Marc Levy

Leda's Revenge

Well all right, all right, all right all ready. Some one had to do it. I mean a girls got to live, buy things, food, clothing, rent. So what's the big deal. I humped a swan. Oh all right. My agent, Morty, he gives me a call. I am strictly high class.

"Leda," he says, "You got a minute?"

He tells me the deal.

"No kinky stuff, no hitting, no drugs. Five hundred bucks, cold cash."

What was I to do?

"Five hundred, you sure?"

Morty says, "Sure I'm sure. He's a Greek god, for Christ sake. And don't forget my fifteen percent."

" I'll do it," I say. "He's Greek?"

Morty says, "Are you deaf? What'd I just tell you?"

"All right, all right; but none of that Greek stuff, you know what I mean." Morty shrugs. "Will you stop worrying."

I take a cab to Mt. Olympus, NJ, tell the driver to stop, pay him, wait by the side of the road. Not ten minutes later, Bim bam boom, thunder and lighting, big fluttering, wing flapping sounds, "Incoming," Bobby, my Vietnam vet boy friend used to say. Sure enough, happier than a pig in a boat load of pooh, I mean this boy is star bright smiling, covered head to foot in pearly white feathers, he struts up and says, "I'm Zeus. You must be Leda."

"Well, damn boy," I says, rolling my eyes, lifting my skirt, flashing a shot of leg, "Who'd you think I was, Morty?"

"Turn around," he says.

I say, "None of that Greek stuff, you hear?"

"Relax. I'm just checking out the goods. Now turn around again."

Is that any way to treat a woman? Where I come from the girls in the sewing circle would have snapped his neck, plucked him quick, stitched him into one of them fancy goose down jackets, fancy label, ‘Made in Beautiful Downtown Chicago,' charge them up scale folks a pretty penny. But not this character.

Bim bam boom, he spins and pulls me down, climbs on top, and does it. "Honk Honk... honk honk..."

"Oh, for Christ sake, boy, quiet down, quiet down, you are embarrassing me."

At which point, flapping and fluttering his silvery wings, he snips and snaps and bits me right in the side of my neck.

"Ouch, that hurt."

He lights up a joint. "That was great," he says.

Then, just like Bobby, he rolls over, curls up, shuts his eyes, starts to sleeping and snoring. Men. Jesus H. Christ.

But next time, if ever there is, I am gonna grab that boy by his long snaky neck and Halloween beak, lean into him rodeo style and bull dog him down and dirty.

"How does that feel, Mr. Olympic champ, Dr. Suess, whatever your silly name is? Don't answer, don't you snap talk or wrap your push feet around me, don't you dare. Cause this here is Leda," I'll say, "And I am one high class, swivel hipped, two fisted, long legged, high heeled, rooting tooting, head turning, ride'em cow girl who is gonna teach you one down home, three alarm, church bake chili dip hot time you will never, forget, so help me God, cross my heart and hope to die."

And that goes for you too, Morty. The hell with your fifteen percent.