Like a God's Kiss 67
Like a God's Kiss
Erotic Mythological Tales
edited by
Cecilia Tan
and
Jennifer Levine
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Welcome to the Circlet Press ebook edition of:
Like a God's Kiss: Erotic Mythological Tales
edited by Cecilia Tan & Jennifer Levine
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Circlet Press, Inc.
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Lionel Bramble
Catherine Lundoff
Erin O'Riordan
Enchos Achilles (The Spear of Achilles)
Steven Schwartz
Carrie Cannon
Michael M. Jones
Renatto Garcia
Making this anthology was an incredibly fun experience for me. Right from the beginning, as soon as we had decided to use a Greek/Roman gods theme and until the submissions started pouring in, the suspense nagged at me incessantly. Would authors write stories from the points of view of the gods themselves, or would they stick to the perspectives of us mere mortals? For that matter, what kinds of kinky sex would people think Greek or Roman gods were interested in, anyway?
These questions and more were answered for me soon enough, and I was fascinated with the results. The sheer number of stories I received about Persephone and Hades' deceptive pomegranates alone was surprising: who knew so many people were intrigued by that story? It was never one of my personal favorites, but apparently I was in the vast minority. And then, amongst the Persephone stories, the variations people's imaginations added to the original myth were interesting (and really surprisingly varied).
Perhaps the most surprising thing was that not a single one of these stories made it into the final selection. Not because of any bias of mine, either—I ended up loving the Persephone myth by the time I was done reading all of the submissions (no, really!)—but just because, I suppose, it wasn't meant to be. And then another surprise hit me: writers were almost completely (apparently) uninterested in myths about Zeus. Come on, there's no more sex-obsessed mythological character in existence! (That, of course, may be why nobody bothered to submit a story about him.) Still, though, I expected at least a handful. Maybe just a few. Come on, would two have been too much to ask for?
In any case, the stories that did make it into the final version show a variety of styles and themes that really work together to make an interesting and attention-grabbing anthology. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. Some of the stories, like Michael M. Jones's "The Muse's Mask" or Erin O'Riordan's "In the Lair of the Monster," left me feeling happy, satisfied, and amused, while others, like Catherine Lundoff's "Arachne" and Steven Schwartz's "Enchos Achilles," impressed me with their unique take on the original myths everyone already knows and loves. Carrie Cannon's "Conquering Calypso" intrigued the hell out of me by introducing not only another side to Calypso, but also one that's certainly never mentioned of Odysseus in The Odyssey! Talk about characters I didn't expect to see—and here I always thought Odysseus was forced into it while really his heart yearned for the beautiful and noble Penelope, chastely awaiting his return. Apparently not, that sly old dog! Finally, opening and closing the book, Lionel Bramble's "The Pillars of Hercules" and Renatto Garcia's "The Everlasting" were so epic and captivating, I didn't even realize on first read how long they were. (Incidentally, I hope you don't realize how long they are, either.)
All of these stories were fun to read and really made my job as assistant editor an absolute pleasure. I hope you find as much—er—excitement in reading them as I did!
Jennifer Levine
July 2009
Lionel Bramble
A man who was half a god arrived at the edge of creation.
To Hercules' left, the infinite sea Oceanos curved away from him. Surf whispered to the granite beach. To his right, jagged country rolled on forever. A sourceless light burned without mercy.
He hiked past a merry trio: a satyr with the usual three horns (two on his head), and two nymphs girdled in gossamer. They waved but did not stop to chat, resuming their skipping and laughter as he passed.
In the distance he spied Atlas, bending under the weight of the great sphere of the world on his shoulders. Hercules approached to hail him.
The Titan's hair and beard were unkempt and snowy, his face flinty and haggard, his silver eyes a little mad. Gravel-voiced, he said:
"You'll pardon me if we don't shake. Here's a job that requires both my hands. I know who you are, demigod. You didn't journey so far just to say 'Keep up the good work, Atlas.' What else could it be, then, but those damned apples, left to my daughters for safe keeping?"
That was Hercules' quest, made as grueling as possible by his stepmother Hera's agents. He remembered the brother of Atlas, chained to a rock and visited daily by that winged meat-eater till he broke the chains for him. He didn't like to call in favors if he didn't have to, though. He said:
"You could easily put your hands on those apples. I'd be obliged if you could get me a few."
Atlas glanced up at his burden. "Somebody's got to handle this. Put down that club. Get rid of the sandals, too—you'll need a firm footing."
The demigod bent to one knee. Before he knew it, every ounce, pound, and ton of weight in the universe shunted from Atlas's shoulders and neck to his own. Every mountain, every hill, every ocean, every herd of stampeding elephants, every island, every shot-put and discus, every forge and hammer and anvil in the workshop of Hephaestus, every temple, every pebble, every blade of grass, every length of straw... the weight flooded to fill muscle and bone, hardening them to iron. Density battered him, trying to flatten him into the rock on which he knelt. Still and stiff, muscles knotted, he battered every fiber against the eternal assault. Unseen ropes pulled by Titans tried to drag him groundward.
Zeus! Nothing in his life or labors had readied him for this. This task was impossible.
Then he recalled his crimes, those mad bloody seconds that had cost him everything. These labors were his chance to redeem himself. The god in him would manage. If the man in him suffered, what of it?
He rose, juddering, to his feet. He would not complain.
Atlas stretched his arms. He bent to touch his toes. He rocked from side to side. The cracks of stiff bone and muscle echoed like whips. He let go a laugh. He imparted pointers: Stand straight when you can. Shift your weight from foot to foot, but be gentle about it. When you need a break, drop to one knee. One knee only! Down on both, that's bad news.
"It's a long journey to my daughters' garden. Time with my family. Take in sights, look up old friends; see how home has changed; did I mention get laid? I need a massage. Six days should do it."
Hercules directed Atlas to where his horse grazed, left in a pasture when the shifting landscape began to spook the poor animal. "You could make it back here in three. Six is longer than I bargained for."
Atlas swatted away the objection. "I did it for thousands of years. You're a young man." He looked down at the bulge beneath his own linen. "Those nymphs love to tease. They dearly do. Do me a favor?"
He reached under the demigod's lionskin, and with a broad rough hand grabbed both his orchos. Here was a wrinkle to immobility that Hercules had not considered. Too shocked to speak, he felt his phallos swell with animal spirits. Powerful ungentle fingers peeled back his foreskin to pump the rising column. Atlas let his linen fall to show Hercules his match. He wrapped a single hand tight around the touching rods and squeezed. From between his teeth issued a seething noise.
"I need a good swordfight likes Hades' own business. It's been so long. Those nymphs are real teases. You sure you don't mind?"
It wasn't often Hercules felt overpowered. Atlas pressed tighter. He rubbed. He ground. Two heroes locked in combat. Hercules forgot the strain that pressed his shoulders. His thrysos raged wildfire. He could not tell where his ended and his noble opponent's began. Rods writhed and sparked. An eye-of-polyphemos blinked in hot relief. Did that weapon belong to him? No; his javelin still quivered.
"Ahh! Zeus, that's good! Thankee, traveler. I'm obliged. Now..."
A girlish voice sang in the distance: "Hey! Look who's running loose! Come and get me, big boy! I have your favorite feather!" Nymphish laughter, from more than one. Atlas's silver eyes gleamed, spellbound. He let fall the lionskin. "Be right back." He took off in a chase toward the receding voices.
Hercules gaped. His body, his phallos, quaked beneath their respective strains. Enflamed, the other's seed still hot on his skin, he watched Atlas disappear into the jagged distance.
Here's a job that requires both my hands.
He began to laugh himself silly.
The globe bowed his shoulders, weighed to break his back. The pressure from above hammered his aching feet against the solid rock. Muscles tightened, sinews wrenched. Sweat oiled his windburned skin, his coiled hair, and his beard. He made himself a gleaming column of flesh, firm and tall.
In the distance, a young girl unrolled an empty scroll, dipped a stylos in ink, and concentrated on writing, or sketching. She was dark-haired, wore lenses to aid her vision, and looked about thirteen. Too young, too young, he thought to her. Any more like you at home?
He peered further, to the horizon. Strange funneled storms gathered.
****
A tide lapped his feet, crept up his calves and thighs. It rose to his waist, washed away sweat and seed, cooled the torment in his phallos. It reached his chest, cold enough to make his nipples pop. Could he bend a few inches without losing balance? He strained to do so. Cool water! Fresh water! Did that tiny motion quake the earth under Africa or Asia? If so, it was worth it. By the gods, it was good to be alive!
He slaked his thirst till the water began to recede. Fish darted between his thighs. He should have tried to catch them with his mouth. Next tide he would know better. Water, a little food in his belly... this wasn't too bad. Maybe he wasn't a Titan, or a full-fledged god, but he could do this.
So. He was really doing it, holding up the weight of the world. To be more precise, as he understood it, he prevented the elemental forces Gaia and Ouranos from reuniting, which would condemn the universe to its original state of chaos. Metaphysics! His aching body told him enough.
He dozed. He really did manage that. On his feet, weight pummeling every fiber, he dreamed.
This place outside the realms he knew brought him vibrations, mostly through his shoulders. He sensed voices and visions.
He dreamed of his labors and quests. The man-eating horses. The stables, the filthy stinking stables. The Amazon queen's girdle.
He dreamed a creature with the face of a woman, the wings of an eagle, the body of a lion, and the tail of a serpent. It promised rest and redemption for the answer to a riddle: What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening? That was a poser. He could not figure it out. The creature smiled, then trotted away, keeping the answer to itself.
Atlas, the dreams revealed, had found the horse. He led it on foot, taking all the time in the world. He won a fortune at dice and rushed to toss his winnings, one coin at a time, into the waiting laps of prostitutes in the marketplace of Babylon. The garden with the apples was nowhere near Babylon.
Hercules' stepmother Hera appeared to him, to ask his plans. He was proud of his strategy. When Atlas returned... Hera's laughter interrupted him. What made him think Atlas would ever come back? He pressed on: He would ask Atlas to hold up the globe—just for a moment, mind you—while he arranged his lionskin to pillow his shoulder—then, when Atlas took up the burden, he would walk away. Hera shrieked with merriment. "What's Plan Beta?"
His dead wife stood before him in a plain gray tunic—she, who in life so loved color and song and everything vibrant. Her honey-colored hair had faded to white in the sourceless light. He could see right through her, to the sea and the rocks. Her voice was a distant echo. He missed the laughter it used to carry.
"You don't have to do this, husband," she said.
"When you slay a houseful of innocents, your own family—yes. Yes, I have to do this."
"That wasn't you. It was Hera who drove you mad."
"The flaw was there. She found it first, that's all. Let's not talk about this now, lover! How are our children?"
"With me, in Tartarus. As you see me. Husband: if you must endure this, forget the dead. Find a living reason."
"Dear one—" But she could not stay.
The burden ground heavier with each crawling hour. It forever approached the point of breaking his back, but never quite reached it.
A living reason. Yes. He needed that.
The girl who sketched on her scroll appeared to him. Maybe she too was a dream.
****
The nymphs arrived when the light burned strong. They were many, ripe, bare-breasted. They fed him meats and fruits and wine, and little cakes flavored with honey. Maybe a little too much wine. It was almost as strong as the grapes the centaurs jugged. It left him woozy, made it harder to keep the globe hefted on his back and shoulders.
They stripped him of his lionskin. They oiled and stroked him. They sang as they decorated him with sweet garlands, wrapped daisy-chains around his maypole. They goaded his thrysos with tongues and teeth. They stood on each other's backs and waggled sassy little bottoms to impale themselves. They cried out, pulled off after their pleasure, left him unfinished.
There was not much he could do about it.
Satyrs joined them, taking turns at his tiller. Like the nymphs, they cared only for their own pleasure, barely able to conceive of another's. They stoked him to just short of a boil, like one of Hephaestus's steam-engines. They edged him towards paroxys for hours. One lay on his back, to balance a wine-drinking bowl on the tip of his priapasm. He spun the bowl, moving his hips to balance it on his shaggy tip.
Hercules grunted a laugh. "I get the feeling I'm being mocked."
"Try to balance that globe like this." The bowl tipped and spilled.
"It may come to that."
He dozed, made stupid by their wine. With a sharp bite to his flank, a gadfly woke him. Another helped itself to a generous chunk of his gloutos. The lingering bites itched in the heat like mad. The tide murmured in, a gift from Hygeia. A demigod was still part animal: his body could not help but produce exudations, and he was grateful for the cleansing flow.
Sometimes food dripped from the stars, cold and nourishing. He realized it must be from the breast of Hera, who had been tricked into nursing his infant self, the child she wanted dead. Now that skyborne spill of milk helped to sustain him again.