count.
“Airport,” was all I said.
She immediately whipped a tire-squealing, u-turn, crossing the double yellow line in heavy traffic, which seemed normal enough, but then we careened through red lights, and I hadn’t even said I was in a hurry. She actually drove on the sidewalk once or twice — yes, I know, a type of taxi ride many others have experienced as well — but get this: she managed it all without so much as a glance at the road ahead, not even once. She was looking back and talking to me the whole time, one arm casually draped across the top of the passenger seat, her other hand on the wheel. I was the one staring forward, my eyes undoubtedly bulging and my eyebrows probably arched all the way over the back of my head.
She started the conversation by asking if I was headed someplace warm and sunny? I thought it was important to not show fear, so I managed to stammer, “Not really, just D.C.”
“We’ll get you there in no time,” she replied. Turned out she wasn’t kidding.
Then we chatted a bit about sports, but I couldn’t remember the name of the local football team due to my concentration being focused elsewhere, like on the prospect of imminent death. About half-way to the airport she began inquiring about what sort of sex I enjoyed? I answered — somewhat lamely, I must admit, due to being further distracted by the frantically waving mom pushing a baby carriage along the sidewalk, whom we had just narrowly missed — “Oh, the usual,” after which she abruptly declared, “I need some stimulus,” by which I thought she meant coffee. Then she made an extremely hard right turn that almost had us up on two wheels, stunt driver style, slamming me over against the door, and zoomed straight toward the closed doors of a large warehouse. Just as we were about to smash into the doors they abruptly slid open and slapped shut directly behind us, bat cave style. We came to a screeching halt beside a silvery sphere that barely fit inside the cavernous place. The sphere shimmered and hummed, as if there was electricity in the air. I surmised it was a spaceship.
After screeching to a halt, the engine abruptly switched off, she arched back in her seat and ran her fingers through her hair, which seemed to tousle itself, Medusa style. I sat almost stupefied, still suffering from the ride shock. Without a word, she got out.
By the time I managed to regain a small bit of my senses, she had strolled around to my side of the cab, pulled open my door and leaned in, allowing me a thorough look at the ample cleavage of her apparently mostly very human body, and asked pointedly, “You coming? There’s still plenty of time.” Then, while marvelously sashaying toward a ramp that had slowly and inexplicably extended from the sphere, she peeled off one article of clothing at a time, nonchalantly dropping each item on the floor as she moved along. She was completely naked by the time she got to the top of the ramp.
“Are you going to eat me?” was all I had the wit to ask as I staggered out. She shot me another toothy grin, replying, “Bring your suitcase, and I’ll take you for a ride.”
Man oh man, did she ever.
All I remember after that was her scratching me head and toe with some appendages that I hadn’t noted before and didn’t even want to look at because they might have scared the crap out of me. I just kept my eyes closed and pumped for dear life. Eventually she gave a funny little squeak and her hair shot straight out. Then she thanked me for the DNA sample and still managed to drop me off in D.C. an hour before my scheduled arrival time. The people who were there to meet me were quite surprised I approached them from the terminal side. But it doesn’t seem to help to wave around my unused airline ticket as proof I was abducted by an alien — people still refuse to believe me.
END
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Gary Siebel has two books: Sex and the Serial Killer and Ben Franklin, Opium, and the US Constitution.
