Dr. Perry Sussman re-read the final paragraph of his article one last time:
“And so we see that the myth of Medusa, the gorgon goddess who turned men to stone, was created out of men’s sexual fears. The fear of castration, the fear of women’s sexual power, all summed up in the goddess with the hair pictured as phallic snakes being beheaded. The power and beauty of her still-obscure origins have been lost to us moderns by this unfair perversion.”
“That is just so sweet,” came a dulcet voice from behind.
Startled, Perry whirled. His surprise at discovering he wasn’t alone was nothing compared to his amazement at the sight across from him.
At the other side of the bedroom stood a woman. Was it just his imagination, or was her dark-brown skin glowing? Her wide eyes seemed to glow as well. Or maybe it was just her smile; the full, full lips curled upwards, exposing the deep dimples beneath her high cheekbones.
His gaze drifted downwards. Her luscious body was barely contained by the saffron-yellow garment she wore, a fawn skin that hugged every curve. Her bare legs were smooth and endless. But most amazing of all was her hair, a great mane of black curls that tumbled around her naked shoulders, down her back, almost to her knees.
“I…uh…how did you…what are you doing here?” he managed to sputter out.
“I loved your article,” she cooed.
“How did you…my article? How do you know about my article?”
“I’ve been watching you write it, of course,” she said. “What would you expect?”
“What would I expect? What do you mean? Who
are
you?!”
“Medusa,” she said with a bright smile. “May I sit down?”
Perry stared at her a moment, afraid to move. Even if she was insane, she seemed harmless. And not many lunatics were half that gorgeous. Just the sight of her made him feel dizzy.
“Uh…sure. Have a seat,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, perching on the bed. That wasn’t a good idea, thought Perry, as he grew dizzier at the better view of her full breasts and long legs. Maybe talking instead of looking would be better.
“You realize Medusa is just a myth, don’t you,” he began.
She laughed, a wonderful musical laugh. “Oh, now, Dr. Sussman, I thought you were a professor of mythology. You must know that all myths have their origins in fact. Isn’t that what you teach your students?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“I thought you would want to know mine.”
“Your origins?”
“”Yes. I love what you wrote about me. ‘Sexual.’… ‘Powerful.’… ‘Object of awe and reverence’…Such sweet things to say.” She smiled again, showing off her deep dimples. “I came here to thank you. But as long as I’m here, I might as well give you some background. Strictly off the record, of course. I don’t know where you could get corroboration, anyway.”
“Of course,” said Perry. “Go right ahead.” This was getting stranger, but he wondered what she’d have to say. He sat down beside her. Another bad idea, he thought. She had the most wonderful sweet scent. It was distracting, but he tried to concentrate.
“I was an African sex goddess,” she began.
“A fertility goddess?” interrupted Perry.
“No, no,” she said. “There were other gods for that. I was a sex goddess. My worship was among women. If they were sexually frustrated or unsatisfied, they would pray to me or make me an offering.”
“And you would cure their frigidity? Well, that…”
She scrunched up her pretty nose with distaste. “Frigidity? Now,
there’s
a myth! There’s no such thing as frigidity in women. All they really need is a man who has the skill and the staying power. I am
