I’m the ultimate mother fucker. A little way to my right two satyrs are playing a complicated game involving dice, drinking and visciously whipping a nymph with a braided leather cord. What’s true love next to that level of narcissism? I’m tempted to stay and play with my more capricious subjects, but I’m in a wistful mood. My love for the maenads isn’t simple lust. The wine is excellent, of course, rich and red. They murmur gently as I tenderly lay my are across them. All the gods are me. I’m myself of course, gushing seed into Ariadne’s hot little quim, but I’m Ariadne too. There’s probably an element of female desire in there – their dicks are enormous and they never go soft – but there’s something else at work too. More than a morsel, actually – a decent meal. Here’s the essence of the matter. I head back towards my pavilion. Maybe the hairy dipsomaniacal rapists exist to make mortal men feel like they’re better than some uniquely bad alternative.
