Sigourney Weaver Comes to Movie Night at our Duplex
We’re out of popcorn again, Gill. It’s the seventeenth time this week, who knows in the month. Midge may die, I mean look at her – no, not her tail, don’t let the wagging deceive you of happiness – just look at her. Look at me. Okay. I could possibly survive. It’s one movie, maybe two. Whenever we fall asleep on the loveseat. Maybe we make it just one longer movie, like Aliens, Alien 3 if we’re feeling really masochistic tonight. It’s this, the little survivals, the ones where we could die at any second because our needs aren’t met.
By the way, are our needs not met? This seems to be the usual, our camp between two floral arms with the fibers fraying. Midge burrows, you know, or the couch has lost lower back strength, contracted by scoliosis, maybe an STD, who knows whose fault, but that’s the least of our concerns. The biggest predicament is dinner.
At some point, fifteen minutes or an hour and fifteen minutes in, you spoil that the xenomorph was created as an analog for homosexual domination, gay oral, men like us dispersing spawn like parasites. There’s transphobia too, but Ripley has a daymare of a baby xenomorph bursting from her abdomen before you get to that. My hand in your hand, exasperated, our conjoined hand up to my face to block the terror. Our hand an androgyny, our hand feeding us fear. My saliva an acid, but not the kind that melts, blood syrup from the alien, the proverbial unknown. Which is to say, Gill, that every thing that carries safety can also carry our trauma.
Moreover, popcorn, Gill. Popcorn. It’s aimless, the sex brought to my lips. And trust me – it’s not you, it’s not you. It’s not you. We’ve run out of condoms, lube, and we’re working with straws here. The headbite, inner jaw, the preferred method of killing, you say, isn’t the alien’s apparatus for consumption. Uncanonical, another synonym for us, but unconfirmed: maybe the xenomorph eats whatever it feels like. Whatever it needs, or doesn’t need. It can choose starvation; it can choose fulfillness. Think of that, Gill, how we choose not what makes us full, but that we can beat all. And when, and how, and with whom.
I’m not a facehugger, not like I used to, not like when we slept over on third shift nights, our separate places, yours that old garage attic. The rent was cheap and we were richer because of it. As people, I mean. I hugged your face then like Smaug around his treasure, a serpent around certain kinds of organic fruits. When we can’t sense thermal radiation, when our camouflageblends with the loveseat, when breath is forgotten. We used to tell each to breathe, to not bepassive. Even Midge could tell when we’d be awake, nibbling at our earlobes.
Maybe the problem is that we need a new couch, need to make it smaller. If a two-seater is any less, though, where do we put feeling? If all I’m doing is touching you, consuming you, Gill, it’s like I wouldn’t be touching anything at all. That’s how it works: we can’t scream in space because no one hears us. So we’re not screaming at all. Like we don’t have neighbors, or have too many, or the walls are thin enough that your father a state over can hear us fucking. Is it everyone else we fear, the noises we make, the crunch and pop of something delicious that could, in the end, be bad for us?
That love, too, could be toxic to us?
Maybe the problem is also that Ripley fears love, loving, its adjacencies, off-shoots, and spin-offs. She is often the strongest and weakest character all at once, Gill, but I like to think that the viewers take part in this competition as well. (Midge, of course, the only one really paying attention, ears poised for jumpscares, and squished between our laps, is the strongest character in our story.)
Because at the end of Aliens, the decimated crew dies disgusted at the xenomorph, the so-called perfect being that is in no way godlike, and yet exudes the horror of one. You’re an essayist when you’re left to your own head, lover, but even when Ash reveres the xenomorph in Alien, we’re still left with immorality in our mouths. The couch wants to devour us whole, hide our bodies from who loves or once loved us. We could stay here forever, then. We could stay here, and the universe would be none the wiser, because a couple of lazy fags won’t rescue a crew of space militants from dying.
The horror isn’t that we’d probably die too, nor would it be that the xenomorph isn’t the true villain. It’s the unseen cast, the government, the world – whoever you want to give names to, Gill. If we could fear with full eye contact, then we might as well fuck, no love necessary, but within reach of cushions. We can be disgusted, we’re allowed to, we’re allowed to be fulfilled by disgust. We could get the cheapest, most synthetic popcorn from the corner store in our pajamas, the kind that no seasoning could save. We could die by our own diseases, our own kind, but at least we can buy fulfillment for just a few bucks. We could leave the kernels in our gums, sharp imitations of fangs, so that nothing will ever taste bad again. We don’t even need to brush our teeth afterward.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Liam Strong (they/them) is a queer neurodivergent writer who owns two Squishmallows, three Buddhas, a VHS of Cats The Musical, and somewhere between four and eight jean jackets. They are the author of the chapbook Everyone’s Left the Hometown Show (Bottlecap Press, 2023). Find them on Instagram/Twitter: @beanbie666
Want more Liam? Check out their other story in this issue: [enter live link], and their poem from Issue 25: fever daydream … AND their poem from Issue 21: several men’s failed attempts at asking me out to brunch
miniskirt magazine 