Hercules, Omphale and the Redoubtable Wives of Bath
(Part 1- The Candidate)
For murdering his friend Iphitus in a fit of madness, Hercules was sold as a slave to Omphale, Queen of Lydia who made him her lover. While in her service he grew effeminate, wearing women’s clothes and adornments, and spinning yarn. Teasing him, Omphale wears his lion’s skin and holds the club. Hercules’s humiliation before a Barbarian Queen was so demeaning to the Greeks that it was Hellenistic times before the iconography of this myth of male shame became apparent. In Renaissance and particularly Baroque painting it illustrates the vision of woman’s dominion over man.
“Few men walk this earth at a height of 6 feet 7 inches,” Claire was reminding us with mounting excitement.
Like an art curator extolling the perfection of Michelangelo’s David, Claire stood next to Peter with a hand extended towards the blushing subject of her praises.
“Being held within Peter’s enormous arms,” she sighed, in summation of her proposal, “everything is just.. well.. so very lovely!”
Clasped firmly behind his back, the immensity of Peter’s hands was a revelation yet to be experienced by the invited company of women seated before him. His bronze complexion glowed against the pure white, cotton shirt adorning his muscular torso, its crisp folds gathered within a pleasing waistline of slate-grey, pleated trousers. Shyly maintaining a respectful bow towards a council of female curiosity, his attentive stance was trying in vain to hide a handsome countenance. Only tantalizing glimpses of his stunning smile could be observed. The sheer enormity of his physical presence filled the otherwise spacious drawing room of Claire’s Regency, Edinburgh apartment.
“Moreover,” Claire sought to inform us, “Peter has a persuasive way of instilling a woman’s confidence in her boundless capacity to accommodate more than she ever thought possible.”
Stood next to this giant of a man, in her high heels, Claire was a mere poppet within Tinker Bell’s skirts. Such was the scale of Peter’s virtual omnipresence, the breathing of all four women, not least my own, was occasionally found wanting.
A moment’s silence passed as Claire’s guiding hand came to rest upon the crisp cotton of Peter’s shirtfront. The spectacle filled my senses with the warmth of his body permeating its fabric, electrifying Claire’s fingertips as she traced the firm contours of living sinew, muscle and hot-blooded flesh beneath.
“His strength, gentleness and adoring nature,” she sighed coyly, by way of conclusion, “commend him highly for the position of Hercules,”
With reluctance, Claire’s wanton hands followed her withdrawal, taking hold of the hem of her dress as she finally took her seat with the assembled group.
I can’t remember when our gatherings had evolved from girls’ nights out to something more akin to ladies’ nights in but, as women approaching our post thirty-something years, we had perhaps come to appreciate the vitality to be enjoyed from an orderly, satisfying and blissful home life. The intensity of our focus was through a lens of maturity with less time to waste, our unity of purpose, born of a consideration of what our future womanhood might look like.
Clearly, I was not alone in my excitement at meeting Peter. The prospect had each of us making more than an effort with our appearance that evening. Like debutantes on a first date, we were dressed to the nines. Unique among the company, I had chosen to wear a silk-lined, floral print, chiffon dress whose capacious hemline extended to my mid calf. In their short, shift dresses of varying pastel shades, the rest of my friends were displaying more leg than a row of performing showgirls. The situation left me feeling rather virtuous.
“Would anyone like to ask Peter a question?” Claire asked.
I looked at Jane and Kate still pouring over their notes.
“Ah! Amanda?” Claire prompted, looking at me to open the interview.
“Forgive me, Peter,” I found myself saying, “but, how did you get to be so.. so very big?”
“The answer to that is more than I know, my Lady,” Peter replied with a satisfying air of humility. “These are the cards I was dealt.”
“And, do you like the hand you were given?” I felt compelled to inquire.
“Why, yes, ma’am,” he answered, pausing for a moment. “Although, I suppose we all have moments of imagining what it must be like to be what we are not.”
“Really?” I exclaimed with interest.
Peter shuffled on the soles of his highly polished shoes.
“Peter, darling,” Claire intervened. “Amanda is inviting you to elaborate. Don’t be shy.”
A collective gasp could be heard when the enormity of the cradling hands emerging from behind Peter’s back came into view. I confess, my first thoughts fell upon the salacious imaginings of how exquisitely diminutive my otherwise ample, DD breasts would have felt caressed within their mighty grasp.
“I have often harbored a desire to be small, my Lady,” Peter announced apprehensively.
“Like a mouse?” I suggested.
“Perhaps not what I had in mind, ma’am,” Peter said, looking into my eyes for the first time.
His spellbinding, azure irises were portals to a sea of love in which I was free to bathe. It was the briefest of glimpses but I was unprepared for the beauty of the soul within those iridescent eyes.
“You mean more petite?” I advanced.
“Yes, my Lady,” Peter affirmed.
“More dainty? Nubile?” I went on, associating my words.
“Indeed, my Lady!” Peter exclaimed, his shimmering eyes now glistening like starlight.
“Prettier? Voluptuous? Feminine?” I continued to question.
Like droplets of dew, swollen tears clung to his lower eyelashes until the flood defenses of machismo gave way to the gentle rivers of grief I could see trickling down the flawless beauty of a giant’s unflinching face.
“Your resume tells me you served in the forces,” Kate observed, changing the subject.
“That’s correct, my Lady,” Peter responded swiftly, “Royal Marines.”
“A Green Beret,” I reflected. “A commando, no less.”
“Special Boat Service,” Peter confirmed, “Captain Peter Howieson, at your service, ma’am.”
“Well! Rule Britannia!” Jane declared, breaking her silence with a clap of her hands.
“Her Majesty has seen fit to bequest us one of her elite,” she quipped, crossing her legs with impeccable grace, in a dress that was, to me, indistinguishable from a baby-doll nightdress.
“But, in all seriousness, Peter,” I continued in earnest, “whilst I have every faith in Claire’s skillful ability to furnish us with candidates of the highest caliber, I am struck by the authentic success behind your credentials. I mean to say, your service is one of a highly decorated officer and a gentleman.”
A lingering gaze upon the perfection of his form gave me pause for thought.
“I’m sure I’m not alone in my admiration of your overt assets and subtler charms,” I continued to murmurs of approval, “but what brings you to your desire to serve in our elite, if modest, little outfit?”
“My active service taught me about the futility of war,” Peter imparted solemnly. “Since I left the marines, I have devoted my life to breaking the bonds of patriarchy and doing all I can for the empowerment of women.”
“In the theater of battle, you appear to have undergone something of an epiphany,” I suggested.
“If I may say so, ma’am, war is a failure of male power,” Peter asserted, “and a grotesque abuse of women.”
“Feeling as you do, you must have endured much,” I put to him.
“Outweighed, by far, by the suffering of women, ma’am,” Peter whispered, reflectively.
“Was there any woman in particular who made an impression on you?” Kate asked.
“There was, my Lady,” Peter divulged. “During the civil war in Sierra Leone, it was my privilege to meet an aid worker, an extraordinary young woman who changed my life.”
“Women who change the lives of men have stories we love to hear,” I prompted him. “Do tell us more.”
“Lady Florence was the bravest, kindest person I ever encountered, her beauty, beyond compare,” Peter revealed. “Upon her return to the UK, I resigned my commission and made it my sole purpose in life to support and serve her. For four wonderful years, it was my honor to be her household servitor and principal concubinary beau.”
“Well!” I exclaimed. “It would appear that fortune favors the brave. Florence is a lucky lady.”
“My Lady is too kind,” Peter responded bashfully.
“Where is Florence now?” inquired Kate, clearly curious to know more about the extraordinary woman for whom Peter was merely one of an unknown number of concubinary beaus.
“My Lady moved to New York, ma’am,” Peter informed with a hint of regret. “Lady Florence has taken up a position as Senior Advisor to the United Nations.”
“Lady Florence sounds like a woman of substance, ambition and influence,” I suggested.
“That would be correct, ma’am,” Peter confirmed with some pride.
“And, did your Lady go to New York alone?” asked I, my curiosity in Florence now rising as high as Kate’s.
“My Lady took one other,” Peter said with downcast eyes, “A woman in Lady Florence’s position attracts a degree of media interest. Given my size, it was thought that my additional presence might be too obvious, a burdensome complication to the management of my Lady’s media profile.”
“That must have saddened you,” I put to him.
“Indeed, my Lady,” said the giant in faltering tones, “but I have never doubted my Lady’s authority to act in my best interests. My faith in Lady Florence and all in whom she trusts is unshakable. It is because of her, I was placed in the service of Lady Claire.”
“This is so,” Claire sought to confirm. “Peter was, quite literally, a birthday present, from Flo to me, shortly before she left.”
“She assured me he came with guaranteed solvency, obedience, servitude and complete satisfaction,” Claire felt compelled to append. “She was not wrong.”
“Now, here you are, Peter,” I put to him, “before your nominator, Lady Claire and an interview panel of three other women, here to judge your merits, discuss your suitability and decide upon your fate. How does that make you feel?”
“My Lady, I find this more frightening than the field of battle,” Peter confessed, “but, as I said earlier, I have unshakable faith in my Lady’s choices for me and trust in the authority of all in whose service she has placed me.”
“Don’t you feel trapped by your inability to make your own choices?” I asked. “Aren’t you denying your own free will?”
“Of course, my Lady,” Peter reacted matter-of-factually. “Denial is good for a man’s soul. Some of us have learned that, unlike the boundlessness of being a woman, for mere men, the notion of free will is an illusion. Being at the mercy of my Lady’s intent, and of those in whom she has placed her trust, has been the greatest odyssey of my life.”
“A life,” I put to him, “whose only encumbrance is the inadequacy of being a man?”
“Quite, my Lady,” Peter confirmed.
At this point in the proceedings, a haze of the softest mint-green silk swayed beneath a veil of black chiffon as, rising to her feet, the hem of Kate’s short, shift dress levitated then descended to its new altitude. Her rose-gold, strappy sandals raised her heels by a full four inches, lifting up her flouncing dress hem even further from the ground. Between, stood her smooth, long, lissome legs, within whose promising ascent lay the very gateway to heaven. She walked towards Peter, then around him.
“It is to your credit that you are capable of satisfying the unremitting demands of one such as Lady Claire,” Kate considered, her eyes focused on the center of her radial walk, “but you must remember there are four of us, each with our own, unique requirements. You will be working as part of an elite team whose sole purpose on earth will be our sexual gratification. Do you think you are good enough?
“May I leave it to my referees, Lady Claire and Lady Florence to bear testament to my adequacy?” Peter asked. “By all accounts, I thrive best as a team player.”
“Yes,” Kate ruminated, taking her seat once more. “Your references are impeccable. Lady Florence, it seems, can’t praise your talents highly enough.”
“Yes!” I seconded. “She has provided us with astonishing insights. The depth of her detail is expressed with such vivid clarity.”
“Lady Claire’s reference also makes for compelling reading,” Jane noted. “However, one look at the spring in her step and the blush of her cheeks says it all really.”
“I am especially drawn to what Lady Florence refers to as your intuitive, team-playing talents,” I posed.
“If it pleases my Lady, like Lady Claire, Lady Florence has often complimented me on my natural ability to share in the veneration of her presence,” Peter spoke, as one with confidence in the mastery of his craft.
“As you may be aware, Peter,” I sought to clarify, “Lady Claire is proposing you for the concubinary role of Hercules in our intended little ‘stud harem’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter responded. “Lady Claire has enlightened me in some detail.”
“Then you will be aware the ‘stud harem’ was an idea that was muted to universal approval at least a year ago,” I posed by way of introducing my synopsis. “It was to be a holy trinity of love gods whose extraordinary gifts were to be at the disposal of each of the four co-founders of The Woman First Institute.”
“That’s us,” I clarified, rearranging my dress. “The harem’s stand-by availability was designed to be an on-demand, emergency provision of limitless ecstasy upon which, any one of we four women could call at times of high pressure, melancholia, menstruation, sheer horniness or plain, simple boredom.”
“As women with titanic ambitions in life,” I went on to say, letting my dress hem fall again, “we know the vital importance of accessible, de-stressing therapies, whose efficacy falls nothing short of divine intervention. After much deliberation, we decided on the gods, Hercules, Priapus and Adonis, the attributes of whom, candidates would be obliged to possess.”
“Splendid,” Jane remarked out of the blue, agog since setting eyes on Peter. “That leaves just one matter..”
To be continued…
