THE BROTHEL SCENE

From Novel Dark Of Light
From Novel Dark Of Light
This post is Hecate's
This post is Hecate’s
From Category Sacred Garden
From Category Sacred Garden
This post is in category Birds
This post is in category Birds
This blog post in is in Category Spiritual Initiation
This blog post in is in Category Spiritual Initiation
This post is in category Goddess
This post is in category Goddess
This post is in category Music For Freedom
This post is in category Music For Freedom
This post is in category Youth
This post is in category Youth
This blog post is in Category Ancient Greece Etc
This blog post is in Category Ancient Greece Etc
This blog post is in Category Military
This blog post is in Category Military
This blog post is in Category Politics
This blog post is in Category Politics
This post is in category Money
This post is in category Money
This post is in category Stage Play
This post is in category Stage Play
This post is in category Humor
This post is in category Humor
This post pertains to Earth Energy Contacts
This post pertains to Earth Energy Contacts
THE BROTHEL SCENE

>>Dear Reader,
Before reading this, or immediately after, go study ROMAN COMEDY.
I have once read a careful history scholar’s study, a paperback I mangled wadding up to stuff in my pockets for 3 weeks working thru my flabbergastic astonishment.
(It says what????)
The whole FILTHY SODDEN MESS of the Ancient Roman stage comedy genre. Bunch of perverts. As you will SEE BELOW.

>> Now, actually this novel from which we are inserting this nice piece here, this is a story told in Ancient Greece, NOT Rome, yes.
But it’s a brothel scene, .. Something we actually have extant from Old Old Egypt Before There Was Money! .. Yes, so this dabbling is part of a very long and stable “The Brothel Scene” tradition far larger and moistly swollen than any one age of human history or region of the world, I’m sure.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
= And the Lady of the house is… ! OUR DIVINE SISTER HECATE ! .. {Here}
= Here unveiling far far more Sovereignty than anything else. .. {Here} . {Here} . {Here}
= Who our novel calls Goddess Demeter’s “Eldest daughter”.
= And who here reveals to you and I a great power she has.
= And sadly very different than I saw with Modern armies.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

{Open.Pdf.File} .. The excerpt below is pages 149 thru 153.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And that was just another link in the curious chain of incidents that day.

The next was a particular man who stood there in the Macedons’ front rank against the towering work of sorcery; he together with a certain one of the Aphrodite Sisters who, flouncing by and seeing that this unknown fellow stood so tensely at his ease, chanced upon the instant’s urge to pity his anxieties and throw herself and drape herself with arms about his bull-like neck to try and draw him into dance. She looked up in the shadows of the helmet; he looked down on the panting grin and heaving painted bosom pressed against him; and they recognized each other.

Now, this particular fellow had a story of his own as we all do. He was of noble line but for his father’s crime the family was impoverished and put to shame. Two kings back there was a palace coup in which his father, then a captain of the guards, had shrugged and tossed a coin and made a quite unlucky guess. And so the boy, when grown to youth, must enlist into the common ranks then try to scrabble up again through every sort of valor, loyalty and right behavior. But it was going well. By special pleas of relatives and special oaths the boy got in the royal guards. By taking charge whenever things looked bleak, he rose to sergeant. More ensued; he earned a sprig of holly on his helmet crest and then a sphinx medallion on his chest. Then, just a week before, when the captain of the company of which this twenty were a part dropped dead for no apparent reason, the order came promoting him into the ranks of gentlemen.

The custom in the king’s battalion then – as a measure toward healthy fraternity – was that an officer who rose in rank would spend generously from his promotion purse to host a dinner party for others who held the rank which he was entering. And this particular fellow, being anxious to improve his family’s sullied reputation, even borrowed more and went deluxe. He took himself at once to the city’s favorite house of hospitality, talked it over there, and ordered orgy number two; consisting of a private dining room with very sturdy furniture, food and drink in ample quantity but of the common sort, personal attention by the manager, ladies who would stay awake till dawn, three musicians for two hours, a comic doing animal impersonations, and a bag of honest dice. Broken crockery cost extra at a stipulated rate.

And then, thanks in particular to this particular lady here, the evening proved a great success. When the festivities were lagging, after midnight passed and all seemed spent by the festivities which were printed in the program so to speak, she took it on herself to draw the host up on the table top into a pantomiming dance, a sort of operetta, which revived the company into gales of laughter. The lucky host found himself following on her lead enthusiastically, wafted by a growing confidence that his investment in professional development was wisely done. All of the guests had stomped and clapped and banged their cups in time and shouted out the choruses. They had toasted the performance. In the weeks since then they’d shown him new respect and tendered dinner invitations of their own. In fact, in his opinion, this lady made his reputation as a royal officer, vindicating all his family’s hopes. Next day he’d borrowed more and bought and sent around a necklace as an extra gift. He’d even thought of marriage.

It was The Eunuch’s Shame, a well beloved old barracks tune wherein a thieving peasant dons a eunuch’s gown to sneak into his master’s house for robbery but finds himself attending at the noble lady’s bath. Comedy ensues. He yearns and yet dares not, no matter how she bends and rubs herself or clings to him to do the steps, no matter how she kicks so high, no matter how she sighs for her absent husband and a lengthy list of paramours all gone to war, reciting as she sighs a very detailed and unlikely catalog of past delights. She got her dress onto him first of all, its strings untied to stretch about his burly hips and hairy chest, coached him to the company’s great delight on how to mince his walk, to extend his pinkie fingertips and turn on tiptoes, to pull up his skirt on cue to show the audience the thieving peasant’s true identity, all of that, meanwhile keeping up the steps and verses. It ends, of course, with her surprise. Discovering his purported scrubbing brush has found its way into a certain orifice and rather tickles there, the lady looks about with eyes popped wide and hand upon her cheek and does her level best to trill the final line just like some warbling song bird might. She only wore a serving bowl herself to simulate a quite unnecessary hat.

Now she’s clinging on him once again and doing all she can to make him dance again. He tries to tell her he’s on duty but she cannot hear. She’s got the necklace on an ankle and she kicks so high to show it that she gets a foot onto his shoulder, showing all. And these fellows here today are not the captains of his new acquaintance nor lowly privates either. These men here with him now are all the sergeants of his battalion, now for today under his command, picked and promoted for each one’s ability at individual initiative just like he’d been. And just to left and right are a pair of tough old sharks who used to be his friends. They start to laugh and urge their new captain on into some stupid lapse of discipline, shoving at his back and neck until he stumbles on an outstretched foot, lumbers forward a little way, falls down amid a cloud of dust, and one of them hops quick to expertly kick his helmet off his head into the crowd.

Lying like a floundering fish, wriggling round face up but struggling with his shield that’s pinned beneath, flailing with his feet, he’s groping toward the unseen helmet. Luckily the nimble lady falls unhurt into the arms of several other priestesses of love who now come swirling round; she jumps astride his chest at once, laughing that he’s much too eager when he hasn’t paid. She pulls part of her skirt across his face and reaches underneath to tug his beard. He’s desperate what to do that would comport with honor; his free hand grabs a buttock so she slides right down and reaches underneath her thigh to grab an ear. Looking back, the lady sees his armored leather kilt is up and reaches now to grasp his nether parts as well. In fact this is a proper wrestler’s hold and she has got the best of him unless he decides to actually fight. Suddenly he’s overcome by yearning, wants a woman just like this to be his wife. Gnawing gently at the smothering cloth and flesh, kneading with the hand that’s got her butt, he thinks of sons.

Meanwhile, amid the roaring noise, a command is being passed for them to file away. It is unusual indeed, not the regular kind of terse clipped formula of words they know and so – especially since they see their captain’s disappeared among a dancing singing ring of grinning Aphrodite Sisters all with nippled bosoms quite a-bounce and gleaming thighs among their hiked up skirts – some of the fellows wrongly understand it as an order to dismiss. Willing as they are to follow in the gale of war, they are also more than willing to follow into this. Passing mouth to ear, the order’s magically transformed into a joyous cry of “Chase the whores!”

Their small formation quickly starts dissolving rank by rank with all in back pressing toward the action. Their encumbering shields are cast away, first by those in front and then by all. Fumbling hurried hands that try to hang their helmets at their belts in fact just let them fall all clattering among their stumbling feet onto the fallen shields and paving stones. Seeing how the first who disappear into the crowd are badly hindered by their swords and belts and such – seeing how the laughing women grab their gear to yank them back and so their laughing prey flies from their grasp – the fellows now assume the order must include a uniform that’s more appropriate for the duty. Eagerly they help each other get the ties and buckles loose so armament and armor drop away as well. A few brave souls pull off their tunics too to go into the fray more gloriously garbed as hairy naked warriors.

Today there is satyricon here in the marketplace of Athens. The great god Pan is blasting on his pipes above. This was the first encounter and the Lady won.

And Alexander, leading off no more than three obedient men, turns to them now, sees their lusty looks, grins despite himself and cries; “Dismissed.”

And Phillipus, standing now amid the heap of gear, gazing at the priestess whom he glimpses through the crowd, blind to everything but her, starts to walk her way.

The laughing people part for one who wears the beggar’s shirt. One of them – it is little Phaedrus – comes beside and reaches up a hand upon his back to urge him on.

So there stands Phillipus, conqueror of Greece, among the swirling mob, at last before the crowned and blessed Lady whom he’s always sought. To him she is an awesome thing, a goddess in the flesh. To her he is a ghost from somewhere come to this event for no other purpose than to properly consummate the rite if he is able.

He speaks. Of all the turmoil in his heart and soul; of all his yearning toward the immortality of fame; of all his vague and wandering hope for wisdom; out of all of this one question now arises to his lips. What is the blessing that she promises? What curse is threatened if he fails the unknown test? He says to her; “Why did you send the apple?”

And now she seems a blazing thing to him. Why does she blaze? He does not know, but feels his lust rise with her heat. This lust to be one with her and then to blast his greatest power into her, small as it may be – he’s sagging on his feet but people hold him up – that lust is now the concentrated point of everything.

The Lady’s look is fierce within the burning aura round her face. She does not speak.

“By the gods Phillipus!”

He turns suddenly to see a most peculiar figure by him. Somehow here now is some ancient king of the Hellenes. Can this be Agamemnon?

The figure reaches then to tug and twist his ear so rough that the tough scar across his missing eye is pulled; pain both sharp and dull penetrates his foggy senses.

. . . . . . . . . . .
Okay, we have reached way down to the very bottom of that crevice where the pages of a paperback are stuck together, the bottom of page 153.
This is from my book.. “Dark Of Light” .. Its overview page .. {-Here-}

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