Medusa the Sculptor
He was once known as Alexandros of Antioch, I simply knew him, or thought I knew him, as Alex.
It was not uncommon for us to take lovers, like all creatures we have our needs and having them fulfilled by those like us was not an easy task. The gods connived and plotted, there was no such thing as sex for the sake of sex, a mortal lover, on the other hand, had no such plans. They were content lay with a god, make love to a god and be showered with the affections of a god; that was enough. Mortal’s power struggles were nothing of concern to us.
Alex was a gentleman, with hard but tender hands, artist’s hands. He was a sculptor, but only the rudimentary type, making grave markers, both ornate and plane. He claimed to have been a sculptor of statues and figurines, but none of any I have seen.
“Why have you not sculpted me Alex?” I asked one day. We laid upon the soft ground, him tired, yet satisfied, myself satiated yet not yet fully satisfied.
“I have not yet found the motivation.” He replied.
I stood. Naked against the warmth of the sun, the perfection that only a god could contain exposed to the trees and rocks, and to him. “Perhaps this motivates.” I responded.
“You have been sculpted many times Aphrodite, why by me?” He asked.
“For I am your lover and you are an artist, these moments are fleeting for you. Do you not wish to capture my beauty before it is too late?” I responded. “Do you not want the world to see my beauty and know that it was you who captured it?”
“Why are you gods so vain?” He asked. “Do you have no modesty?”
“Perfection requires no modesty, but you would not know. You are an imperfect lover and man, I shall find another.” I fled, angered.
“Wait!” He called. I continued. He gave chase, finally catching me near the Amphitheatre of Milos. “Aphrodite.” He grabbed my arm, I turned and hit him, knocking him to the ground. My cold stare was my undoing. It was then that I realized who Alex was, yes he was a brilliant sculptor but he did not sculpt with his hands, but rather with his heart and with his eyes. His hair began to grow and wriggle and his form changed from that of a mortal man to the shapely outline of a woman, a woman that I knew too well. My own anger and vanity was my undoing, before I fully realized upon whom I was looking my likeness was sculpted. Sculpted not at the hands of Alexandro of Antioch, as my captures at the Louvre would tell you, but by the treacherous god Medusa. The punishment for my vanity.