Extracts from a historic e-mail exchange between the artist then known as Sharon Best and the acolyte not yet known, even to himself, as Brantley Thompson Elkins
From: Sharon Best <firstname.lastname@example.org>
To: [the future Brantley]
Date: Friday, February 8, 2002 1:49 PM
Subject:Re: An immodest SF scholar
At 07:56 AM 2/8/2002 +0000, you wrote:
<<Just thought of one Velorian base you might not have touched, but I’d have to spend weeks downloading and reading your stuff to be sure. I presume that besides genetic science, your world must have some sort of culture music and art and literature. I imagine that you could get some mileage out of an encounter between a Velorian and some scholarly type who wants to learn about this sort of thing — but who is also, obviously, desperate to fuck her.>>
Well, that’s a pretty consistent reaction that men seem to have when meeting a Velorian. Fucking her. Given that most Vels would be insulted if you didn’t at least offer to, perhaps there could be a story in helping her figure out a few things, along with a few of the nuances of Terran sensibilities.
“No, of course we can’t make love here in the library, Sara. Besides, I’m old enough to be your father and you’re my student.”
“I know that, [Brantley],” she whispered seductively in his ear, the silky steel of her perfect body pressing warmly against his, her eyes sparkling like blue diamonds in the bright lights. “But this is where I really like to do it. Among your people.”
“That may be Ok on Velor, but this is Earth, Sara. Besides, the library is packed and half my students are here and...”
“And nothing,” she said as she lifted her long legs weightlessly from the floor to wrap them around his waist. She kissed him passionately, her pheromones now swirling as freely as her blonde hair as they embraced in the middle of the University library, his feet lifting from the floor as she flew for joy, spinning slowly around and around like an erotic Tinkerbell as the two lovers to be floated upward as freely as birds, finally disappearing into the stacks on the second floor.
A dozen faces stared upward in shock, those closest to where the Professor had stood swaying dizzily, drunk on the wings of arousal from inhaling the powerful pheromones left behind. The stunned silence of the library was broken a moment later by the sound of falling books and a feminine squeal of delight from overhead. The resulting thump of two bodies falling to the floor and rasp of a zipper being undone was interrupted as one of the students near the back of the lobby began to clap. In seconds, everyone else joined in, a few whistles and a cat call or two drawing the stem-faced Head Librarian, Ms. Williams, from her corner cubicle to stand under the balcony edge.
A cascade of long blonde hair floated down from the second floor as Sara’s head reappeared at the edge, lying on her back, her tiny blue dress draped over the railing, her arms wrapped enticingly around Professor [Elkins]. Her long hair drifted on the Aircon breeze to shimmer like a golden shower of loveliness just above Ms. Williams head, as Professor [Elkins] and his dazzling new student began the final phase of their research into the complexity of Terran social customs.
And it came to pass… well you know what came to pass. And now you know how. But it was a close call. I was being played, and if I’d known that I was being played by a guy, I’d probably have been too embarrassed to continue. It would have seemed a sleazy, dig-in-the-ribs sort of thing. Or at least silly, like that Bill Cosby send-up, back in the day, of athletes doing a deodorant commercial – “Let-us-go-in-to-the-locker-room.”