Tuesday morning I got bored with human beings and told the models in my studio to dress and get out. They were pissed until I paid them for the rest of the hour. I didn't watch them go. The canvas chair was too comfortable and there was something mesmerizing about the K-Y oozing out of the uncapped tube. It was on a folding table just outside the circle of light, close enough to catch a highlight. I wondered if anyone would buy a photo of it, or if people were blind to the unlikely beauty of cheap lubricant... when it's been abandoned. Is it open because the lovers were too intent on one another to screw the top back on? Or is it a sadder story? Do people think about those things?

I do, anyway. Or I did, until I got bored. Nothing is worse than boredom. Usually it takes me months to figure out what to do with myself, how to get the spark back. This time I was lucky. I knew what I wanted.

Two empty bags of chips fell over the table's edge when I groped for the remote. The wallscreen was on the other side of the studio, propped up on a couple of concrete slabs. I prefer all my inspirations in one room. Movies, commercials, news, art... it's all the same, input and output conflated. My acquaintances called it garbage. I call it life. And there, on the screen, was my newest passion, the solution to my ennui.

Alongside a handful of senators, implacable in his robes and somehow not at all intimidating despite his towering height, the Tsipia-alien glided beneath the eyes of the news cameras. Not my camera... at least not yet. I was bored of humans. It was time to go through the Gate.

I'd flirted with the idea two years ago, so I already had a Gate passport. At the time, I'd been more interested in the Khazaviht lizards. It would have been a challenge, capturing the Moment in a species with faces and eyes that different from ours. I didn’t go because I hadn't exhausted the possibilities with humans yet.

I’d say that’s where I was now, but I suppose I'll be honest. What broke this camel's back was how bored everyone was with me. Sex isn't controversial anymore. It's hard to be a Mapplethorpe when Mapplethorpe's already been done a million times over. But I liked to think I had a shtick. I'm sure of it, or else I wouldn't have cracked the galleries. When everyone's doing artsy black-and-whites of nude people going at it, you have to have an angle.

My angle was... intimacy. My angle was the Moment.

I let a blonde clerk arrange me on a stool for a new passport photo, using one of the newer Polaroid models, digital and highly specialized. Digital cameras never did a thing for me. Most of my models do a double-take when they see my view camera. I wouldn't trade it for gold, though. Particularly since that's about what I ended up paying for the thing.

While they processed my renewal I leaned against the counter and watched people stream past. The Gates were six years old now and we were all still hot to visit, especially now that we'd figured out how to build the things ourselves.

Six years since we discovered the Khazaviht and the Tsipia. Six years and nothing new. Finding inhabited worlds through a Gate system is apparently unusual. The Khazaviht and the Tsipia had known one another for a long time before the lizards stumbled onto us and spread the word. We were and still are a big sensation.

Six years, and we still barely know a thing about the people. Either of them. The lizards are cagey and sly, the way you'd imagine a race of snakes from the Garden of Eden... and the Tsipia are impenetrable, private types, calm and ordered.

That's why I had to get there and see what the Moment looked like for them. Human sex isn't shocking. But alien sex... now that's a new niche.

"Thank you, Mr. Voar. Is that all?"

Yeah, thanks." I flipped over the money in cash and tucked the new passport in my jeans pocket. I glanced at the girl behind the register, struck by the instant. A human face, round, the beginnings of a second chin and gray in her hair, but she had a presence, a fire in her eyes that smoldered. She hated her job. I could tell. I wondered what the Moment looked like for her.

Outside, I took the nearest train for the Gate station. I'd already checked my gear into a locker there. Four bags, most of it equipment. When I finally made decisions I moved on them quickly.

The Gate station looked almost exactly the same on the other side. No big surprise; humans had built them both. I put down enough cash for a temporary room and left my bags in a cubicle that looked about as big as my walk-in closet on Earth.

On Earth. What a strange thing to say, an exciting thing. I hadn't had a buzz this intense since I'd managed to catch a simultaneous instance of the Moment between three people. Still one of my most-talked-about images. I bet my new pieces would leave that one in the dust.

I just had to find a few willing models.

The first breath I took on Tsipia-world reminded me of the week I spent in Louisiana on a graduate school trip. It had the same water-weight. It also reminded me of climbing the Rockies; it had the same febrile lightness. I just stopped walking to enjoy the contrast for a few minutes before popping the pill they'd pressed on me at the counter on the other side. My entire body tingled. It was better than orgasm. It was something new.

What's an alien world like? It's cool heavy air that's thinner than you want to breathe, lapping at you with a wet breeze. It's a sky a little more purple than blue, disorienting because it's just close enough to make you think of home. It's a smell that reminds you of cinnamon and sea-salt and something more acrid, something that makes you light on your feet, ready to flee, because you don't recognize it.

Most of all, it's seeing places that look a lot like yours, but with all the human extras replaced with tall, calm bipedal people with two tails and heads that only a dinosaur could love. Like a dream, really. The kind your subconscious designs to tell you that you're lonely and isolated, taking something familiar and populating it with the bizarre.

I loved it.

I strolled the path from the Gate promontory toward the observation platforms. Most of Tsipia-world is underwater, leaving only a few cliffs thrusting from the surface of the turbulent sea. Their cities are built inside the cliffs, since the storms regularly scrape everything off the tops, leaving only a few hardened structures... more now that humans came and imposed a little of their own worldview on the aliens. This explained the pastry shop jutting from the rockface, its stronger-than-steel walls mounted on deep-pile supports buried in the cliff-wall. The half of the building protruding from the stone was one big window made of clear plastic. When the hurricanes tumbled the last mountains of Tsipia-world, this place would still be selling lattes and scones with a smile at the bottom of the ocean.

Inside, I bought a cinnamon roll and cup of coffee and sat at one of the tables overlooking the very edge of the room. The bottom of the window had been extruded in a curve, providing the first foot of the floor. I could see where the plastic had been mated to the metal. It gave me an alarming and fabulous sense of vertigo. I was deep in wondering what it would like to fall all the way to the sea from this height when a hand landed on the other chair at my table.

"This seat taken?"

What a voice. They had ribcages that would make an opera singer weep for envy. I looked up at the Tsipia-alien and was impressed. I was pretty sure he was male, though it's hard to tell with them. He had to be around nine feet tall, and his skin was a creamy orange, like the inside of a citrus-flavored truffle. Chocolate brown spots sprinkled the sides of his long face and longer neck. From the narrow plate extending from the back of his head a dark blue mane fell, a color I'd seen on video but never believed natural until this moment. It looked right on him.

"It is now," I said. "Sit."

I watched him take the seat, his two tails parting over its back and settling on either side of the narrow neck. He set a cup twice the size of mine on the table. "Thanks," he said. "You're new."

"I am?" I asked, grinning at him. I liked it when people walked into my lap.

He nodded with such facility that I almost missed the incongruity of a human gesture on a head shaped like a huge hammer. "You're not one of the regulars. You must be a transient."

"Why can't I be someone who finally decided to come inside after years of walking past the door?" I asked, curious.

The alien grinned, a motion close enough to the human norm to read properly. They had longer lips, though. "If you were Tsipia-alien, I might think that. But humans generally try the human establishments immediately or not at all. This world strikes most humans as unfriendly. They seek comfort in the familiar."

"Unfriendly?" I snorted. "Stark. Beautiful. Strange. What's unfriendly about that?"

The alien canted his head. "You're different. Or at least you pretend to be." He grinned again. "I am Omene, and I own this place."

"I'm Simon Voar," I said, grinning back, "and I'm a visitor, as you aptly noticed."

The alien sipped from his mug, giving me a glimpse of a purple tongue. I noticed again the size of that mouth. "So, what brings you to this stark, beautiful, strange world, Human Voar?"

I'd heard that style of address but never had it used on me. I savored the alienness of it for a few before I said, "I came in search of art."

"That's an unusual quest," the Tsipia-alien said, canting his head the other way. "What entitles you to seek it?"

"That's an unusual question," I countered. "Do I need entitlement to make art?"

"True art is made only by those who have been given the... " the alien paused, "the calling. I have heard humans use 'talent' in this context. I haven't heard a better word for it in your tongue."

That was a puzzler, but I was intrigued. It hadn't occurred to me that aliens would treat art differently. I suppose I should have thought of it. "Well, I believe I am entitled."

"Your belief is less important than that of others," the alien said.

"Pardon me?" I asked, taken off guard.

He waved a hand, larger than mine and possessing two thumbs, one on either side of the palm. They had claws, too. "You cannot accurately judge whether you have the calling. Others must for you."

I tore off a chunk of cinnamon pastry and ate it, looking at him the entire time. He didn't seem disturbed by my stare. Once I swallowed my temper with the sugar, I said, "That's not how it is for humans."

"So I see," he said, grinning again. "Still, I wonder if you are brave enough to allow a Tsipia-alien to judge your entitlement."

"How do I know that you would be an adequate judge of human talent?" I asked.

"A good question," he said, and drank again. He seemed amused... fascinated even. But I wasn't great with alien kinesthetics.

"But I'm not afraid," I said. "I'll happily show you my work."

"Only if you agree to share supper with me," the male said, and it occurred to me to wonder if he was coming on to me. Nah. He couldn't know he'd just shot me a pick-up line. "Tonight, since you're not busy."

"How do you know I'm not busy?" I asked, stung.

"You came looking for art. You haven't found it yet," he said.

"I haven't?"

"No." He loosed a low, open-mouthed sound a lot more like singing than what newscasts had taught me was probably laughter. He stood. "But I'll tell you tonight if you come. After the last bell?"

"Sure," I said. "Where can I find you?" When he made as if to reach for a device, I said, "I don't do phones. I hate them."

Did he find that bizarre? I didn't care if he did. The shallow, intrusive online world pissed me off, and I refused to partake in it. But I guess he had his own opinions, because he had a pen, a human-sized one too small for his hand. He wrote an address for me, and somehow the result was legible. "I'll see you later," he said. "Don't stay out too long. It's going to rain."

"How do you—" But he was done answering questions, vanishing behind the counter with a short greeting to the human woman working the espresso machine.

I pocketed the address and took myself out of the shop, heading back to the Gate station. There were a few puffy clouds in the lilac sky, but none that seemed capable of rain. I shrugged it off and went to check some of my stuff out of storage.

I like the idea of originals, something that can be done with photography with effort. I choose not to expend the effort. Instead, I make two prints—an 8x10 and something the size of a wall—and then I burn the negative. The contact prints I keep for myself as a portfolio and a reminder of what I've done before so I can avoid repeating myself. Nothing more boring than repetition. The wall pieces I send to galleries and sell to the wealthy.

Every so often I select the best twenty-five of the 8x10s and put them in the portfolio binder, leaving several hundred behind. That binder is what I drew out of one of my bags. On a whim, I wrapped it in one of the small plastic bags I packed with my equipment in case of inclement weather.

Then there was nothing to do but kill time. I actually thought about taking photos for documentary purposes. There was a wild, stark beauty to Tsipia-world, the type that struck the mind as improbable, the type that I bet would fall straight out of your head the moment you spent any time somewhere more normal. But naturally—cue the laugh track—the famous art photographer didn't have a camera small enough to take tourist pictures. And like I said, I don't do phones.

I wandered along the promenade on the cliff top, watching the Tsipia-aliens come and go and wondering about them. Why Tsipia-aliens, for instance? Why not Tsipia-people? Or hell, just Tsipia? Did females not have noticeable breasts, or were all the people I was seeing male? Where were the kids? I didn't see any small Tsipia-aliens at all. Maybe the kids were born huge? I imagined Tsipia females as giant draconic creatures coiled deep in the rock, giving birth to full-grown Tsipia-aliens.

A drop of rain on my cheek distracted me from wondering how those giantesses were fertilized. Overhead, a thin veil of gray clouds eased past the higher white puffs. Where had that come from? And how had he known?

The rain darkened the stone as I retreated to the airlock leading into the cliff. I was expected soon anyway.

The address took me to a tall corridor lined with doors. Most of it was faced with something white, hard, and obviously artificial, but a broad strip of natural stone had been left at eye level... for the Tsipia-aliens, at least. It was well above my head. I stopped at Number Forty-seven and knocked.

Omene opened the door, wearing a long midnight-blue robe and little else. He waved me in so I could get my first look at a Tsipia-alien apartment.

The main room was domed. A large circle in the center of the floor had been depressed and filled with cushions. What looked like a kitchen or dining area was set to one side, and a curtained door on the opposite side led somewhere dark. The walls were stone, filed until flat but not until smooth, leaving some nice texture. Dim circles of yellow light extended from the small lamps that seemed to hide in unlikely corners; there was even one inside the depression beneath a pillow. It was a photographer's lighting nightmare.

All of it was dwarfed by the windows. I expected windows—didn't everyone like them?—but not that they'd look out onto an underwater vista. Somehow my brain had not associated the elevator I'd taken with the fact that I had descended below sea level. Pretty far below sea level, if the deep, dark blue of the water was any indication. Shadowy fish swam past in vast schools.

"Wow," I said.

Omene laughed. "Yes. Exactly. Come, have something to drink. Dinner is cooking."

Only then did I notice the sweet and savory aroma wafting from what I'd assumed was the kitchen. "That smells wonderful," I said, drifting after him.

"I can cook, despite what my wives will tell you," he said with a grin. "I wish you could meet them, but they won't be home until late."

"Wives?" I asked. "How many do you have?"

"Two," he said. "It is our custom."

"Two wives!" I shook my head. "My father couldn't even keep one. How do you do it?"

Omene's tails intertwined into something that looked painful. A glance at his face showed that he was amused. Or at least, I was pretty sure. "Carefully," he said solemnly, "and with many concessions."

Four things that served as and looked like bar stools lined the counter separating the kitchen from the living area. I pulled myself onto one, hoping he didn't notice my awkwardness. Their chairs were taller than human ones. "Why two?" I asked as he pulled a pitcher from a refrigerator and sniffed it. "Why not five, or twenty, or one? Is it economic?"

Whatever he smelled seemed to satisfy Omene. He poured us both glasses and pushed one over. "Our binding rituals are not based on religious needs, as yours seem to be," he said. "Rather on practical ones. Two females and one male are needed to reproduce, so it is the smallest unit of the family that can be sustained. When we were more numerous, there was more variation in our binding rituals... but for survival's sake, we began living this way, for the good of our offspring."

That much information, and all it did was raise a thousand questions. I couldn't decide what to ask first. I settled on, "I haven't seen many children at all."

"We still have few of them," he said, sipping from his glass. "We were saved from extinction only a few years ago. It will take time for nutrition and safety to restore our birthrate."

I remembered reading something about the extinction issue. Like most things that irritate humanity, we beat our biggest brains against it until we solved the problem. I wondered why the Tsipia-alien scientists hadn't done likewise, but decided there were some things you didn't ask. At least, not immediately. I drank from my glass and discovered it was water, very clean.

"Do you wonder why I tell you these things?" he asked as I drank.

I put my glass down and eyed him.

"You do," he said, laughing.

"A little," I admitted. "You people aren't very forthcoming with your history or your habits or your lives."

"I tell you," he said, "Because you want to know."

I paused. "That's it?"

"That's it," he agreed, tails twining again.

"How do you know?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

I stared at him until he resumed cooking, then hopped off the stool and walked to the window. You had to strain your eyes to see deep into the water, but it was worth it. It was the Unknown and the Unknowable personified. Here was something that could never get old or predictable. Here was something impossible to capture on film. How could any picture convey that cryptic immensity?

"You like it?" His voice rumbled over my head, just behind me.

"What's not to like?" I managed the flippant response, but not the flippant tone, so I gave up pretending. "It's dense with mystery."

"We love the ocean," he said. "It rules our lives, and we move in rhythm to it."

I glanced up at him. He was standing next to me now. "Why Tsipia-aliens, then?"

"Many reasons," he said. "The one we tell aliens is that we are alien to this world."

"Is it true?" I asked.

He shook his mane back behind his shoulders, a very inhuman motion with that sinuous neck. "Yes."

"But it's not relevant," I guessed.

He grinned. "No." A low-pitched bell sounded, a very precise tone. "Supper's ready."

I was both disappointed and relieved. I enjoyed the verbal sparring and didn't like the idea of losing my momentum. It did smell good, though.

We sat at a small table in front of the window, just off the kitchen. I wasn't sure what I was eating; some kind of fish in a clear yellow sauce garnished with something that looked like strips of carrot but tasted like red pepper. It was savory, almost spicy, but had a sweet aftertaste that went well with the water.

We talked. About human politics, which he knew more about than I did. About the Gates and human-alien relations. About fish and what I was eating... the carrot-pepper things weren't actually vegetables at all but the softened shells off some mollusk. Human-safe, I was assured.

Dessert was an utterly familiar raspberry torte. When I lifted a brow at it, Omene said, "There are some things that all species can enjoy."

Still sounded like flirting. Maybe he knew it, and was messing with me.

We retired to the depression in the center of the living room, which I discovered was just a tiny bit too high for me to comfortably lounge in. Omene gathered me a mound of pillows so I could rest my arms against the edge of the raised floor, the way he did.

"So," he said. "Did you bring your art?"

I nodded toward the wrapped binder I'd left by the door. The Tsipia-alien rolled to his feet and picked it up, bringing it back.

"How did you decide you wanted to pursue this?" he asked as he opened the portfolio. His hands were as long as the cover.

"It was something I always did," I said, which wasn't my stock answer but this was a different audience. "I lived with my dad, who wasn't home much. There was a camera, and there was me, and it just seemed natural to run with it. I found out how much I liked it, and here I am."

"Do you have much success?" he asked, which was an odd question.

"I sell four or five photos a year. That's enough for me to live pretty well. I only use these 8x10s for portability. The real things are usually as tall as you and half as wide."

"So humans like your work," Omene said, looking briefly at me. I couldn't call it a glance... it took too long to move that massive head.

"Some don't," I said. "Some do. Some are indifferent. That's the order I prefer them."

"You prefer people not to like your work?" the Tsipia-alien asked, and even I could hear the arch note in his rumble-voice.

"Sure," I said. "Then they make noise about me. 'Simon Voyeur, Art Photographer.' 'Tasteless Voar Photographs Sensationalist Claptrap.' They'll say anything about you, and then people get curious. My favorite was the article where they decided that my work was an attempt to experience the intimacy that I never had as a child."

"They were wrong," the Tsipia-alien said.

My mouth stopped working on the next sentence. "I know," I said, changing gears. "How did you?"

Omene ignored the question. "Is this representative of your oeuvre?"

I nodded. "I get better every time I do it, but... well, all I like to photograph is the Moment."

He nodded, as if he knew exactly what I was talking about, and shut the binder. "And you came here in search of alien Moments."

I stared at him, a little unnerved by the sudden change in his attitude. It wasn't hostile, exactly, but it was remote. "Yes," I said, since I couldn't see any point in lying. Particularly since I was still hoping he'd volunteer.

He handed me the portfolio. "I am sorry, Human Voar."

"But..."

"I know what you wanted," he said. "But you do not want it the right way. You would not be an artist here, if you were Tsipia-alien."

"But I'm not Tsipia-alien!" I protested.

"Ah, but I am." He smiled. "Your species is volatile. Perhaps you will change. Come back when you're ready, and I will help you."

He didn't show me the door, but he didn't have to. There was no way I was going to stay. I bit back my angry reply and left, figuring that was dramatic enough.

Outside Omene's apartment, my legs refused to take me anywhere. I slumped against the wall and tried to figure out just which part of that rejection had hurt me. It had been a long time since rejection had hurt. I'd stopped caring what humans felt a long time ago. I just wanted them to feel it strongly so I could capitalize on their reactions. But something about this private let-down, delivered so coolly by an alien who'd seemed almost human in his friendliness....

What could he possibly have meant? What was I missing?

When could I come back?

It rained a lot on Tsipia-world. I know, because I was out in it every day. I'd come without a plan, figuring I'd make my own way, but after talking with Omene I found that I was... doubting myself. For the first time since I'd started selling my work. Ridiculous, but there it was. I could have sought a different Tsipia-alien to be my model, but would he have considered me an artist? Would Omene's opinion be universal?

Besides, I wanted Omene, not someone else. With his creamsicle skin and basso voice and that weird way of knowing the answers to ridiculous questions.

I bought a cheap digital camera at the Gate building and spent the next week wandering around, taking tourist pictures. Half the time the sky was dripping; the other half, it was thinking about it. There was always a wind, sometimes light, other times strong enough to drag you around if you weren't holding onto something. The view from the topmost promontory was breathtaking. I photographed it, even though landscapes weren't my thing.

At the end of the week, I docked my camera at one of the Gate building's printers and got about a hundred 4x6s. I took them back to Omene's pastry shop, checking to see if he was there. Was I disappointed when I didn't catch a glimpse of him? Or relieved? I wasn't sure. But I did want a cup of real coffee and something sweet and sticky.

Over a pecan-orange bun, I went through the stack. Lots of pictures of the sky and the sea. Some of strange plants or animals. The rest were of the Tsipia-aliens. I flipped through them, increasingly irritated with how uninteresting they were. Tsipia-aliens standing together at a railing. Tsipia-aliens walking up a path. Tsipia-aliens exiting an airlock. Tsipia-aliens mingling with humans at the gate house. None of them meant anything. They were documents, not art.

My fingers stopped on a single photograph of a Tsipia-alien. He—she? Was leaning against one of the railings, framed by a stormy sky and a gray sea lost to the horizon. She was looking at me with a very human grin, and with her head tilted it was almost as if she was inviting me to her side.

I went back and had it blown up to an 8x10, then returned to the shop and sat down with it. The colors were gaudy. The composition was off. But there was something in it, something new.

Something unnerving.

The next week, I photographed only Tsipia-aliens, trying to recapture the newness. When I had them printed, I went back to the pastry shop and spread them out again. This time I found four. That was enough for me to see the difference.

They were interacting with me. Grinning at me with their too-wide mouths, looking puzzled, smiling, waving. The best ones always suggested an emotion more intimate than a stranger's courtesy. I dropped the prints and put my head in my hands. What did it mean? This was not my thing. I photographed people in the throes of their own intimate places, private places only sometimes shared with someone else, and certainly not with their photographer—that would ruin it.

Simon Voyeur, yeah. I suppose that's the truth of it.

Two days later I found the courage to present myself at Number Forty-seven and knock. I waited for most of my life in that corridor for the door to open, and when it finally did there was a stranger there. A slim, fierce-looking Tsipia-alien, nearly white with hot orange stripes and a sienna mane. And eyes—a blue nearly fluorescent.

"Yes?" A voice higher-pitched than Omene's. I guessed this was a female, and maybe one of his wives.

"I'm looking for Omene."

She studied me with her ferocious eyes, then said, "He was expecting you. Come in."

I followed her inside and stood near the door, just in case I needed to escape quickly. There was another Tsipia-alien resting in the depression, eyes closed. She was certainly female, or at least I read her that way; there was just something about her, something peaceful and maternal. I supposed that was me inflicting my human notions of biological sex on other species, but hell, what did you expect?

Omene entered from beyond the kitchen. He stopped in front of me and canted his hammer-shaped head.

"Is it because I'm not involved in my art?" I asked. When he didn't answer, I said, "I'm not present. I'm only watching... not participating."

"Yes," he said at last. "You should not be making art if your self isn't engaged."

"But I thought I was," I said. "Isn't the act of choosing a subject, composing it and putting it into a physical form engagement?"

"For some," Omene said. "But you were holding yourself apart. You did not embrace the tsipia you were so fascinated by. Did you come because you are now willing to do so, or just to share the revelation?"

I froze. "What do you mean?"

Omene put an arm around the fierce female's shoulders. "You came to Tsipia-world in search of alien Moments. I will gladly oblige you, if you will share them instead of simply watching."

He was asking me to have sex with him? Maybe he had been coming onto me in the pastry shop? I was so not prepared for the idea of actually having alien sex. Photographing it is a completely different thing—

—but then, I guess that was his point.

"Is it... possible?" I asked. "We are different biologically, aren't we?"

"Very," Omene said, and grinned for the first time since I'd walked in. "But it is possible. Even enjoyable, particularly for the human."

"You've done this before!" I said, and wasn't sure whether I was angry or intrigued.

"Yes," Omene said. "Aliens are fascinating. I too enjoy intimacy, but only when everyone is participating."

"Everyone... does that mean..." I looked at the fierce female.

Omene nodded. "Yes. They too are interested. You can set up your camera to photograph without your being behind it, can't you?"

"Not only do you want me to have sex with you, you want me to take pictures of it?" I said. This was definitely new, definitely not boring, but far more stressful than I'd planned. But I'd made my choice, hadn't I?

"That would be the new experience, wouldn't it?" he asked and twined his tails. When I didn't answer, he laughed. "Human Voar, it will not be as frightening as you seem to think. Unless there is something in your self that does not want examination."

I said, "I'll get the camera."

About two hours later I had things set up to my satisfaction in the bedroom. It was behind the kitchen and from what my feet could tell me, it was just a giant mattress with walls and one huge window. Pillows of various sizes and shapes dotted the floor, and a few lamps hung at varying heights, arranged on diagonals across the walls. It took me an hour alone to manage the lighting, particularly since I wanted to keep the random value changes from the sea. Fortunately we were deep enough that there wasn't a lot of light coming through the window. I wondered what a color exposure would look like, but I only had black and white.

Finally I had nothing else to fiddle with except the remote shutter release. The three Tsipia-aliens were waiting for me with varying expressions, already seated in the place I'd indicated. Omene's was amusement. The fierce female was unreadable. The gentle female was smiling.

"I guess I'm ready," I said.

"Brave Human Voar," Omene said with a laugh. "Come and see what you've been missing."

"I've had sex before," I muttered.

"Sex alone is not art." Omene glanced at his wives and grinned. "I think." He indicated the fierce female. "This is Kelune, my female1 wife. And here is Melekken, my female2 wife."

I nodded to them nervously.

They all undressed, and I forgot I was nervous. "How do you tell each other apart?" I asked. They were all smooth between the legs, Omene included.

"We just do," Omene said. "It's smell and sight and sound. Sometimes it's hard to tell humans apart, I hear, if what you mean is sex."

"Yeah, but once you strip there's no mistaking who does what job."

"Come here," Omene said, and I did, trailing the cord from the shutter release. "Humans are different, remember?"

"Yes," I said. "But how do you...."

Kelune said, "We kiss."

I looked at her, then back at Omene. "What?"

"We kiss," Omene said. "Kelune creates eggs. She passes them to me through her mouth, where I fertilize them. Then I pass them to Melekken, who swallows them into her womb. A few months in her body, a few months outside it, and then the children hatch."

My mouth hung open. Was that a sexual thing for them? I closed it quickly and asked the first, utterly banal thing that came into my head. "What if you don't want to get pregnant?"

Melekken said, "Then Omene simply does not fertilize the egg. I can receive unfertilized eggs. The reception is my pleasure."

"And the giving is mine," Kelune said.

"Sometimes, if Melekken is not interested, we eat the egg," Omene said, and now I was sure he was pushing me just to see where I would fall apart. "They are highly nutritious. The female1s are excellent at processing even the most nutrient-poor foods into healthy eggs. In times of poor forage, males and female2s often ate nothing but eggs."

"So how... " I stared at them.

"How do you participate?" Omene guessed. When I nodded, he said, "The humans who have enjoyed our company have usually preferred to interact with me. Our eggs are too large for you to swallow comfortably without chewing."

The surreality factor increased by several factors. "Okay," I said. Before I could change my mind, I wiggled out of my clothes and walked to the aliens. I let Omene pull me down to rest against his body. I didn't like guys, but without the equipment, Omene didn't seem to qualify. Did he? Did it matter?

"Your thoughts are racing," Omene murmured. "Haven't you ever relaxed with yourself?"

"No," I said. "There's too much to do."

"Like what?"

"I don't know!" I said, irritated.

The two females curled up on either side of Omene, slinging their arms around him and over me. They didn't talk, and neither did Omene. I fidgeted. The Tsipia-aliens smelled like their planet... a little spicy, just a hint of cinnamon. They were warm, too. After a while, I stopped wiggling and resigned myself to seeing this whole bizarre exercise through.

The warmth and the smell crept into my brain, though. My limbs gradually let go, and so did the rest of my body. It was like being suspended in water, except the water was breathing and dry and alive.

I was calm. The idea was frightening, except I couldn't be scared while this mellow. I'd never been mellow outside of drugs.

Melekken nuzzled me with the edge of her head, and I rubbed my cheek against her chin. She made a sound that reminded me of purring, louder and furrier, then leaned over and did the same to Kelune.

They did a lot of nuzzling. I watched, curious, as they held hands over Omene and licked one another.

Their mouths opened, met, sealed together. A languorous ripple traveled up Kelune's throat, puffing out her cheeks. A mirror of the motion happened in Melekken, and then they pressed their heads together and shivered, uttering these tiny purring chirps. It was charming and beautiful and scary. Definitely new. But not exactly in the way I'd expected. I'd wanted to be on the outside, looking in. Held in Omene's arms, I couldn't watch without knowing it was my turn next.

Omene met my eyes, or tried. I didn't really want to look at him, but his neck was so long he could twist every way I could and a few more.

There it was.

My Moment.

That place where you're looking into someone else's face and realizing what it means that you're there. Omene's eyes held nothing but peace. Mine? I had no idea. I didn't want to be here. I wanted nothing else. This was what I'd been avoiding all my career. Maybe all my life.

Then he leaned down and licked my lips, and I opened them. Tried figuring out where his teeth had gone, pressed deep into their gums as if retracted. Sampled the texture of an alien tongue and discovered it was much smoother than mine. Tried to get a feel for the size of his mouth, but it was cavernous. Definitely the strangest kiss I'd ever experienced.

He waited for me to do all the poking that I wanted, then licked me back and waited some more. Eventually I stopped exploring and just rested against him, breathing into his mouth. His hand was cradling my head, and I went back to floating.

The first taste of it wasn't a taste at all, but a texture. A smooth, thin gel. A little of it trickled in and I swallowed. Still no flavor. Then a surge of it, surprisingly sweet and heavy and satin-fine, like the glaze on a danish. I could have held it in my mouth and spit it out later, but I didn't. I knew the Moment the camera wanted and hit the shutter release when I swallowed.

I felt engulfed by the strangeness of it. The only sexual connotation I could pin on it didn't stick very long—could you give someone head when you're kissing his mouth? It was just intimate and tender, and it was overwhelming.

"Okay?" Omene asked. I nodded without looking at him. He studied me for a few minutes, then said, "I have some talent at reciprocation with humans."

I shook my head. "No," I said. Too much more of this and I would explode messily, and not in a good way. The tension had already rushed back into my body.

He nodded. "Then come eat with us. You gave much... let us give it back."

I wasn't sure what that meant, and I was completely sure I didn't feel up to eating with these people... but I was hungry, and I didn't want to just run out on them.

Dinner turned out to be pleasant. I was glad I stayed. But I was just as happy to pack my camera and get out.

I developed the negative there on Tsipia-world, hoping it wouldn't come out. There were a million reasons why it might not have, but I'm as good as I say I am. It would need a little cropping to get the most out of the composition, but blown up to wall-size it would be an amazing piece. It was totally new. People would come just to experience it.

I knew I wouldn't be putting it out in public.

A few days later I showed up on Omene's doorstep with the photo, and he let me in himself. After considering me for a few minutes, he said, "You're leaving Tsipia-world."

"I—how did you—"

He was already walking away. I followed him to the kitchen, where he was washing plates, an activity so human I felt twice as disoriented.

"You always know these things! How?"

Omene grinned at me. "I guess." When I didn't stop staring at him, he said, "I've been watching humans for several years now. Your faces and bodies are much more mobile than ours. I do guess, but my guesses seem to turn out better than most. You look unhappy, unsettled. You're going home."

I paused, then nodded. It was no use lying to these people. I liked them too much. God knows why.

"Would you like to see the picture?" I asked in a low voice.

"Why?" Omene asked. "I lived it."

There it was, in bald words, and it went through me like a cleaver. I said, "Would you mind me selling it?"

"No," Omene said. "But you won't."

I didn't bother disputing that. Instead, I asked, "Why me?"

"Because I liked you," Omene said. "I liked the way you sat in the pastry shop. I liked the way you looked at things and enjoyed them." He smiled. "And then I saw your art and realized that there were some things you were sensitive enough to see and desire, but could not allow yourself. You were one of the few humans who understood the tsipia, and yet you barred yourself from it. I wondered why."

"Do you know?" I asked.

"No."

Naturally the one time I wanted him to have the answer, he didn't. I sighed and turned away.

"Simon," Omene said. I looked back at him. "If you come back, find me."

I nodded and let myself out.

I went home. I sold the camera. I dropped all my 8x10s in a closet without flipping through them, all except the one of my Moment. I can barely stand to look at it, so I hung it in my bedroom, right across from my bed. I'll stare at it until I figure out why it makes me cringe.

Then I'll go back to Tsipia-world.

And he’ll be waiting.

Art

The Tsipia-aliens (as they're known in this time period; they were originall the Tsipia-seekers) are hard to visualize, so I've included a few sketches of them from around the time I was writing the draft of this story. The ink piece is a generic Tsipia-alien... the second piece is of Omene. The last, of kissing! Enjoy!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daughter of two Cuban political exiles, M.C.A. Hogarth was born a foreigner in the American melting pot and has had a fascination for the gaps in cultures and the bridges that span them ever since. She has been many things—web database architect, product manager, technical writer and massage therapist—but is currently a full-time parent, artist, writer and anthropologist to aliens, both human and otherwise. She is the author of over 50 titles in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, humor and romance.

"Living the Moment" is only one of the many stories the author writes about aliens; check her website for more! You can also sign up for the author’s quarterly newsletter to be notified of new releases.

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