Science fiction without the social justice

John Spaceman stared at the alien’s green breasts. He could use his eyeballs to look at whatever he wanted; this was space, where men could do as they pleased. He stared at her titties something fierce. She was not an allegory for The Other or anything like that, just your basic sexy-lady-but-green-type alien.

“Farewell, John Spaceman, savior of this particular galaxy where everyone lives lifestyles suspiciously similar to middle-class white Americans in the 1950s,” purred the alien, who John thought of as a temptress, even though she was also extremely virginal. In fact, this species of alien could only have sex with one man ever, and John Spaceman was that man. “Thank you for saving us from that other spacefaring culture that was metaphor for communism and fascism at the same time, somehow.”

“No problem, babe,” said John Spaceman, making a cool space-gesture to indicate how roguish yet traditionally manly he was.

He got into his rocket ship. It was long and hard, like his penis, but John Spaceman didn’t think about it in a gay way. He had a totally platonic relationship with his rocket ship.

“Farewell, galaxy full of cultures that are definitely very original and different and not based on the author’s limited worldview,” he said, and shifted into warp drive. “I’m off to explore the rest of the known universe, where everyone speaks English, and pretty much everyone looks human except for that one race of cockroach-things nobody likes.”