Achilles and the Houseboy




When you think about the ancient Greeks, as oft I do, because I’m strange like that, they and their deities have a lot to answer for. Gone they might be, but they still manage to cast their antique influence over us modern mortals in a variety of ways.
Take Achilles for example. If he’d worn proper footwear then I wouldn’t get into half as much bother as I do. Honest it's true, if he’d worn calve length Doc Marten boots my life would be much easier.

I’ll endeavour to explain using my vast knowledge of Greek mythology acquired from years of studying the ancient classics. (Lie detector snorts, you once read a kiddies book of myths and legends and most of it was in pictures) Okay, okay, but those pictures were detailed.

Achilles was the son of an immortal mother and a mortal father. The immortal mummy in question, Thetis, was distressed because not only had her son inherited his father’s Roman nose and overly large lugs, he had also inherited his mortality. She decided to top up her baby’s immortality by dipping him in the magical River Styx (there were no social services then you know, you could do what you liked) only the un-dead daft bat forgot to wet the heel she dangled him by, thus leaving him vulnerable at that point.

Achilles grew up fine, strong and immortal, albeit with a small print clause he had declined to read - failure to wear chain mail socks at all times will invalidate your life insurance. He was also as thick as ancient Greek pig shit. Why else would he have elected to go into battle against a tribe of aggressive chiropodists wearing a gold lame evening gown and a pair of patent leather sling backs, which left his heels totally exposed to his enemies weapons. It’s true, honest, it really happened (swiftly puts a hand over lie detectors mouth)

It seems our mate Achilles wasn’t quite the hero he’s made out to be. According to some sources he was second to none when it came to flinging hissy fits and sulking in his tent for days on end when he didn’t get his own way. He could very well be the patron saint of brats everywhere.

When he was called up for service in The Trojan War Achilles was not pleased. He didn’t want to go to war, he wanted to stay in and play Grand Theft Chariot on his X-Box. He came up with a cunning plan to dodge the draft by dressing up as a woman, but he forgot to wax his legs and Odysseus sussed him.

Okay, I feel a slight tangent coming on. In spite of my old school teacher's warnings about wandering off subject, I'm going to go with it. (Sorry, Miss) According to a painting I once saw of Achilles, he had muscles that could lay claim to being independent territories but a cock the size of a winkle. It set me off pondering, it doesn't take much, I love a good ponder.
Surely any painter set on depicting one of the most famous heroes of the Trojan War would opt to give him a magnificent dick in keeping with his status, one that could be used as a battering ram in the event of a siege situation? Instead, the artist chose to give him a todger and ball bag that would embarrass a cherub. Perhaps he was running out of flesh coloured paint at that point and decided to skimp, or perhaps it was an ironic comment on the futility of war? Who knows! Artists are funny folk and a tiny cock could mean many things.

Anyway, he said, forcing himself back on topic and away from cocks, which doesn’t happen often believe me, because of Achilles, the cross dressing warrior Greek, most of us modern humans have an Achilles heel, a weakness of one kind or another.
Being a well-balanced sort of chap I actually have two Achilles heels, one on each foot. The first is jealousy and the second is temper and they don’t make good partners. One fuels the other and tends to make a bad situation even worse.

It’s Achilles fault that I so often end up at odds with my men folk. If he’d worn sensible footwear then Paris would never have been able to kill him with a well-aimed poison arrow and the term 'Achilles heel' would never have been coined. Consequently, according to my logic anyway, I wouldn’t suffer from jealousy or temper or a combination of both and I’d have a smooth and ripple free relationship with my own particular pair of Greek gods (legends in their own lunchtime)

Leaving aside half arsed pseudo mythological stuff, this humble chapter in the life and times of this houseboy concerns the manifestation of my personal Achilles heel, Jealousy, who dropped in for a visit the weekend prior to Dick’s birthday on the first of August.

On that particular weekend Dick had been called south by the imperious and chilly tones of his mama and was due to be away from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening. Shane was also away on business that Friday, but would be back late the same day.

Being an optimistic sort of house lad I was looking forward to spending some quality time alone with my alpha Daddy. As things turned out it was fantastic. He wined me, dined me, bought me flowers and new clothes, wrote me a love sonnet in iambic pentameter and told me he adored me. He even stacked the dishwasher (well, you wouldn’t expect him to wash up by hand now would you) while I supped champagne cocktails and watched the telly. (Lie detector says, in your Mills and Boons little fantasies, boy.) Okay, okay (romantic dream pings and pops like a fairy liquid bubble) it wasn’t quite like that. So, I hear you ask, either that or I’m suffering audio hallucinations, what was it like?

Well, it was more like this:  sprinkle-sprinkle - glitter-glitter (don’t worry, being gay I’m fully trained, licensed and insured for magical glitter sprinkling) let's go back in time to the Friday before Dick’s birthday, the twenty-seventh of July 2007.


copyrighted material Gillibran Brown 2011


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