Tuesday, August 14, 2012

More Life With Ares





More life with Ares


By Libby Simons



*~*~*



    So we`ve established that living with a Greek god is a hoot, right? The cold cabbage rolls episode should have given you a slight idea of what I deal with on a daily basis. We won`t even get into the choking your chicken comment he made a day after arriving. Suffice it to say I still snicker when I think about it. Not all of our encounters are played out for the citizens of Pride County, Pennsylvania to witness though, thank the gods.

   Some are innocent statements, made in the quiet relaxation of our home in the Laurel Highlands. Many revolve around television, a new and wondrous discovery that keeps Ares riveted. I`m beginning to hate ESPN with a passion, because if there is one thing a god of war and battle-lust craves, it`s physical pursuits, and yes, I`m waggling a naughty brow. Take last night for example…


    We were curled up on the couch after a long day of barn cleaning. Those of you with farm animals know how exhausting pitching manure with pitchforks is. Those of you who don`t live the rural dream, well, you`ll just have to take my word about how demanding a job mucking a barn is.

   After a quick dinner of cold ham, potato pancakes, and some chocolate cupcakes for dessert, the behemoth and I showered and dropped like bags of Arkansas rocks to the sofa in our pajamas. Ares was in a pair of cut-off fleece pants, and I was wearing a tiny green camisole top and matching shorts. I had curled up under Ares` heavy arm. He had the remote. Yes, that affliction affects immortal as well as mortal males. He was flipping channels, another malady of those who carry the Y gene.

   “Look, Bunting, there is a replay of a football game from the year nineteen and seventy-four,” my man drooled, stalling on that damned ESPN again. “I enjoy this game greatly, do you not?” he asked and stared at the screen.

   “Not really,” I confessed with a yawn, “Can`t we find something both of us want to watch?”

    He peeked down at me all comfy cozy against his side. “What is there not to like about football? Men run, leap, crash into each other at high velocity, and at times, even fall into physical altercations. Although I am confused about why they fondle each other’s rumps….”

    “Yeah, that confuses me too. Why don`t we watch something old tonight?” I suggested. He chewed it over then with a theatric sigh, flipped higher. My beagle, Hermione, slid behind my legs. The air had cooled off and was moving through the windows, carrying the scent of lavender from the flower beds outside. Cricket song filled the night. I nudged Ares to turn off the lamp on the end table. Cuddling by the light of the TV is very nice. I recommend it highly.

   “Wait! Go back,” I said when he rushed past something promising. His huge chest rose and fell dramatically as he flipped backwards. I smiled at the film just coming on. “You`ll really get a kick out of this,” I smiled then rested my damp curls on his pectoral. After the movie ended, the man shuffled around restlessly while making grunting sounds, like his finely made ass had gone numb. “What`s the problem? Didn`t you like ‘The Wizard of Oz’?”

   “It was…peculiar,” he admitted, still holding the remote in his right hand as if it were a lover. “Why are there oddly dressed dwarves singing? And simians that fly? Monkeys do not have wings. That was nonsensical.”

   “Said by the man that knows people with three torsos sprouting out of one waist,” I countered. He harrumphed in reply. “Didn`t you even like the songs? They`re quite catchy I think.”

   “I do not understand your infatuation with song in films. I do not break into song during the day. It is foolishness. Men do not vocalize their emotions.”

   “Apollo does,” I snuck in.

   “Aye and that makes my point.”

   “Ouch,” I chuckled at the slam. “Women like poetry and song, you know. Maybe you should send a saw-whet gram to the sun god and ask him to give you a poem to read to me. Something lyrical and romantic, filled with glowing mentions of my limpid pools, my rosy lips, my satiny skin or my….”

   “Did inhaling the aroma of dirty barn addle your mind, Libby?”

  I shrugged and sighed with great flair. “Okay, fine. I suppose I`m not worth one rhyming line about how pretty I am or how much you admire my heaving bosom.”

   “Your bosom is not large enough to heave,” the ox said.

   “You know, this couch will hold your bulk for a few nights!” I countered sharply and jerked upright. Ares is much faster than most would think given how massive he is. He had me on my back faster than a greased pig in a clinch. Hermione wriggled free as he pushed a thick thigh between my legs while pinning my wrists above my head.

   “Bunting,” he purred beside my ear. My synapses sparked. My lungs wondered why someone had parked a seed planter on my chest. “Surely you do not wish me to sleep on this chaise, do you?”

   “Maybe,” I huffed. Actually, it was a wheeze, but huffing sounds better, don`t you think? I rolled my head slightly to gaze up at his rugged face. He buried his crooked nose in my neck. His tongue lapped at my jugular. “It wouldn`t kill you to say something romantic to me once in….”

   “Awed by her splendor, stars near the lovely moon cover their own bright faces, when she is roundest and lights the earth with her splendor,” he whispered Sappho`s poem beside my ear, each word a hot exhalation that made fire erupt under my flesh. “Such is how I feel by you, my tiny fiery bunting…awed by your splendor.”


Needless to say, Ares didn`t sleep on the couch that night.

















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