Crystalline, Of The Vine
by Wendy

Dionysus is alive and well in these ever so modern times. Meanads and satyrs still dance and fuck like before, like always. In some ways, humanity is Dionysus.

God of the wine. God of the dance. God of sex. Lord of pleasure, prince of lust. Desire personified. Not a petty godling. Not a kindly bearded man.

Dionysus is beautiful. Young and golden. Golden. Like gold his hair, his skin, his amoral eyes. He moves like silk and he is pure fire within. To see him is to know the divine. To see him is to be blinded to all else, to all others. When you see him, you are undone.

I saw him in the face of my third lover, back in the days when I kept count. He reached out of his eyes and spoke out of his voice. In those times, I thought it was the man. Now I know it is the God, and I know that the time we spent meant nothing to anyone but me. Yet I continue to worshp him with my dreams and my hands, tongue, skill. And I seem to have acquired some of his worship for myself.

They look at me these boys and girls, these children, with mixed passion and fear. And with unmistakeable awe. I walk amongst them, hand trailing through hair, patting ribbons, straightening clothes. I am father and lover.

Soon I will move on. I had twenty, thirty years of eyes and hands and moving the head just so. Ancient games, ancient. Older than ages and these youngsters learn from me. They see me, they try me on others. I like the idea of there being many of me all over the world.

But the fates are fickle and the gods play with us mortals.

I met him for the second time, Dionysus. This last night, I beheld a young man whose very essence cried divine. He sang to me.

Hands clasped around the microphone, lips straining to spill the words, tongue wrapped round them lovingly. He knew the effect he had. He loved the groupies, the screaming girls at his feet. he knows he has yet to beckon and he'll have all the worship he can stand.

Yet he sang to me.

His eyes flicked to the guitarist. A slender sprite of a satyr, yet I see more of the beast within. he knows too of the divinity standing next to him. Standing? Not merely standing, possesing that space, ruling the stage. He, I think, has worshiped my Dionysus. No, I know. The guitarist's eyes flash back at him.

I don't know why I am in this place, much more than I know why this dreadfully delightful town keeps dragging me back. I think it is the youth that brought me here. I have always liked youth. So much innocence to be destroyed. And the fact that the Slayer hangs around here, reputedly. And whre the Slayer goes, so goes dearest Ripper. They are not here, but bright Dionysus is and I want of him.

I slip backstage and wait. Not for long. their set was ending, for these school cildren do not stay out long after dark. I smile out of the shadows.

"Ethan. Ethan Rayne. I m associated with Circe Music (LA)."

The guitarist pushes his way to the front of the band.

"I know you. I've seen you before," says he.

Damned werewolf, think I. And I lie, in that second natured way. I had to become a good liar, you know, to protect myself. My favourtite lie, naturally, is of course I love you.

"I've been around. You guys have improved greatly over the last few years." I talk my record label persona to them. It is an old friend, quite a favourite of mine. Got me backstage at all sorts of gigs. I see it convincing them, and offer to take them to a place we can talk.

"Now?" says my dionysiac lead singer. Devon. His name comes unbidden. Unspoken is the knowledge that there are around twenty girls still crowded around the stage, merely wanting him.

I look him in the eyes. He glows, imperceptibly almost.

"I do the speaking for the band," he says, not so stupid as his lust would suggest. "It'd be just me you'd be dealing with."

Oh fuck I think, lapsing into an all mighty state of profanation and of fright. Oh fuck he knows. Oh fuck, I don't care. And I'm right.

We are alone. The world does not exist. There is me, there is him. There is the bed. The bed is more than an island, it is a fortress, a prison.

I'm on my knees for once, and he sways above me, in me. With every breath there is a thrust. With the quickening pace, his groans grow louder. His hands hold me and I know I am old. I am old and I am worn and unable to move. Already his clever mouth has worked his magic on me. I have worshipped him with mine.

He has finished. He has pleasured himself. I have pleasured him. I look into his eyes once more and know that this time I'll be allowed to leave.

The fates are fickle and the gods play with us mortals. The next time, the third time we meet, I will die. We all have to pay the piper in the end.


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