Duxit Cynicus in porticum; ibidem, in loco celebri, coram luce clarissima accubuit, coramque virginem imminuisset paratam pari constantia, ni […] procinetu palliastri circumstantis coronae obutum magistri in secreto defendisset.

– APULEIUS, Florida

Long shadows loomed in the inner hall of her father’s household. A solitary beam of light, cast from the high window, cut the void between Hipparchia and me. I had not seen my oldest friends since my marriage, but my service to the Goddess had finally given me the leisure to visit.

“Torty-Tortoise,” I asked, “what are you doing in the middle?”

“I weave wool and Milesian thread,” she answered.

I smiled. We were spinning, not weaving, and she had not moved the spindle for some time. But we both remembered our childhood games and on seeing my grin, a smile spread across her beauteous face as well.

“Barbara?” She called out, but the servant had left us alone in the empty home. “Are you thirsty?”

I nodded, and she took me by the hand. We escaped from spindle and distaff, and she led me to the kitchen. There she ground barley in silence, but a question lingered under her midnight hair. As she handed me the stir-drink, she asked it: “Do you like it?”

“Do I like what?”

“Being married.”

“Huh.” I searched for an answer at the bottom of my cup. “He has allowed me,” I said, “to join the bees. He is generous like that.”

“But…”

“But…” I set down my beverage. “… but some things a woman cannot discuss with a maiden.”

“You are a month older than me,” she said sourly.

By way of response, I hiked up my dress. No girlish giggle came. What might have amused the Goddess, only made her smirk. “There is power,” I said, drawing on what I had learnt, “and there is bliss in the expansion of the void. To be ploughed and to be explored.” I opened my petals, and I did get the gasping giggle I desired.

“Is it fun?” She lowered herself close to my opening, and her tongue almost touched the honeyed dew.

“It is the greatest joy,” I claimed. “Nothing fills me like he does. Sometimes I touch myself, waiting, dreaming for him to come.” I stopped myself from going further. “But you are a maiden yet, and womanly things are not for you.”

“I am basically married already anyway,” she said.

“And here I heard that you are as far from a blessed union as one can be. Your father certainly will not stop complaining.”

“My father is an idiot.”

“Hipparchia!”

“But it’s true. And everyone’s gone anyway.”

“I am here. And I am a woman, and the Goddess would not…” I paused for I was unsure what my divine patron wanted. “It is not virtuous to speak about your father like that.”

“But speaking the truth is virtuous.”

“How would you know the truth, silly girl? Our virtue is our modesty, and it is modest to honour your father.” Sudden shame flushed my face, and I hurried to hide my nakedness. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Because we are women?”

“You are not a woman. Not yet. You are a silly girl. But it is as the poet said,” I said. “Apart. The god has made the mind of women apart.”

She scoffed, then grinned. “You have a gorgeous Vagina, by the way.”

“Hipparchia!”

“But this is what sets us apart.” She shrugged. “And it’s true.”

“And you shouldn’t use such language. Or think such thoughts. Your husband will be the one who is beautiful.”

Melodious laughter flowed from her sea-red lips. “You’ve got no idea. But then maybe beauty really is the good.”

“It is. And to be good is to be modest.”

“Modest like this?” She lifted her maiden dress.

“Oh Hipparchia.” I did my best to look stern, to keep looking into her crystal-deep eyes. “I shouldn’t have given you ideas. But you shouldn’t make light of the paradox of our caverns. There is – the Goddess teaches – The other bees could explain it so much better. The mysteries are not for you yet, anyway.”

“I think you are a terrific priestess. And you can look.”

“Don’t be silly.” But I did look.

She stood broad-legged, like a sailor, with her hips thrust forward. A dark grove grew around her holy place, and her fingers, like schools of adamant fishes, frolicked around the edges. “You like it?”

“No.” I cast my glance down to the floor’s marble tiles and bit my lip.

“You think I am unworthy.” Her voice trembled, and I rushed to embrace her.

“No. You are not unworthy. I… You are beautiful.” The sudden realisation of her laughing hit my gut with an icy fist. “Beast.”

She hugged me tight. “Sorry.”

“Beast!” I moved to shove her away, but my trembling hand stuck to the soft fabric draping her shoulder. “Beast.” My relieved laughter joined hers.

“You’re not angry?”

“No. Not ever.” Sisterly Love welled to my eyes, and I did not withstand her when she pressed her lips against mine.

We lingered, our tongues interwoven. Her hand on my hip had me ensnared, and I wished it was my husband who claimed me so. My weak throat betrayed me with a sheepish moan.

Her giggle cut my every fibre.

“Hipparchia!” I tried to sound stern, but failed. “Hipparchia!”

“What?” She continued the immodest exploration between her legs.

My shock did not abate, but my eyes were bound to her by divine thread. “That is not for you.”

“Because I am a maiden?”

“Because you are a maiden.”

“Yesss.” Her sibilant agreement sounded like mockery. “Show me then, wise woman. Show me the way of the bee, and of the shepherdess in the fields.”

“Hipparchia!” I protested, but there was nothing I wanted to do more. And my fingers moved by their own accord. Rather than showing, I mirrored her gentle touch. My husband was never gentle, lazy at best, and what I did to myself lacked her play. I was used to giving myself punishment as much as relief.

Her ship sailed joyous waves instead. I tied myself to her mast, and in our shared exploration I may have looked a deep-sea spirit as well. Freedom, like the ocean or the waters of the netherworld, pulled me under.

Cod shivers crept along my spine. Longing, anticipation and fear entwined. I feared punishment, and I feared discovery. A servant could return at any moment, or the house’s master might watch us, draped in shadows.

Dauntless Hipparchia’s port calmed me. The open chasm between her legs, and the smiling, soundless O from her lips. Serene shivers swelled her chest, and her soft hills rose beneath the cover. Sluttish seawater sprayed from her fingertips and pooled to the immaculate floor. Her moans challenged the good.

I whispered a hoarse, cursed reprimand. My lolling tongue, my burning body, and my fingers no longer obeyed me. Craft and handiwork were gone, replaced by desperation, by bestial need. My nipples stiffened under the desperate pricks, and down-feathered bumps covered my breasts.

I delved deep and coaxed moisture from my dead well. My moans joined hers as release spat me out. I fell to the cold floor, shaking and screaming. More pleasure crashed over me, and she looked down on me, cloaked in divine radiance.

“Ss- stay!” she said. “You look soo enchanting. I just wanna…”

Nectar surges hit my face. “Hipparchia!” I protested, but honey taste reawakened my questing fingers. She descended, lowered herself to meet me. I stretched out my tongue in greed, but stopped myself before I could commit this final transgression.

“I only wish…” She came. Magnificent shivers exploded her body. Tempestuous elation clouded her face. The urge to touch, to kiss, almost overwhelmed me.

But I crawled away. What happened behind her closed eyes, what I had almost done filled me with sweetest dread. “We should not have done that,” I said. Raised to unsteady legs, I hid away my nakedness.

“Maybe.”

“I’m glad you agree,” I said. “This is not what I meant to teach you.”

“Thank you, anyway. You are a great teacher. Even if what we did was immodest.”

I did not kiss her knowing smile. You are welcome.

“Anyway…” She ordered her disheveled dress. “Do you still think I oughta marry?”

No.

“Yes,” I said.

“You are right.” She dipped her toe into her puddle and drew a letter. “Better be a wild dog than what can never be.” She turned to leave. “Come. You can help me.”

I agreed, though the words stung in my throat. Whatever her plan, I would help her. Whatever she needed, I would help.

*

We walked the market arm in arm. Two young women venturing out of the home, emboldened by youthful folly.

Slaves and well born men alike strolled from stall to stall as merchants and foreigners praised their wares. I bought some grapes, and shared them with my – my friend. We ambled past peddlers and amulet scribes, our lips inky with fruit juice.

“There,” Hipparchia said.

I had expected, hoped, and feared perfumers and sellers of pale lead. Her father would have paid for the finest wedding gown, but she chose an outfitter catering to half-citizens and labourers.

“Noble ladies,” the merchant said. His accent betrayed his origin across the sea, and he seemed unsure whether to solicit us or to compliment us away.

Hipparchia harboured no hesitation. She selected a rough cloak, a staff, a straw hat, and what a comedian or a beggar might call household goods. We paid less than half my allowance for it all.

“What next?” I asked.

She donned her hat, but carried her other possessions bundled into the cloak’s fabric. Not so much a rustic farm-girl, but an actor playing one. “Let us walk and linger.” Popping a grape, she led us away from the market and to a low wall behind the men’s sport-hall. “Let us sit here and talk. I am not yet ready to do the deed.”

I let her rest her head on my shoulder as I recited a few lines I had attempted to write, a sad mimic of the Poetess’ style. Though trite the topic, Hipparchia professed to like my verse. I hugged her. The amiable silence could not last.

“Your husband,” she asked, “he fucks you only in your room?”

“Yes.” I considered modesty, but the warm weight of memory closed that chapter fast. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I do wonder…”

“Oh, Hipparchia, you’ll…” I paused, my eyes drawn down to her bundle. The mysterious strands of her actions did not yet compile into a meaningful whole, but I did not feel confident in telling her that she would soon experience the quiet in her Wife‘s bedroom. “It is private,” I said instead.

“I thought we were beyond modesty.”

I sighed. “It is a private place. My bedroom is. And – yes – modest. No slave would intrude upon the coupling. It is only me and him. It can be nice.”

“Boring?”

“No.” The weight of her body made me reconsider. “It is what it is.” I paused and then asked the dreaded question: “What do you want?”

She rose and took my hand. “You’re in luck then. I’m ready, and I’m going to show you.”

*

Gay lyres could be heard long before we reached the manse. Her brother had been my first crush – the first man I had fallen for. His fabled home hosted artists and rhetoricians, were my drab domicile hosted merchants and boredom.

Men of words, and men of wisdom could not wish for a more generous – or more handsome – patron. Even the city’s highborn, my husband and their father included, did not spurn Metrocles’ hospitality. I had dreamt of visiting his feasts, but modesty and unspoken command had kept me away.

Hipparchia entered the house without shame. Music and debate filled the inner courtyard, but I stopped at the threshold.

“I’m going in,” Hipparchia whispered.

“Should I?” I held her hand.

“Your husband is here,” she said.

“Do you not want me to stand by you?”

She hugged me. We stayed, pressed against one another, and I imagined pulling her back to treacherous safety.

“I should do this alone,” she said, with finality, and crossed inside.

All sounds stopped, and even the musicians quieted their strings. Only the philosopher Crates, after casting a cursory glance at her, continued his speech, a lecturing finger raised against the heavens.

“Hipparchia!” Her father found his words and screamed loud enough to shut up the ascetic. “What are you doing here?”

“Father. Brother. Good people of the city,” she said, “I’ve come to marry.”

“Hipparchia, dear, this is not the place, nor the time, for such matters. We shall talk tomorrow, and we shall discuss the most worthy suitors. I really think you should consider…”

“Father, I have considered, and I have decided. I will marry that one.” She pointed at the philosopher.

A deep crimson coloured her father’s face. Muffled laughs mixed with the shocked gasps. And the philosopher, smiling, approached the high table.

“You!” Speckles of spit showered Hipparchia and her husband to be. “You will not! And you,” he trained his eyes at Crates, “you talk her out of it.”

“As you command.” Crates affected an exaggerated bow. “Noble Lady, this is your bridegroom.” He stepped in front of my friend and threw his staff and bindle to her feet. “And this is his property.” He stripped off his shirt and added it to the meagre pile. “Consider well.”

He was abhorrent in his nakedness. A hump of discoloured flesh grew on his hunched back, covered by a thin fur of shaggy hair. And under the disgusted scrutiny of the assembly, his misshapen prick hardened.

“Have you no shame?” Wine and anger slurred her father’s words.

“That is rather the point,” the philosopher replied and gave his cock a tug.

“daughter, I am sorry you had to see this. But maybe we did not have another choice. Will you please go home now?”

“It is only fair,” Hipparchia said, ignoring her father, “that you should see my riches. I own this knife, this stave, this bowl, and a bundle to store food.” She laid out the items on the floor. “I have the clothes on my back, and you may claim what is underneath.” She lifted the hem of her maiden dress.

Her father screamed with incoherent rage. No one else spoke as Wife-to-be and philosopher measured each other, inch by naked inch. Then he took her hand, and – at the host’s sign – the music started up again. He led her away.

A wild tribe took to the city’s street. Behind the couple, dancing in front, drums and flutes played a wailing song. Melancholic harps followed, and after them the revelers, shocked and laughing and drunk on wine. I brought up the rear, their cloaks in hand. Hers already carried her scent.

More and more joined us on our way to the market square. Soon I walked surrounded by drunks and gawkers, among slaves and courtesans. Some had caught glimpses of the naked philosopher, and others speculated about the gorgeous woman by his side.

A wave of shock and drunk celebration washed back to us. After a few more steps, I passed her dress, discarded and trampled to the ground. Picking it up as well, I hurried after her. I could hear them ahead.

But I could not see them yet. The crowd formed a half-circle, a wall. But, beyond their thronging life, I heard Hipparchia’s moans. They did not part for me, and I had to run the circle’s edges until I finally saw them.

His cock was a misshapen thing indeed; not as crooked as his back, but bulged in all the wrong places and mottled with veins. Filled with blood it looked like it might burst inside her and Shower her with his fetid life.

He thrust into her innocent body from behind, and I could only watch. His wheezing moans made me shiver. And she joined her voice to his whenever his bony fingers clawed her hills, whenever his bulging length invaded her to the core.

“Like dogs,” someone said, and laughed – as if something smart had been said. Another, an avid follower of the philosopher’s ideas or drunk beyond all reason, had pulled out his cock and pleasured himself in our sight. To the sight of my friend’s virginity fucked to shreds.

I could no longer stand idle. I took the cloak, his larger cloak, and I approached them. The coarse fabric gave them only a shred of protection, and none against me. I looked down at him entering her modesty. Again and again. And I could not look away.

“Noble Lady.” The ugly man stopped manhandling his Wife long enough to greet me by showing me his cock, slick from her pleasure. He rubbed it and spat on the purple tip. “A valiant gesture, but unnecessary.”

I almost dropped the curtain, and I almost fled.

“Thank you,” Hipparchia said, “for everything.” Her eyes were fire, and her eyes were deepest wells. She mocked me with her words, as she had with her joyous moans. But she took my hand. And I could not look away. He looked a mangy cur with drool flecked flews and yellowed, canine teeth. She laughed when his tongue profaned her temple.

I shuddered.

Like a fish-tailed ocean spirit, she pulled me under. I still held our cover, but I rocked with his movement. Her open mouth found mine. My husband, a broken image, broke through the spume of my mind, and I wondered of our cold couplings.

Despite his health, and despite his beauty, he would fumble in the dark. I longed to be fulfilled. And her ensorcelled hands were everywhere, and I licked honeyed nectar from her fingertips. I hid our kisses with the cloak, and in doing so, I knowingly revealed the abuse of her Sex to the mob.

The philosopher kissed his Wife, and he took my hand. No yellow jealousy discoloured his clear eyes. Fascination vanquished dread, and I pulled him towards me. We kissed. My hand wandered down, and I grasped his gnarled stick. It quivered under my touch, and formed a lewd outline in the cloth. I plunged him back into her burning depths.

Hipparchia’s moans I opened my legs. The cloak wavered, and I hurried to put back the screen before her head disappeared under my dress. She did not withhold her tongue, and I let her. Need bubbled within, my husband forgotten. She rocked me with his thrusts.

I longed to touch her. To cup her breasts, and to explore down the length of her back. I would even touch him, would even run my fingers through the fur on his heaving chest. And I longed for her tongue to stay inside me forever. But behind us, the philosopher started to shake.

Shivering, shying away, I saw him explode. Hipparchia’s bell-like laughter tolled across the square. She slammed him into her cave; twice and once again.

“Wife.”

By his call, she fell to her knees. She rested her head against my tomb, and slid her hand past the entrance. “Husband.” She caught his second eruption on her face and hair.

“Thank you, Wife.” He took her hand, and he kissed her mouth. “See you later?” He offered me his hand, and then walked off to the side. He pissed against a column, and the crowd dispersed with his stream.

“Fuck.” Hipparchia took my hand and led me into darkness. I drank salt from her lips, and we whispered our goodbyes with our hands between each other’s legs.

But my own husband awaited me at the edge of the marketplace. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to his home, all the way raving about my depraved friend. I should not see her again, lest I be infected by further impropriety. He cursed Crates’ false philosophies, and he threw me down on my bed like a discarded garb.

Raving still, he took me. He called out Hipparchia’s name as he entered me, and again when he spent himself. Anger feigned confidence, and I did not mind the comparison. Nor the power. And the Goddess smiled on him casting broad over a once-dead field.

*

I found her again late the next day. The cool evening breeze swept away the smells of the dying market day. Her husband had left, to beg or to teach, and we sat together in the twilight. Two old friends, now married both.

“Do you Love him?” I asked.

“Well…” She let the syllable linger for an eternity as we looked across the empty column-hall. “A dog must Love her man.”