Leda's Version

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

W.B. Yeats

Okay, let me get this straight. You think you know the story, right: One day this fab god shows up in a bird-suit, like right out of the blue, the hot little queen swoons. He diddles her, and later the queen finds she's got somethin' in the oven!

Well, that little hottie of a queen is me, and like I hope your mother taught you, excuse the cliché — believe half of what you see, nothing of what you hear. The tale’s been around so long everyone thinks that's how it came down. But I was there. I did that, and I got the tee shirt to prove it.

First of all, who'd fall for someone dressed like a swan, god or not? Think about it, a guy who dresses like a bird just to get laid — why? What's that say about male self-image?

Sister Sibyl said she saw our gods on their way out, like the expiration date on a quart of sour milk. But, hey, there were others coming: the Jews and Christians and Moslems, and their deities didn't care much for cosplay or even toys. All his thunder turned to bluster when I pointed this out, and I don't know, I kinda felt sorry for the big guy. It was a mercy-fuck, I guess you'd say. That brings up my point about the feathered glory. Can you say wee-wee? I had to laugh after we got it on — which got my fancy ass in a little hot water with Zeus. He played the sulking god routine, and in his best Barry White imitation voice said, "You gonna fall for the first commoner you see!"

Wham, bam, Thank you, Sir. The commoner dude was no frog but a gorgeous hunk of a sculptor who spent time felling trees and carving art. My, my! Some punishment. Zeus and I had been havin' our quickie in this bower of bliss that had all the charm of Motel 6. When I tripped out into the forest, there he was. Girls, your mother told you about stud-puppies like this, too, I hope. My objet d'lust was planing hardwood and the shavings curled off the board like his dark, tendril curls. I ditched the royal purple for a blue gown to match these diamond-eyes. I decided to take my time (this queen's prerogative) to make my lover love me right. Not act needy, know what I mean? I put my hands over his eyes, whispered, "Guess who?" Things started to heat up when he turned. After a couple of days, we finally caught our breath. I passed myself off as just a silly, rich courtesan looking for a little action. In all our summer time together, he never guessed he was slapping the royal fanny.  Someday, later, he might see me at the king's side in a royal procession; like you, he believed everything he heard. Whatever.

At Troy, my husband, King Tyndarus, and all those sycophants, I bet, were hanging around the battlements of the castle, talking about war and fighting, fighting and war... Meanwhile, back at the forest, the buds in our wild bower of bliss bloomed and in late August the flowers fell to the ground. In September of my royal lie, Sister Syb whispered, "Hey, Girl, you're pregnant. This little flingthing got to stop."

I sent my hottest wing-girl, though, to service the sculptor. Such talent as he has with tools, honey, should be rewarded. Here’s hoping she will attend him even when he’s old and blind as I will my king, Tyndarus.

Speaking of blind, before my king noticed the bulge in my belly, I decided to clue him in on my in-flight excursion with Zeus. I couldn't pass this stomach off as a beer-gut much longer. Well, Tyndarus got so geeked out that great God Zeus would be hitting on his wife, he fell to his knees on the marble floor in praise. I kept the other part hushed up, about my sculptor, then had two beautiful daughters, Clytemnestra and Helen whose beauty had all my aunts saying, "Doesn't she look just like her mother!" Think how that beauty proved what one man could do to another.

Women, poets have been writing these stories forever and poets do what they do to snatch some immortality. There's a moral in that one somewhere! Don't get your knickers in a knot about it, though. Gather pleasures the same as rosebuds when and where you can, and remember (to paraphrase another poet), Vanity, your name is Man.

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