There’s a case for a queer Superboy, but I have a real problem imagining one. He’s an alien. If he has sex in the missionary position with a human female, he’s queer already. Every kind of sexual behavior he can carry out on Earth, as the lone representative of his species, is going to be odd compared to what would be his behavior on Krypton, and his fellow Kryptonians, if they existed, would consider it bestiality.
But OK, I’ll play along. I can imagine Superboy reaching a very different sort of puberty. Not a queer puberty, though — more of a conventional reproductive puberty with straight desires…for a Kryptonian.
Clark had been feverish for days. His blood boiled, and he felt incomprehensible urges, all frustrated. He’d felt an odd combination of fear and lust triggered by baffling cues: the color purple; a paper wasp nest; the smell of nutmeg; a porcelain teacup. His paired penes were inflamed and uncontrollable, questing sinuously over his abdomen and thighs, seeming to be involuntarily searching for something, while his testis had enlarged to the size of grapefruit, and throbbed unpleasantly. It was unavoidably noticable, and he’d stayed home from school all week, while his parents worried.
He’d recently begun an uncontrollable keening, his back arched, making a shrill warbling cry that carried for miles. It was rhythmic and terrifying to human ears. It was a call that went unanswered.
Eventually, his gonads surrendered. His penes inverted, piercing him deeply. He made no sound, though — he was exhausted. His testis abruptly contracted, and he felt a flush of fluids gurgling over his guts, and his pain ended. He relaxed, he slept, his fever broke.
The next morning, Clark woke up feeling at peace. He looked down at his crotch, and his external genitalia were gone, replaced by a smooth, slick membrane. He was undisturbed by the change, though, and reached down to cup the smooth, warm skin, feeling protective and content. This was good. This was right. This is how he was supposed to be.
Everything returned to normal for the next few weeks. Well, mostly normal. He was less interested in other people, and even Lana Lang could not engage him in a substantial conversation, before his mind drifted off in boredom. He lacked ambition or drive, and seemed lost in a sense of…completion.
Then, one evening after a dinner he’d merely pecked at, he suddenly announced, “Ma. Pa. I love you. I…” and his eyes rolled back, and he slumped in his chair. His skin writhed. There was a disturbing slow movement of something beneath it. His parents carried him to his room. He was burning up, so they undressed him, and it was even more disturbing — it was as if a colony of slugs were roiling in his flesh, twisting within it. What do you do with such an unearthly disease? Ma and Pa Kent were torn — call a doctor and explain that their child was an alien who fell from outer space? Or hope that this was somehow normal for his species, and would resolve itself. They waited in indecision.
The membrane over Clark’s groin dissolved and parted, leaving a gaping, glistening hole, and the first of the embryos tumbled out. They were pale and grublike, white wrinkled sausages laced with a webwork of pulsing capillaries, with four clawed limbs. They had no eyes, but paired disks of feathery sheets, like the antennae of moths; no mouths, but each had a pair of siphon-like tubes for respiration.
It was the Kryptonian haploid dispersal stage.
They scuttled hideously out of Clark’s crotch, peered about, and then rocketed out of the room in random directions, punching through walls with their super-strength, and also, uncaringly, punching through Ma and Pa Kent. They flew off into the distance. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. They poured out of Superboy, leaving behind an empty husk of skin sagging over bones.
Then, silence. All was quiet in Smallville.
In the skies all around the Earth, the grubs paired off, grappled, and fell to the ground. They dug burrows and nested in the soil. They fused. They began to change.
All was forgotten. The tragic and unexplained triple murder of the Kent family in a small town in the Midwest was a brief mention in the newspaper, and then ignored — there were so many senseless murders. The world spun on.
A year and a half later, in a park in Copenhagen, there is a cry from the bushes. “Why, Jens, someone has abandoned their baby in the park!” On a Nigerian hillside, a baby flails its arms, and a young woman walking along the road runs to its rescue. In Shenzen, a crowd of people points to the baby mewling and crawling through the muck of the shore. In Alberta, a farmer scratches his head and wonders how a baby ended up in the middle of his wheat farm. In Quito, a baby is found in the street, and brought to the doors of the church. And so on. And on. And on. Thousands of times. A mere blip in the fecund proliferation of human beings.
But don’t worry. We have 14 more years of peace and quiet.
Then one pleasant spring evening, a warbling, keening wail pierces the air.
This time, it’s answered.
Somehow, I don’t think DC will follow my lead and embrace Superman’s inhuman nature, so maybe instead they should do something simpler and more humane and less horrifying. A gay Superboy would be perfectly ordinary and would make for a more engaging story, I would think.
Do it, or there’ll be more stories about Kryptonian maggots taking over the world.