'Tiresias Speaks', by D.M. Rice
What they don’t tell you is that I was sixteen
when it happened. A walking disorientation of sweat
and cum. Oh, sure, everyone thinks they have some
kinda secret angle, but you can rely on a prophet
only as much as a bitch in heat. I mean, good luck
trying to keep them in line when the spirit takes. Hey,
any more wine, by chance?
Oy, vey. It's always Hermaphroditus this,
Hermaphroditus that. All talk and no context!
Who are we really talking about here? The Messenger,
Bringer of the Dead, mixed with, you know, Born of the Sea
Foam, Holy Jizz, I'm talking primordial elements and
the link between life and death here. All borders are
porous, by these powers combined, and life is right
fucking strange enough as it is without your having
to understand what you could never understand.
What's the use of even talking about it?
Fine, fine. So I'm walking the flock for pa.
I guess someone upstairs thought they'd have
a good laugh at me, and send me my first holy
vision. Yes, my first, don't be so incredulous. What's
a toga besides a dress with tits out, tell me that?
So these snakes, they're there, and just fucking
madly. Curled up into a shape just like a cunt. No, I
didn't know what it was at the time, but I take my
herding staff and poke at the cunt snakes and bam!
Right, right, this was back when I had my sight. Yes
I could see the snakes fucking, yes, I poked right into
the opening and said, Pallas Athena, What in the ever-loving
fuck, I mean really? And then these slippery shits climbed up
my staff and bit the wood, which glowed like the punch-drunk
eyes of Delphi, and I was transformed.
Sure, most people would have freaked out,
but I was well-born, raised in the cradle of Wisdom,
and, frankly, ready for anything other than having
to keep that damn flock entertained. I was always
singing songs back then, ya know, silly little numbers
about pretty girls and holy farts. My life as a teenage
dirtbag is not on trial here, ok? So besides the obvious
changes, like, my hair was soft and billowing, and the
contours of my body took on new significance. I ran
like hell to the closest river and checked myself out,
and immediately, dropped down right there and began
fiddling with my clit. Holy Mother of Zeus! You can't
believe what I felt then. Imagine blowing the fuzz
of a dandelion, over and over again, each individual
seed a sparklet of pleasure, but the flower keeps popping
buds, and you reach further and further inward until you
burst into an exhausted puddle of silvery fire. Plenty of
poets out there think they're hot shit because they compare
her skin to porcelain silk, it's bullshit. Unless they can get
on both knees and tell me about the throbbing, pulsing heat
of a well-worn fuck, the desperate overwhelming tremors
so deep you forget to fucking breathe, well they're either
amateurs or, you know.
After about an hour of that, I realise
that I'm taking the matter into my own hands,
when I could be out there having the real thing.
That's what Plato was really having you on about
when he's lecturing about forms and shadows on
cave walls. Why settle for self-pleasure and delusion
when the real thing is out there, waiting for you to mount
it. Of course consensually, lest you go the way of Hades!
So I walked the pasture, picking wild blackberries, enthralled
at their curves and details. The bulbous contours reminded me
of my new cunt. No, don't worry I can say that, I asked and they
told me yes, I definitely can. They! They did! How the berries
swell up with wet juice, spilled out over your lips with gushing
delicacy. Takes me back there just thinking about it.
What were we talking about again? Right!
So walking the pastures I come across this hot blonde
stud named Chrysanthos who was the Son of Boreas
the Elder, a friend of my father's. I always thought he was
Heaven on Earth: toned calves, broad shoulders, a tight
little ass you could sink your teeth into, always walking
around with no shirt on, making all of the scrawny punks
jealous. But even if I did think about it, and let's be honest,
I sometimes did, he was such a beefcake, I thought, he had
to be as straight as one of Apollo's golden arrows. But in this
form? Well, maybe, just maybe I stood a chance. I walked
over with all the confidence of Medusa, and spoke his name.
"Hey, Chrysanthos. It sure is a hot day out today."
He was busy tending to the gold wheat fields of his father,
swinging his scythe wildly, and hadn't noticed me.
"Oh, hello. Umm, do I know you?"
It was at that point that I realized, 'Shit!
I never thought of a name! Think fast, think fast!'
"I'm Phoebe, and I've been traveling all day
to get to Athens. Is there a bathing pool nearby
where I might be able to wash up?"
He directed me to the closest bathing pool,
between our two estates, as I had hoped. After a little
goading, I convinced him to follow me to the waters
and leave his work behind. Yes, I had converted my clothes
into a more feminine look. Maybe I just knew intuitively,
you're missing the point! This is the real saucy bit!
I dropped my gown by the river and turned around
to study his chiseled jawline further. I stepped closer
to him, whispered in his ear for him to join me and helped
pull off his toga. He did not disappoint! He dangled like a heavy
fruit on a weak vine, and the veins along his arms were fully visible.
I felt a wet heat begin to swell in me, and I threw
myself at him right then and there. His manhood pulsed
to life around my lips, and I rode him like a horse until
he came in thick spurts. He managed to pull out and
everything. A perfect gentleman, truly.
After that we bathed in the pool together.
He told me that he had fun but that he was really
more into boys, that he had only laid with me
because he thought I was a goddess.
An honest mistake, but one which sent
a pang of misery deep into my soul.
Maybe if I had just asked nicely and not
been so quick to judge I would have been
able to have him without duplicity.
Maybe we could have had something real.
There were plenty of other lays,
of course, but none so exciting as that.
I crashed out at Delphi and used mulled
wine and absinthe to kill the babies
that grew in me, just like the other girls.
We smoked mugwort and sang songs,
serious, enchanting tunes about apocalyptic
visions and the folly of men.
You have to remember that I stayed
that way for seven years. Seven years of free love,
beautiful misadventure, and feminine brotherhood.
Sisterhood? You still don't understand.
One day, after a very wild weekend, hungover
like Aries on his rival's blood, I saw a lone snake slither
in the grass. Immediately I burst out laughing and cried out,
Pallas Athena, Matron of my Curiosity, share with me your wisdom,
and let me see the truth. And with that, I was changed.
Not only changed, but aged, with a beard as long as you
see here today. Not only changed, not only aged, but,
wouldn't you know,
I was also struck blind.
This story is included in D.M.’s debut collection of short fiction, Moby Pussy. The piece has been previously published in Querencia Press’s Spring 2023 Anthology.