This is the Black Orchid, and you may surmise I disdain all mortals, only using them for my sexual yearnings. Slaves, if you will. This is only partially true. I was once married to one, named Hamlet, after Shakespeare's Prince of Danes. I found him sleeping on a park bench, under a copy of the New York Times. I bought him home with me, determined to make him one of my devotees, but he was too powerful a person to be a mere slave. He was the only mortal to ever fully satisfy my lust.
My lust is like the light of a thousand suns fading into dusk. For I am almost totally erotic. There is a human word which describes me, nymphomaniac. It is the wrong word for me. As I have said my God is Eros and I follow his precepts.
I married him in the chapel like a proper, blushing bride. He had the aspect of a God, blond, mercilessly handome, emerald green eyes like a lion basking in the sun, and erudite, a scholar of literature, and the ancient languages of Latin and Greek. Like many brilliant people, he was not skilled in the requirments of the world. He was peniiless when I found him and owned only a tattered copy of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I gave him the world, and I served his needs as only a strong woman can. I relished talking to him in the language of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. It bought back the memory of all those learned men I had known.
Yet like all people of immense beauty and charm, he had one fatal flaw. He was unfaithful. I detemined to cast him back into the boiling cauldrom of the world like a hapless goldfish flushed down a toilet. Yet, before I did, I determined to extract my vengeance. I could not kill him as I loved him beyond all that is rational. But my vengeance is not without humor. One time while he slept soundly as a hibernating bear, I painted his toenails pink and dyed his public hair a bright red, the color of a leprechaun's beard.
Then when he awoke I had tied a sash over his eyes and told him I wished to dress him for the day to show fealty to him as my master and I would not allow him to remove the blindfold untill he was completely dressed.
When he went to the gym he found out about my little joke as well as a locker room full of laughing men. To his credit,
he was too clever to confront me, and said nothing about it. I knew he had a great and fearsome fear of spiders, arachnaphobia, as he had fallen down a well as a boy that was infested with taranchulas. Just telling the tale made him break out in a sweat and tremble. I determined to place little rubber spiders in his clothes hamper, in the bathroom when he bathed, in his food, and in all the outside places he frequented. I had my acolytes follow him everywhere. At first he tried to bear it but in the end he was reduced to a nervous frenzy and could scarcely contain himself. He asked me finally if I thought it funny, never mentioning his infidelity. I said I found it "extremely amusing" and told him to leave, giving him a pretty pink gift box with a live taranchula in it.
I cast him out like a dirty dog in a storm,and I quoted Socrates, one of his favorite philosophers,
"By all means marry. If you get a good wife, you'll become happy. If you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher." CAROL ANN