Dear Ms. McAllen,
I wish to hire you.
The terms of our contract are as follows:
1. I, Gork, will require the full use of your body for one "year", or one rotation around your star. This period will begin once the contract is signed by both parties and will not end until the period reaches its aforementioned end, or circumstances force an early departure.
2. You may set limits for my use of your body, including but not limited to:
a) serious injury and / or death
b) acquisition and atrophy of muscle memory
c) diet, general health and fitness
d) interactions with others of your species
3. You will disclose any health / safety information pertaining to your body, monetary assets, interpersonal relationships, and potential connections to the Irish mob.
4. You may provide your price at the start of your service. The going rate for hosting is 3.531 metric tons of pure Ag (what humans call "silver"). Any more than that and payment will be delayed by up to 239 years, to account for shipping delays and cross-galaxy traffic.
I'm flattered? I think? Your proposal took me by surprise. Why me, specifically? How long have you been stalking me? Are you a parasitic alien or a creatively named serial killer?
Of course, with payment like that, you don't really have to answer those questions. My answer is yes! Yes, yes, yes! My medical history is enclosed, as are my demands and limits. My answer is, however, conditional upon your response to this question:
Why? Why do you need a human body? I have a lot more questions, but I can ask those in person.
I look forward to your response,
Dear Ms. McAllen,
I want to crawl into your skin.
I want to know what it is to feel your hair pricking at your eyelids in the middle of the night, to hear the particular timbre of your voice as it resonates up the jaw and into the ear, bypassing the air in favor of something private and vibrating and loud. I want to warm your hands with a mug of your favorite tea, burn your tongue on it as we watch the rain dash itself hopelessly against the windowpanes.
Does it hurt, when you stretch your arms up above your head? When your knees go snap-crackle-pop every time you stand up?
I see the smudges on your glasses, and I want to clean them. I see the ragged edges of your nails (oh yes, you can't hide that habit from me) and I wonder what stressor makes you worry at them.
I am small, fragile, ethereal. I am tentacles and wavering light and tentative connections. I need a body that hates and destroys and loves, without fear of being crushed underfoot or microwaved into oblivion by your star. The close one. What do you call it... "sun"? I need a host. Something unbreakable that crashes through the world.
I want... I need, to wrap myself in your skin. To use you as protection, transportation, and a somewhat less alarming interface with which to interact with others of your kind.
In short? My dear Meghan, I want to live.
I'll see you in three... days? Is that what you call the rotations of your planet? How charming.
Wrap up your affairs. I'll see you soon...