by Bruce A. Smith

Note: This essay is my account of my encounters with Extra-Terrestrials. It is part of my upcoming book, Becoming God-Realized – Stories from my Journey. It is also the text of the story that was recently broadcast on the RISK! podcast.

This story is my account of being abducted by aliens. Since it’s based solely upon my memories, it may not be true – at least in the usual sense of that word. But I know it has a truth, one that lies beneath the remembered events of the case. It may reflect a truth so deep that it speaks to the part of us that does not need facts or evidence, or even logic. Or, it might be a truth that comes from another world or dimension, and thus, has no words in this one. Regardless, it is not fiction.

My first conscious recall of having contact with Extra-Terrestrials (ETs) occurred in October, 1989 at my friend Jeff’s house in McKenna, Washington. I had been staying with Jeff while I attended a retreat at RSE, and one night I awoke abruptly and sat upright. I was fully awake and sweating profusely. I was also aroused sexually. I knew somehow that aliens were right outside the house, and were waiting for me to accept their visit. In my mind I intuitively knew – perhaps by telepathy – that they wanted to have sex with me and were asking for my permission. Through my life-long studying of the ET phenomenon, I knew they needed my sperm to create a hybrid race, as their species needed human chromosomes to develop the physiologic and genetic structures necessary to hold emotions. Apparently, their race had de-evolved over the millennia, and emotionality had left their bodies. As a result, they wanted to reconfigure their species by incorporating the emotional dynamism of humans. This confirmation of my studies came to me that night as a complete chunk of information, spontaneously and instantly.

Being aroused, I wanted to say yes, but I was scared. I stalled for time.

“I would love to help you out,” I said telepathically, “but I really can’t handle something like this right now. Why don’t you come back in six months or so and we’ll talk?”

 With that, the intensity of the moment was gone and I knew they had left. I got out of bed, made tea, and paced the house for an hour.

The next day I told Jeff about the wacky dream I had had in his home the previous night.

“They don’t sound so wacky to me, Bruce. Stuff like this happens to others and it sounds like it’s happening to you.”

“C’mon, Jeff. Sex with aliens?”

“You never know,” he replied.

The next night it happened again. But when I awoke, I was lying rigidly on my left side, paralyzed. The aliens asked to have sex again, and I begged off. “Like I told ya, come back in six months.”

But they did not leave, nor did they release me. Angry at being dominated, I willed my mind to say words I had learned from Ramtha for critical moments like this: “From the Lord God of my Being, I command my arm to move.”

 Slowly, I was able to raise my right arm and swing it behind me, as if I was pointing to something at the far end of the room. My eyes followed my arm’s movement, and I saw a UFO. Somehow, I could see it through the walls of Jeff’s house.

The craft was saucer-shaped on the upper-half, with a dome on the top. The lower-half of the ship was tapered, much like an ice-cream cone. Think of an empty ice-cream cone with a plate on top, and a huge dollop of ice cream on the plate. In addition, the dome had red and green lights glowing on the lower rim area, and above them were rectangular windows that were back-lit. I could see figures within. They seemed smallish in stature, and they were looking at me, or at least out their windows in my direction.

The cone part had port-hole windows, and light shone out from there as well. It was so colorful I exclaimed, “Wow! That is so beautiful.” I was not afraid. Rather, I felt enchanted, almost awed.

The UFO was just outside the house, perhaps 100-feet away. Only later did I wonder how I could see the spaceship through the wall of the house. In addition, the craft was hovering a few feet off the ground, and somehow the 80-foot-high Douglas Firs that usually exist in that spot were missing. From the bottom of the cone to top of the dome the UFO appeared at least 100-feet tall.

Although I could move my arm, I was unable to free anything else. I couldn’t move my legs, nor could I turn from my left side. Then the UFO blinked out. It was like someone turned off a switch and the UFO disappeared. Suddenly, a thought came into my mind: If you want to play, you gotta pay. I do not know if it was a telepathic communication from the aliens, or my own intuition. I believe it was the latter, because a moment later the UFO blinked on again, as if in confirmation of what I was thinking. But this time the UFO was in drab grays, black and white. The lack of color confirmed to me that if I wanted to continue seeing the UFO’s full display, I would have to surrender fully to the aliens and their agenda. I refused. As if in confirmation of my telepathic message, the UFO blinked out again, and I have never seen it since.

Although I had felt myself to be totally awake when I saw the UFO, upon awakening in the morning my rational mind declared that all experiences that happen while asleep must be dreams no matter how real or fantastic they seem at the time.

“I don’t know, Bruce. It sounds pretty real to me,” Jeff replied when I updated him on my most recent encounter.

“Oh, c’mon, Jeff. UFOs only happen to other people, not me,” I said without thinking. After a moment of pondering, I added, “Jeff, what should I do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to someone?”

“Gawd, Jeff, are you crazy? You want me to tell people that I’ve been invited to have sex with aliens? And what’s worse, I really would like to but I’m too scared. On one hand I feel debauched, and on the other I feel spineless.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing right now.”

That’s how we left it. The following day I returned home to Long Island, New York. Once in the security of my old routine, I told my therapist, Sally, about my “dreams.”

“Bruce, it sounds to me your subconscious is crying out for attention. It is telling you your deepest longings, your deepest romantic desires are not being met, and they seem so unattainable, so out-of-this-world, that for you to feel truly satisfied you’re going to have to find a girlfriend in outer space.”

Sally spoke so authoritatively I believed her.

However, a few weeks later the aliens came back. While I was asleep, and in a presumably lucid dream state, I saw an oddly-shaped women enter the bedroom I shared with BJ. The being glided to my side of the bed, and appeared to be about five-foot tall. She was slender and had an Asian-looking face. She looked cute and wore a black-haired wig, but it was askew.

Telepathically, I called out, “What’s with the wig?” She quickly re-arranged it on top of her head, and ever since then I have named her “Suzy Wong,” after the NYC cabaret artist of the ‘60s and ‘70s.

After this telepathic exchange, Suzy mounted me. I turned my head toward BJ. “What about her?” I said mentally.

“She’s not part of this. Don’t worry,” Suzy replied.

Suzy was on top of me for a few minutes and I suppose I ejaculated into her. I know I was fully aroused, but I have no memory of an orgasm.

During this coupling, two Grays came into the room. One was the traditional-looking type – a short figure with big head and black, almond-shaped eyes. The second was a short, dumpy guy with a round head and a silly-looking grin.

After a few moments of afterglow, Suzy and her Gray companions left, but I don’t remember seeing where they went. Apparently, I had fallen asleep at that point.

When I awoke, I was greatly troubled. I had just “cheated” on BJ, and with her in the same bed. More troubling, I enjoyed the sex, too. As a result, I felt morally bankrupt. Empty. And I’m trying to get enlightened at Ramtha’s school? My life felt upside-down.

Fortunately, I had a therapy session that day. When I told Sally, she assured me once again that I was having vivid dreams due to my deeper longings for a more satisfying relationship. That made a lot of sense to me because I had been in therapy with Sally for several years due to my ambivalence about BJ, recently amplified by her staunch objections to my studying with Ramtha. In fact, I had begun contemplating leaving Long Island and relocating to Yelm. The song by Clint Black, “I’m Leaving You a Better Man,” ran through my head daily. Internally, I knew I was preparing to end my relationship, but externally I didn’t say anything.

With those kinds of pressures, I was squirming with tons of anxiety. One day it spilled out, and I told BJ of my dreams and Sally’s psychoanalytic interpretations. BJ demurred, and it seemed like she thought I was just going through an extended crazy spell. First, I was in therapy to talk about our relationship, then I took several trips to a school for enlightenment, and now I was having sex with Extra-Terrestrials to save their world? Oy vey. Maybe he’ll be back to normal by spring???

Normal didn’t return, though. In the second week of January, 1990, I left BJ and moved out of the house, and started living with my parents. However, BJ insisted that we try marital therapy and I agreed. We had about four or five sessions together, and even though she screamed and howled through most of them, I convinced her the relationship was over. We concluded the details quickly, with attorneys making simple arrangements for a buy-out of my share of the house, and everything else was split equitably. From the vantage point of my parents’ home, I planned for the future.

Along the way, I met a woman named Karen at a New-Age book store. She was reading one of Ramtha’s books and I introduced myself. Later, we started an affair. Plus, she was looking to terminate her own marriage and move to the spiritual sanctuary of Santa Fe to start a whole new life. She sounded like my kind of gal. So, we helped each other extricate ourselves from our lives in New York and planned a combined western trip.

Karen helped me select an RV trailer, and I moved into a mobile home park in Bayshore, NY. Then in February, I spent another couple of weeks at RSE. However, I got a severe case of bronchitis upon my return to New York and crawled back to parental care. In the meantime, Karen used the time to wrap things up in her marriage.

By April, we were ready to move west. However, a few days before we were scheduled to depart, I got a call from Jeff. He had started a newsletter for Ramtha students, and asked me to attend a major UFO conference in Trenton, New Jersey and interview one of the speakers, the author Zecharia Sitchin. Sitchin had written a very popular book at RSE, The Twelfth Planet, in which he described how Extra-Terrestrials named “the Nephilim” had come to Earth 250,000 years ago and had genetically modified Homo erectus into the modern humans of Homo sapiens.

“Sounds like your cup of tea,” Jeff said with his usual smirky tone. I agreed, and Karen and I went to Trenton.

However, the highlight of the conference was not Sitchin. Rather, it was the ufologist Budd Hopkins. Hopkins specialized in alien abduction cases and he told a riveting story of a young man who had come to his door the prior week, claiming he had been abducted by Grays for the purpose of having sex. As Hopkins described his conversation with this lad, I collapsed to the floor, writhing. Karen reached down and tried to comfort me, or at least steer me away from any of the surrounding chairs.

Slowly, I composed myself and was able to sit up. Karen put her arms around me. I rocked into her torso, unable to speak. She just held me as best she could.

Something in me had just been triggered by Hopkins’ words. However, I had no clear understanding of what that might be – only that he confirmed for me that my sexual encounters with aliens were real.

By the time Hopkins concluded his presentation, I was able to function. I walked up to him at the podium and described what had just happened to me. He offered to help, suggesting a visit in his office the following week. I declined because of my plans to leave for Yelm. He countered by giving me the names of several hypnotherapists in the Pacific Northwest who worked with abductees.

“They might be able to give you some relief,” he said.

I thanked him, then left with Karen. I was still shaken, but I began to consciously accept that I had had sex with aliens.

Before Karen and I left New York, I had one last session with Sally. I told her about the Trenton episode with Budd Hopkins, and I added all the theories I had heard regarding aliens rebuilding their genetic pool. It was a lengthy treatise, and Sally listened quietly. When I finished, she took a deep breath, then looked at me wearily. I filled in her silence.

“You don’t think I’m gonna make it, do you, Sally. You think you’re gonna get a call from some doctor in a hospital emergency room out there in Nebraska somewhere, asking for a clinical consultation on me.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

But our time together was up, and I thanked Sally for all of her hard work with me over the years – 400 sessions or so. As I walked out of her office, Sally called out, “Bruce, wait.” She walked toward me and extended her hand. We shook. “Good luck,” she said.

The next day, I ended my relationship with Karen, too. There was no particular reason. I only felt deep inside that I needed to make my trip to Yelm unfettered. Karen was furious, but I left New York alone. As I crossed the George Washington Bridge and entered New Jersey, I looked in my rear-view mirror and knew there was no one back there who wanted me to ring their doorbell.

I didn’t drive directly to Yelm, but took a meandering course through America. First, I toured the Serpent Mounds in Ohio, and then explored the Cahokia Ruins outside of St. Louis. Weeks later I was in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. It has always been a special place to me since I had spent ten days at the Philmont Boy Scout Ranch. After getting a new belt to replace the original one, I spent some time in Santa Fe. Just north of the city, I parked my RV in the Pojoaque Pueblo campground, and one night the aliens visited again.

As I was settling comfortably in my RV bunk, I felt the aliens come in the front door. I tensed up, but then I saw my father’s face at the foot of my bed. “Relax, Bruce,” he said.

Calmed, I eased. Then I realized that it couldn’t be my dad, and it was really the aliens playing with my mind. Instantly I said telepathically, “Don’t put me under. Don’t mess with me. I can handle this. I want to be conscious. I want to know what is happening.”

They ignored me. I was paralyzed just as I had been during that evening in Yelm the year before. But I could hear things. I heard the crunch of car wheels on a gravel road, pulling away from my RV. I just accepted what was to come, and rested.

Later in hypnosis, I recalled a lot of details from the Pojoaque abduction. First, I was transported in a blue van, one that looked like a Navy vehicle. I was unloaded at a shipping dock similar to what might be found at a large medical facility, such as a VA. My vehicle was one of several, with each van depositing an abducted fellow. We were all teleported out of our vans, horizontally, by a device stuck under our left armpit. As such, I floated along in the company of three other guys down a series of hallways that reminded me of the architecture I had seen during my work at the Northport VAMC.

Later, I was attended by beings who looked like human-sized Praying Mantis insects. One was tall, about six-foot, with a long protruding probiscis and spindly legs and arms. He wore a white lab coat and seemed to be in charge. He acted like a physician and appeared to be very concerned with my abdomen, but I have never been able to ascertain what procedures he might have been conducting.

In hypnosis, I recalled being at the “hospital” for a long period of time and I was often left unattended. Regardless, when I awoke in Pojoaque the next morning, I felt refreshed.

Later that day, I visited the nearby Bandolier National Monument, which is a sacred site of kivas and cliff-dwelling ruins from the ancestral Pueblo Indians. As I walked up the trail to the first set of kivas, I heard a voice in my head.

“We will help you.” It was the aliens.

I knew they were trying to make a deal for sex.

“How will you help me? I countered.

“We will help you survive the earth changes. If you help us, we will help you survive the cataclysms coming to this planet.”

I knew plenty about global climate change, even though most of the world had never heard of the term. My work in New York managing a beachcleaning company had exposed me to the reality of sea-level rise. Further, I had seen vast ecological changes since I had been a kid learning how to swim at Point Lookout Beach on Long Island, and now the jetties were getting swamped with water at high tide. Plus, Ramtha had thoroughly educated me on the apocalyptic environmental and physiological changes that were destined for Earth due to pollution, a warming planet, and the collapse of the global food supply.

“So, you’ll help me survive the End Times, eh?” I asked the aliens.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” I pondered. It was a good deal, kind of. On one hand I didn’t know exactly how devastating the Earth Changes would be, so having a bunch of Space Brothers watching my back sounded useful.

Nevertheless, I didn’t want to be a guinea pig in somebody else’s regeneration program, particularly since I had no control over the experience. I loved the sex, and I especially loved feeling special – being one of the Chosen Ones for a cross-breeding project – but I hated getting paralyzed and rendered unconscious by the aliens. It just didn’t seem right.

“No thanks,” I said, finally.

The voices quickly left and I spent the rest of my time at Bandolier unencumbered. However, a week later something else happened that was bizarre and made me think the aliens were looking to impress me in a different fashion. By then I was cruising north of the Hopi Reservation in Arizona and passing through Utah on my way to Yelm. North of Moab my eyes began to burn, as if the sunlight was too strong for my sunglasses. I stopped at a gas station and bought the darkest sunglasses they had. They were insufficient, though, so I wore both pairs as I drove. However, as I entered the outskirts of Salt Lake City, my eyes were stinging so badly I had to stop and rest my eyeballs. I chose a Pizza Hut as refuge. Relaxing in the shaded environs, everything returned to normal. But when I got back on the road, I was forced to squint hard through the two pairs of sunglasses. Within an hour, I couldn’t take any more sun and pulled into a KOA campground north of Salt Lake City. Several other travelers had pulled in at the same time, and we all lined up at the receptionist’s desk. One guy had a heavy-duty looking pair of sunglasses, and I asked him if the glare had affected him.

“Nope,” he said, adding that he had just come down from Boise and hadn’t experienced any difficulty with the sunlight. However, another camper overheard our conversation. Later, when no one else was listening, he told me that he, too, had difficulty with the sun. Surprisingly, he had also just driven down from Boise.

“Yikes. What do you think is going on?” I asked

“I have no idea,” the quiet camper replied.

Nor do I. Nor do I know if it has anything to do with aliens, other than the circumstantial timing of the phenomenon.

Days later I was in Yelm and pulled my trailer next to Jeff’s house in McKenna. Over glasses of wine, I recounted my travels and alien encounters. Jeff smiled, knowing that he was going to receive a bunch of stories for his newsletter.

A week or so later, I contacted one of the hypnotherapists Budd Hopkins had recommended to me, but we couldn’t connect for scheduling reasons. In turn, they referred me to a local gal, Linda, who did hypnotherapy with alien abductees for free as part of her support of the UFO community. I made an appointment with Linda for the next week, and thus began a new chapter in my UFO saga.

I expected a deep hypnosis session, like I had seen in videos, where the abductees were clearly out of their bodies and talking about strange and unworldly experiences. Instead, my hypnosis sessions with Linda were a form of guided-imagery experiences. Nevertheless, they were useful. Plus, my physical responses to the hypnosis told me something important was happening. I got very cold during the sessions, and even though it was June, Linda had to ply me with every blanket and comforter she possessed.

However, Linda helped me clarify many of the clouded memories I had of my experiences. We began with Suzy Wong, and I learned she was a Gray and not any kind of human being. Further, Suzy was able to project a “female” image onto my senses. What I had assumed was her vagina was not any kind of genitalia that I ejaculated into, but rather, was a metal, box-like device.

Next, Linda helped me refine all the details of the Pojoaque abduction, assisting me in recovering the details I have described previously.

In addition, I learned that I had many abductions before 1989, being teleported aboard the Grays’ spaceships for medical-like examinations and procedures. However, the exact nature of them is still a mystery to me. I also met lots of other abductees aboard these craft, and I witnessed other Extra-Terrestrials besides the Grays and Mantis People, such as tall “Nordics,” who are statuesque, blond-haired fellows.

Surprisingly, Linda couldn’t help with the sunglass phenomenon in Salt Lake City.

I had six, two-hour sessions with Linda, and even though I appreciated her assistance, I had to stop. These sessions sexed me up, and for relief, I had to stop at a strip club on the way home and have a beer and watch the show. I also had a growing awareness that Linda was getting aroused as well, and by the end of my last session I felt she wanted to jump my bones.

But we stayed friends. In fact, I became part of her outreach work in the UFO community. In particular, I began attending her support groups for other people abducted for sex. I was shocked to see so many women who claimed that they had had mysterious pregnancies, and also instantaneous-but-bloodless miscarriages. Linda invited me to speak at a number of UFO conferences that she hosted, and I spoke at gatherings in Seattle and British Columbia. Linda also recommended that other groups invite me. One was MUFON of Portland, Oregon, commonly known as PUFON.

In early 1991, PUFON invited me to talk before a group of 400 aficionados on the campus of the Multnomah County Community College. It was also filmed by the college’s video crew, and later broadcasted on Multnomah County Public Access TV. I understand that it was their most-requested rebroadcasted show for the year.

One exchange with an audience member stands out; as the gathering was finishing and folks were leaving the auditorium, a young man approached me, trembling.

“Your talk really touched me,” he said quietly.

I stepped toward him and whispered, “Have you been having these kinds of experiences, too?”

He nodded in the affirmative and began to weep. I embraced him gently and he sobbed quietly in my arms. I held him for several moments. Eventually, he composed himself and pulled away.

“Thanks,” he said.

“All the best to you, buddy,” I replied. He slowly walked away, and I have never heard from him since. However, it is for him and others like us that I write these words. It’s been a kind of slog, though, one that I have put off for years, even decades. I’m not sure why, but it is hard to tell this story. It’s not guilt or remorse; it’s more like PTSD exhaustion – the exertion of mental energy wrestling with the idea: Is this real? Did I really have sex with aliens? What do I do about it?

Eventually, I ended all contact with the aliens in 1992, but not before a final series of confrontations with the Grays. Simply, I figured if I was having sex with these aliens then I probably had kids somewhere in outer space or on a space craft. What a lousy place to grow up, even if they’re only half-human. As a good father, or at least a good scoutmaster, I wanted to see my kids and see how they were doing. Maybe help them out a little. Hence, I asked the aliens telepathically to arrange a visit with my kids. They never complied.

Incensed, I decided to go looking on my own. “They’re my kids, too, Damn It!” I shouted in consciousness. In deep meditation I eventually found them, at least in my mind.

My kids were a mess. They were frail and sickly – imagine an unkempt detox center for impoverished teenage drug addicts. I never questioned if these youths were my off spring or not, as they clearly needed help. The teens could barely talk, grunting or only uttering a single word. They had trouble walking or standing up straight, and the Grays telepathically told me they wanted me to dance with the kids. Apparently, they had no sense of rhythm, either. Previously, I had done years of music therapy with my psychiatric patients, and now drum music sprang into my head, and I formed a circle.

“Just feel the music,” I said to them, as I knew they were telepathically connected to what I was hearing. “Feel the deep tones of the drums. Move your hips and shoulders to the beat.” I had to demonstrate so they could understand what I was asking them to do.

Our drum session was modestly successful, and when I left the kids had a spark of life in their otherwise dull eyes.

I returned in consciousness a few days later, and the kids were swimming in a pool. Or rather walking in chest-deep water, which was something they could do more easily than moving on land. I sat poolside and watched. Soon, I was joined by a Gray whom I had seen at the drum session. He was a Yoda-like character – wise-looking and old. He indicated that he was in charge of the hybrid program. Telepathically, I asked what he thought of his project.

It has problems, he replied.

It sure does, I retorted. We sat in silence. I wasn’t angry with him for abducting me, nor for creating a bunch of troubled youth. I sent him the thought that I understood his intentions. Then I left.

The next day, I decided my relationship with the Grays had to end. I realized that if I had done anything like what they were doing to me, I would be facing the death penalty. Kidnapping and paralyzing me, taking my sperm – along with stealing the ova and fetuses from the women in Linda’s groups – all this was conducted against our will and without any consent. The aliens simply cannot do this. It’s worse than immoral. For anyone, any race of beings, no matter how technologically advanced they may be, such behavior is utterly unacceptable. The Grays need more than human chromosomes for emotional vitality. They need psychotherapy. Or jail.

So, I simply said out loud, “No more.”

I haven’t had a visitation from the ETs since.

Not until three decades later. Then, I met an Extra-Terrestrial, sort of, as I just went to his website. The ET was named Bashar, and he channels through a gentleman from Los Angeles named Darryl Anka. As I understand Bashar’s linage, he is a Gray and has traveled back from our distant future to help us prepare for direct, physical contact with Extra-Terrestrials. Now, if you can’t wait to read the next part of my alien saga, go ahead and leap-frog to page 249, Chapter 58, “Revisiting the Aliens – Seeking Direct Contact with Extra-Terrestrials.”

Or read the stories from the next thirty years of my life and learn more fully why I wanted contact, and how I got myself ready for such a remarkable encounter.

Either way, the next page awaits you.