Listen, Don’t Touch
Cheryl S. Ntumy
A Sauútiverse Story
Of course. Many worse things. Like…
He cringes, jagged teeth flashing, fingers hovering hesitantly before he signs, Disembowelment?
Oh, definitely. Yes.
We exchange despairing glances, because disembowelment might actually be preferable to this torment.
The uroh-ogi, a human healer and the reason my mate and I are speaking in Sign rather than using our voices, heaves a sigh. “It won’t be that bad.”
Liar. We sit cross-legged on the earthen floor of our dark, musty, riverside den, Kwa-Nxi and I close enough that, were I to inch to the left, our knees would collide. I sit very still to prevent that from happening. The sound of the river beyond offers little solace. In this moment our home, void of the furnishings humans keep in their dwellings yet rich with the aroma of damp soil and thriving insect life, feels more like a prison than a shelter. I carve lines in the floor with my talons in a vain attempt to soothe the anxiety. The movement startles some small, shelled creature, sending it scuttling deeper into the shadows.
“Trust me,” the uroh-ogi continues. “I have worked with other Aq’pa, using this very treatment. The anticipation is the worst part.”
Yes, and that is precisely the problem. Before, the anticipation was the best part.
Before, sex was simple.
Usually Kwa-Nxi would instigate it, with a long, low growl. My scales would stand on end, skin humming with the onset of arousal, and I would let out a hiss. In response, he would whistle, eyes rolling back in his head. If we were in a hurry, that would be enough to get the blood humming and release the chemicals required to swell the buds along our sides. But if we had the luxury of time, a whistle would lead to a groan, which would lead to a chitter, which would evoke a rumbling murmur, skin vibrating all the while.
At some point, our minds swimming in the heady vapors secreted from under our talons, we would shift position so our sides faced each other. He would howl loud enough to send the den vermin scattering. My back would arch, opening my buds further, and I’d emit a low moan. His buds would burst open, sending spores flying. The spores would latch onto my buds, which would close up and suck the spores into my body. And we would collapse, worn out with ecstasy.
Ah, the good old days.
We could keep trying the normal way, I suggest, not for the first time.
Kwa-Nxi’s relief is palpable. Yes! Yes. Let’s keep trying.
The uroh-ogi sighs again. She does it a lot. “It’s not going to work. You know how the disease alters Aq’pa voices. There’s no point—”
My mate holds up his hands for silence. Please give us a moment. We don’t want you swooning on our floor.
Her expression sour, the uroh-ogi gets up and steps out into the open air. I hear the subtle crackle that indicates that a sonic veil has dropped over our den, trapping all the sounds within to shield her from their intensity. Casting an intense gaze on my face, Kwa-Nxi growls. The sound sets my teeth on edge, but I force myself to let out a tentative hiss in return. He tries hard to keep his expression impassive, but after a moment he doubles over, dry retching onto the floor.
I attempt a growl. I gaze at my mate, calling up memories of our past couplings, silently urging the Mother to give my voice the right cadence to bring us back from the brink. But the noise that leaves my mouth is far from sensual. I balk at the way it grates on my ears. Kwa-Nxi shakes his head, and then – Mother bless his fearless heart – risks a chitter. A wave of bile rises and crests in my belly. I swallow hard and sigh, like the human. I have never been less aroused.
“Bo-Hlalé? Kwa-Nxi? Can I come in now?”
I get up to go outside and beckon to the uroh-ogi. The sonic veil fades with a popping noise and the uroh-ogi follows me inside.
“So, after trying for the seven hundredth time,” she says, in a tone far too smug for my liking, “can we get back to the treatment I proposed?”
We didn’t want a human healer. Our predicament is frustrating enough without having to protect the fragile human constitution from the raw power of our voices, but all the Aq’pa healers were booked. The mysterious ailment plaguing us has the entire Aq’pa community running scared. Every growl is altered, every moan a little off, the intonations so wrong that misunderstandings have become the norm. Some say it affects Aq’pa beyond our home planet of Órino-Rin, reaching even those who have traversed the stars. I don’t know whether there is truth to the rumors – I’ve never ventured beyond our village. I certainly wouldn’t risk travel now.
The human is known for her groundbreaking experimental techniques, so we took a chance. I regret it.
“I know it’s difficult to accept,” the uroh-ogi says, “but we must be realistic. This illness has ravaged your mating calls. If you don’t find another way, you’ll die out.”
We know. We’ve heard the dire prognosis. We’ve seen mates look at each other with disgust rather than desire. Even so, the uroh-ogi’s solution is taboo.
“Just a little touch,” she coaxes. “The gentlest caress. If you like, I can demonstrate on one of you.”
No! we sign in unison, mortified. This human has no shame. As if it’s not bad enough asking us to touch each other, now she wants to touch us as well?
“Fine.” Another sigh. “Start with the tip of a finger. Gently.”
Summoning all my willpower, I reach for Kwa-Nxi, trying not to shudder. Moments before my fingers touch his scaly skin, I pull them back.
We must be strong, he says. For the sake of our people.
I nod, determined, and try again. My fingers make contact. The scales are rough, like my own. Despite my instinctive shudder, the sensation isn’t as repulsive as I expected. There is no nausea, at least.
“Good!” The human beams with pride. “Now stroke the scales, moving closer to his buds. Remember, you’re trying to coax them open.”
My gaze keeps flicking to Kwa-Nxi’s face, but his expression is inscrutable. When my fingers brush one of his buds, we both jump in disgust.
This time there’s an edge of exasperation to the uroh-ogi’s sigh. “I have another appointment, so I’m just going to prescribe an hour of practice every day.”
An hour! Every single day? Mother help us.
We pay the uroh-ogi for her unique brand of torture, see her out, and return to our places on the floor. For a long time, neither of us can speak. I could live without children, but the thought that my mate and I will repel each other for the rest of our days is unbearable.
Kwa-Nxi turns to me. “It’s fine.” His voice is a little hoarse from lack of use. “We don’t need sex.” We pause to reflect on that blatant lie, then he says, “Well, there must be other ways. We can adjust to our new mating calls. Our best minds will find a solution.”
My heart is heavy as I whisper, “There are worse things.”
“Of course. Many worse things. Like this.”
He reaches out to give me my medicine – a caress along the rim of my buds. We tremble at the wrongness of it. Well, we will persevere. Everyone has to make sacrifices, not so?
We try again. Ugh.
“Maybe if we do it for long enough, it will start to feel good,” I say.
He laughs, and – thank the Mother for small blessings – it’s still the most beautiful sound in the world. My skin floods with warmth… and then my mind lights up. What I’m feeling isn’t arousal, not even close. But maybe… just maybe… it could be?
“Kwa-Nxi!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh, it’s just—”
“No, laugh again. I think I felt something.”
He gives me a blank look. “I can’t laugh on demand.”
“Try!”
With a deep breath, he lets out a sound like a hiccupping tetekute. Laughter bubbles in my chest and spills from my lips. Kwa-Nxi grins, and then his eyes widen.
“Oh! I think I felt something, too!”
“Pleasant, isn’t it?”
He shrugs. “Pleasant is not the same as sexy.”
“I know. But if we find the right tone… Come, let’s keep trying.”
“If this works, we’ll have to ask that uroh-ogi for a refund.”
“Oooh! Could you repeat that, but a few octaves lower?”
He laughs again, making me… Well, happy. Not aroused. Not even a little. But surely there is some connection, some overlap between different kinds of joy and different kinds of pleasure. Why shouldn’t one lead to the other?
So we try. All night. Each time we approach the vicinity of arousal, one of us will make a sound – a whimper, a moan – that makes the other want to vomit, and we’re forced to start all over again. But we have to keep trying. We have no choice.
“We’re going to need practice,” I gasp, exhausted.
“An hour every day, at least,” Kwa-Nxi agrees.
And even though we’ve made barely any progress at all, we smile as we collapse, worn out from the effort.
Laughing. Well.
Anything is better than touching.
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