Accepting then that the face-huggers embody: that is, fembody, male fears re: the re-integration of the phallo-cervical matrix – to wit, the atavistic retreat of the male and female genitals into an androgynous pre-natal state – and, moreover, that the product of this reunion of penis and vagina is not the genial, inert and asexual Sakishantu-type (translation: Mr Womb) popularised by the lyrics of the Geisha-Rock movement – but rather a voracious scuttling pair of labia wielding a retractable cock – accepting this, then, we can begin to read Alien as a cousin germain of the Succubus of European myth, Circe in The Odyssey and The Witch from Simon and The Witch. Of course, the casting of a female in the role of Ripley reminds us that the fear of the arachnoid pussy-penis is not an exclusively male fear. Yet it is women who go scuttling around and making unreasonable sexual demands of men so they have no right to complain.

Take for instance it should be added yesterday my wife of thirty-seven years leaped at me pelvis-first and attempted to form a tight seal around my mouth with her pudendum, evidently with the hope of using me as a host for her young. I endeavoured to struggle but years of scholarly seclusion have atrophied my body. Plus the musculature of her legs is unusually well-developed (it was this lower-body strength that allowed her to launch herself from the settee pelvis-first) so she encountered little difficulty in neutralising my arms and affixing herself to my mouth. “Phase 1 is initiated” she said. “Beginning the seeding process.” This continued for roughly 12 hours. I couldn’t be sure of course because my NHS spectacles had been dislodged from my upper facial area by a high-impact vaginal collision so I couldn’t check my watch.

A few days later my wife of thirty-seven years noted with irritation and disappointment that “the seed appeared not to have taken hold”. Shortly after she attempted once again to latch her pelvis on to my face. This time I was ready, however. I ducked, quick as a biscuit, causing her to sail through the living room, across the threshold of the hall and off to some point that I was subsequently unable to ascertain. I then locked the door and phoned the authorities. Thankfully, they picked her up before she could cause any real damage, and I was able to go back to writing earnest critical explications of films intended for children.

Bill Paxton ruminates about the phallo-cervical matrix in Aliens.


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6 Responses to “Alien”

  1. oldrope Says:

    And what of the offspring? The alien sort or your wife of 37 years? What of the space jockey? What, prey tell, of the milk splurging robo-doc?

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    It all worked out pretty nice in the end actually. My strong-legged wife, the furious little scuttlebeast I eventually spawned as a result of the vaginsemination and that weird milky android all had a nice party and boogied on down to some late-period ELO. Just goes to show.

  3. oldrope Says:

    They went to show?! She showed!!?? Your wife of 37 years tole me she wouldn’t show me one hair on her body. And now I read this? When I next see that blasted robodoc I shall give him a prescription of his own medicine – and this time I’m not talking about milk.

  4. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Well is it any wonder, since you turned up at that last party dressed like a baby, rolling round and asking people to talc you, while slobberously devouring rusks. I mean it wasn’t even a fancy-dress party. It wasn’t even a party really. It was a memorial service.

  5. oldrope Says:

    That is the form my grief took.

  6. johnlebaptiste Says:

    Now I know you speaketh false. It is well-documented, from numerous corroborated sightings, that your grief takes the form of a little pig in top hat, floating, as if in a thought bubble, 6 feet off the ground, rubbing its trotters into its bleary, swinish eyes and squealing “All is lost, Old Rope, all is lost”.

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