The Last Virgin on Olympus

Iphicles was a virgin.

There were plenty of virgin men. But no woman who had seen Iphicles naked from the waist up would have bet a single drachma on his being one.

He looked as though the gods had set out to sculpt a hero and, for once, had somehow managed not to get distracted halfway through. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with a stomach you could use to teach someone to count to twelve, provided the student wasn’t distracted by the rest of him. His arms could snap a bull’s neck, lift the wheel of a loaded chariot, and hold Hercules back for nearly three heartbeats when his brother decided to hug someone a little too hard.

All this—provided there wasn’t a woman standing in front of him.

In front of a woman, Iphicles became a creature nature had clearly started as a man, only to finish at the last moment as a terrified pet rabbit.

“Hey!” said Iphicles. “You do know I can hear you?”

Not exactly a pet rabbit.

More of a romantic.

“That didn’t sound any better.”

A romantic with magnificent shoulders!

Iphicles considered this.

“Hmm. All right. Go on.”

The Poet went on.

That evening, Iphicles was on the hill above Thebes with Myrina, daughter of Eumelus the potter. Myrina was slender and dark-haired, with brown eyes. Iphicles had once told her they were beautiful. Then he had clarified that he meant both of them.

She had invited him for a walk after the festival.

At least, Iphicles assumed it had been an invitation. In his limited experience, women rarely said what they meant, and when they did, they sometimes meant something else. The Poet would point out that his experience extended to exactly three women, one of whom was his mother.

Myrina had said:

“Will you come outside with me for a bit?”

Iphicles had asked:

“Where?”

She had replied:

“Doesn’t matter.”

He should have known he was in danger right then. If it didn’t matter where they went, why did they have to go anywhere at all?

Still, he had gone.

Now they stood beneath an olive tree, the lights of Thebes flickering below. Music and laughter drifted up from the city, along with the distant roar of a man who was either celebrating or being murdered in a remarkably rhythmic fashion.

Myrina leaned against the trunk. Her white linen chiton was fastened at the shoulders with bronze brooches and cinched beneath her breasts with a thin red sash. The fabric was light, the wind was persistent, and Iphicles was making a heroic effort to look only at her face.

This was his first labor of the evening.

Myrina watched him.

Iphicles met her gaze.

She didn’t blink.

Iphicles began to worry that he had something on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Mm-hmm. Absolutely nothing.”

This obviously meant something.

“Are you sure?”

Myrina gave him a long look.

“Absolutely.”

This meant she wasn’t sure.

As far as Iphicles could tell, women had a remarkable ability to say two words and pack them with enough meaning to fill half a clay tablet. The rest was for the man to work out through observation, intuition, and, if the gods were merciful, the assistance of a trained oracle.

He sought salvation in the details.

Myrina was wearing a new bronze bracelet. Or an old one. Her hair was braided to one side. Or perhaps she always wore it that way. There was a small piece of clay on her sandal, but he doubted that was a romantic signal.

She sighed.

“Don’t you notice anything?”

Iphicles froze.

This was a question no one ever asked out of curiosity. “Where were you?” and “Do you know that woman?” were the same: the verdict came before the answer.

His gaze traveled over her again, more slowly this time.

Myrina raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve got a new bracelet,” he said.

“No.”

“A new sash?”

“I’ve been wearing it since last summer.”

“You’ve had your hair trimmed.”

“No.”

“You’ve lost weight?”

“No.”

“You’ve put on weight?”

Silence fell.

Far below, the musicians seemed to stop playing too, to hear how this would end. One of them even dropped his flute.

“No,” said Myrina. Very quietly.

“Good! I was just checking.”

“Checking?”

“Yes.”

“Checking what?”

“Whether you’d put on weight.”

“And?”

Iphicles sensed that his life depended on the next two words.

“You haven’t.”

“Impressive. For a moment there, I thought you’d decided you didn’t need teeth.”

Iphicles swallowed and showed rather more teeth than a smile required.

“Um… Come on, tell me. What was I supposed to notice?”

Myrina touched her hair in irritation.

There was a small blue flower in it.

Iphicles had seen it. He had simply assumed that flowers sometimes ended up in people’s hair the same way leaves ended up in his.

“The flower!” he said.

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty.”

“It’s from Aphrodite’s garden.”

“Did you steal it?”

Myrina’s eyebrows drew together.

“Yes, Iphicles. Of course. I raided the goddess of love’s garden and came here to brag about my skills.”

“So you didn’t steal it…”

“It was a gift.”

“What? From who?”

She gave a supposedly casual shrug. The flower in her hair, however, trembled.

“A boy.”

Iphicles felt an unpleasant tightening beneath his ribs.

“What boy?”

“Does it matter?”

Of course it mattered. If the boy was taller, he needed to know by how much. If he was stronger, he needed to know in what way. If he was better-looking, that was a matter of taste, and taste could be corrected with time, patience, or a well-aimed punch.

“No,” said Iphicles.

That was the wrong answer.

Myrina pulled the flower from her hair and threw it into the grass.

“You really are unbelievable sometimes.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Got it.”

He hadn’t.

She stepped away from the tree and came closer. Iphicles knew what to do when someone came at him with a sword. He knew how to shift his weight, judge the distance, when to parry, and when and how to break an arm at the elbow.

When Myrina approached without a sword, all his knowledge proved utterly useless.

She came close enough for Iphicles to feel her breasts—soft and warm—press against him. A clear enough message for a man, a horse, or a rock of average intelligence.

Iphicles was not a rock of average intelligence.

At least, the Poet hoped he wasn’t.

“I’m cold,” said Myrina.

Iphicles took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

“Is that better?”

Myrina closed her eyes.

“Yes.”

Her tone said no.

Iphicles was left in just his short linen chiton. The wind slipped through the fabric. Beneath it, his erection now left nothing open to interpretation.

Myrina’s gaze dropped to the bulge under his chiton.

Then returned to his face.

“At least one of you two knows what’s going on.”

Iphicles went red to the tips of his ears.

“Myrina…”

“Yes?”

“Are you really not cold anymore?”

She rested her forehead against his chest and whispered:

“Damn it… Oh, give me strength.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“The gods. Maybe they’ll understand me, at least.”

She lifted her head.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Iphicles could hear his own pulse more clearly than the music down in Thebes.

This was a direct question.

At last!

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

So much for directness.

His gaze slid to her lips, then to her eyes, then back to her lips.

“Should I?”

Myrina took half a step back. Then she narrowed her eyes, as though checking whether someone had replaced Iphicles with a well-built amphora.

“You just said you wanted to.”

“I do.”

“So?”

“I don’t know if you want me to.”

“I asked if you wanted to kiss me.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you want to be kissed.”

“An amphora with shoulders,” Myrina muttered.

She watched him for a few moments.

“Who told you that?”

“No one.”

She took two fistfuls of the fabric over his chest and pulled him toward her.

Their lips met.

Iphicles had imagined his first kiss as an oath before the gods, a chorus with a fanfare, or the opening of a great song. The first thing he discovered was that he had no idea where to put his nose.

He tilted his head to the left.

So did Myrina.

They collided.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t talk.”

They tried again.

This time, Iphicles tilted his head to the right.

And Myrina tilted her head to the right.

Their noses collided again.

“Is it always this complicated?” he whispered.

“Only with you.”

The third attempt went better.

Myrina slid her hands over his shoulders and pressed against him. Iphicles felt the warmth of her body, the softness beneath the light fabric, and a shiver that ran down his spine. Her breath was sweet with wine. Her tongue touched his, and for one terrifying moment he decided this was another test no one had prepared him for.

Then Iphicles finally stopped thinking.

His hands slipped down to her waist.

Then a little lower.

Then quickly back up.

He didn’t know where he could decently put his hands, where she wanted them, or what would bring her brothers to his door with spears.

Myrina took one of his hands and placed it on her thigh.

Iphicles drew her closer. Through the thin fabric, he could feel her flesh beneath his fingers. Myrina made a soft sound against his lips.

He froze.

“Did I hurt you?”

She drew her head back.

“No.”

“Then why did you make that sound?”

“Because I liked it.”

“I see.”

He didn’t, but he intended to remember.

Myrina kissed him again, more insistently this time. Her hands slipped under his chiton and touched his bare back. Her nails scratched him lightly.

Iphicles groaned.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked.

He felt her smile against his lips.

“No.”

“Then why did you make that sound?”

“Very funny.”

She slid a hand down between them, slipped it beneath the hem of his short chiton, and closed her fingers around him.

Iphicles forgot his own name.

The Poet also lost the thread for a moment, but recovered first, for professional reasons.

Myrina stroked him slowly. His knees went weak. No woman had ever touched him like this; right now, all he wanted was for her hand to keep going.

“See?” she whispered. “It’s not so scary.”

“I never said it was scary.”

“Well… You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“Want your cloak?”

“No.”

She laughed, then tugged his chiton up. Iphicles caught her wrists.

“Wait.”

Myrina stopped.

This time, there was nothing to guess. Myrina wanted him. He wanted her. They were alone beneath the tree, and no especially inquisitive goat was watching them.

He had imagined his first time would be with a woman he would wake up beside the next morning. And many mornings after that. He didn’t want Myrina to become something that had happened under an olive tree.

He just had to explain that to her.

“I don’t want my first time to be with you.”

Myrina tore herself out of his arms.

Even the crickets fell silent. They had no stake in the conversation, but they respected the sheer scale of the catastrophe.

“What in Hades’ name did you just say?!”

“I… Uh… That came out wrong.”

“Oh, nooo! I think you made yourself perfectly clear!”

“I meant I don’t want it to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Well, without it meaning something.”

Her face darkened. The desire was the first thing to go.

“So I mean nothing to you?”

“But that’s not what I said…”

“You said you don’t want your first time to be with me.”

“Because I want it to be with the woman I love.”

“And you don’t love me?”

“I… Um… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?!”

Iphicles searched for a sentence that wouldn’t make things worse. The first one he found did exactly that.

“We’ve only known each other a little while.”

“We’ve known each other for three years!”

“But not in that way.”

“What way?!”

“In… a romantic way.”

“Tonight I brought you here, alone, under an olive tree, kissed you, and held your penis in my hand. What kind of way did you think that was?”

“I was hoping it was the romantic kind.”

Myrina stared at him in silence. Her fingers curled into a fist, then relaxed. A slap would hardly do the situation justice. Even the Poet felt sorry for him.

Just a little, mind you.

“You’re an idiot!” she said.

“That’s possible.”

“No. It’s a fact!”

She took off his cloak and threw it at his chest.

“Myrina… I…”

“Go find someone better than me!”

“I don’t want anyone better.”

“Ha! We’ll see!”

She turned and headed for the city so fast her sandals kicked up dust along the path.

Iphicles stayed beneath the tree, his cloak in his hands. The erection under his chiton hadn’t yet realized the evening was over.

“Myrina!”

She didn’t turn.

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

Myrina kept going down the path.

“Myrina?”

She walked even faster.

“Was that a no?”

She raised a hand without looking back. Iphicles wasn’t sure whether the gesture meant “leave me alone,” “go away,” or “follow me and I’ll castrate you with one of my bronze brooches.”

He decided to respect her wishes and stayed where he was.

Her footsteps faded down the path. The blue flower lay in the grass, and the taste of wine lingered on his lips. Iphicles bent to pick up the flower, stopped halfway, and let his hand fall. He didn’t know whether he had the right to keep something she had thrown away because of him.

That was a mistake too.