The wind had rushed about my ears for days, and it carried the unmistakable rancor of males. Lounging on my divan, I peered out the window and saw a woebegone ship ram into my pristine pearly shores. About twenty men staggered out and trudged through my fields, smashing my plants, and frightening my friends. Zeus! How I abhor these callous invasions! But of course, an immortal of my cunning has to possess a debilitating defense. I’m not heartless; instead of dispatching them, I have concocted a potion that lets them live as the animals they are. After greeting each one, I administer this phial in the form of honeyed wine. If a man is kind, loyal, intelligent, and moral, he remains in his human form. If a man is noble and brave yet flawed, he becomes an eagle or a lion. However, my brew transforms most men into the form of the male chauvinist pigs they embody. Clever and just, wouldn’t you say?
I digress; let me continue with my story. After the ship crashed, I rose, bathed in fragrant oils, and donned my most provocative clothing to meet the new additions to my menagerie. I opened the door and the men’s jaws unhinged; obviously, they hadn’t seen a woman in ten years. It didn’t require much cajoling to herd them inside and get them something cool to drink. As you might imagine, my reliable drug transformed them all into exceptionally stinky, mud-encrusted, swine.
The next day, their captain appeared at my doorstep, stomping around like he owned the place. I led him inside and proffered my special drink, deciding he would be transformed into a crafty fox—yet my potion had no effect. Was he really that admirable? Hardly. He drew his sword on me, a delicate defenseless girl; so much for chivalry. Well, I could play at fencing with him. At the snap of my fingers, a blade appeared, and we parried for a bit. Of course the mystery man was awestruck, but I’ve got to admit that his fighting prowess and resistance to my potion impressed me. Intrigued, I swooned daintily on the tiles and pretended that he had disarmed me. Looking into his eyes, the prediction of my kinsman Hermes struck me—this was the great war champion Odysseus whose guile and strength were renowned among mortals. In that case, I decided, it would take minimal effort to enthrall and conquer him completely.
Reaching out as if to caress his hair, I breathed “Stay here and tarry with me,” while suppressing my hoot of laughter. Odysseus exhibited some negligible concern about his comrades: “I can’t do this...my men...” I mustered my most seductive gaze, and he relented, “Well, if you tell me you won’t try any spells, then that’s O.K.” I prepared a great bubble bath for the hero, massaged his shoulders, and set him on a fancy chair. Odysseus was having a grand old time until I murmured, half-mockingly, “Too bad your fellows can’t join us.” Suddenly, his face contorted into a noble mask of sadness and loyalty. Stoically refusing any delicacies, he demanded that I release his companions.
Fine. All these pigs were horrifically bothersome to feed and clean. I transformed them back into humans, performing a favor for females of the species by rendering them younger, taller, and better-looking. What happened next astounded me in its hilarity. The men embraced each other like reunited lovers; rivers of tears poured down from their cheeks as they kissed the ground. Some started dancing, stomping around and shattering my Aegean seashell collection, others sang raucous, indecent drunken ditties. The cacophony of laughter and sobs filled the room; I couldn’t help chortling at these insane mortals. I managed to disguise my amusement as pity and wonderment as I begged Odysseus to bring out the rest. Soon, more demented rejoicing filled the halls as the second batch of men arrived. Finally, I managed to quell my sense of humor and told Odysseus, “enough of the weeping fits.” Unable to endure the crew’s stench, I gave all of them new clothes and forced them to bathe.
After talking with Odysseus, I mused, “Doesn’t he have to hurry home to his picturesque little island and lovely little wife?” I wondered how much of a spell I had cast on these mortal males. So I drew Odysseus to me, and whispered in my huskiest voice, “Remain with me.” That’s it; his poor wife didn’t have a chance. Actually, I began to pity her and hope she would have more self-respect than to take this man back into her home.
Anyway, the summer passed and I grew tired of providing succour to these undeserving freeloaders. It was time to send them back to Ithaca. I sought out a man who seemed like a higher form of a pig—a wild boar, perhaps—and persuaded him that Odysseus should embark for their homeland. That night, Odysseus started waxing overly sentimental about his birthplace, and I encouraged him to go back. Yet I realized that I had become attached to this egotistical, blundering man and his swinish crew. Genuinely concerned, I gave him sage advice and instructions on surviving the passage through the Dead Lands.
I never saw any of them past that day. Hermes has brought me some gossip about his wife's numerous "other men," and his life as a tramp in rags, but I’ll never forget that comic mortal Odysseus.
