Stones in the Swamp - Part I

Snakes, Secrets, and the City

I am not one of nature’s liars, so when my Tinder date, Brian, no, Ryan, wants to know what is underneath my head wrap and asks if I am Muslim, I tell him there are snakes underneath, and no, I am not. I can keep my secrets to myself, right up until someone inquires about them. Although Ryan seems to think that my truth is a joke.

As he laughs, I find that he surfaces, momentarily, from his aura that has glistened all evening with someone supremely confident in his own privileges. I almost feel bad for him, but then his entitled stink settles back into place.

“My penthouse has incredible views,” he says, his words sliding out of his mouth like the restless serpents that bristle under my wrap. They hate being covered, but my girls and I, we have an understanding. This is no longer the old days when they could wriggle freely. “I just had these recessed smart lights installed, so it sets a nice vibe every evening. And the Monument is the perfect backdrop when you’re sitting in my jacuzzi, champagne in hand.”

I push around baby spinach leaves from my overpriced salad and smile brightly, dimly listening. My focus is instead going through my internal checklist that includes a point from the date I had last week with Brandon—Bryson?—who said that I had a naturally screechy voice. You try communing with snakes all day and see if you can retain a normal tone.

“That sounds lovely,” I say slowly, putting thought into maintaining a sweet pitch, not the normal hissing effect that grates through my teeth. All so that Ryan would not want to plug his ears while I talk. Minor adjustments like this refine my dating strategy.

It helps smooth things along.

The server comes by with the dessert menu, but Ryan curtly dismisses him with a wave. Ryan is still droning on about himself and his treasures on the second attempt, too busy to give the server any kind of opening. On the third try, I quietly accept the menu and try to apologize to the waiter with my eyes. I have yet to learn to use them in such a way, though.

“This has all been amazing,” I say, leaning forward and accentuating my breasts, “but aren’t you ready for dessert? I actually had something else in mind. Something not on the menu.”

Ryan can’t stop grinning, probably cooking up all kinds of fantasies while he pays and has the valet fetch his luxury car. Fortunately, there are moments of peace on the way to his place, where I can just watch the brick rowhouses in Dupont Circle pass by as we make our way across the city. I don’t have to be constantly illuminating with Ryan. He likes hearing himself talk, and has more than enough words for the both of us. Unlike Gabriel, I think it was? The one who asked if I was even interested in him because I didn’t seem to fall over everything he said. He went so far as to say that I should be grateful that he even went on a date with me. After that, I have learned to prioritize my dates’ fragile egos even when I am tired.

And I am often exhausted.

After we park in Ryan’s garage, irritation settles into his face when I slam the car door. Sometimes the excitement of the chase gets to me, and I forget my own strength.

“Sorry,” I murmur, slinking over to him and gently kissing his lips. The experience is much better if they are in a good mood. And there is nothing like the hint of sex that ameliorates a man’s general being.

There aren’t too many clicks of my stilettos between the car and Ryan’s apartment, although I would’ve preferred to slither along, something I have given up in this new body, my latest form. Regardless, Ryan is right; the views from his penthouse are incredible. Not that I have much time to soak in my surroundings before he starts getting handsy.

“Wait for me in the bedroom,” I manage to say as his fingers slide up my dress. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“You’re a little freaky, aren’t you? I knew it,” he said, head shaking. “I fucking knew it.”

I beam my prettiest smile and ask for the bathroom.

It is imperative that not only I check my makeup, thanks, Freddie, who gave me one of those looks that said I looked like a total swamp creature when I showed up to a bar in Adams Morgan with my eyeliner running. Which, rude, I am a cave creature. Cousins, to be sure, but a different species altogether. But aside from my war paint, I also need to let the girls out.

They are a bit snappy as I free them from the silk wrap that enfolds them. Coiling and hissing in the air, a couple of them even go so far as to nip at my fingers when I try to soothe them with soft caresses. Their body language is evident. They get like this whenever they are about to molt, their old, stretched skin both confining and annoying them. It won’t be fun for anyone if they are unwilling, so I pull out a jar of shea butter from my bag and massage the earthy-smelling moisturizer into their skin. Love the skin you’re in, I hear echo in my head...well, at least for now.

Turn heads—click the image to rock our Stone Cold Icon Medusa unisex tee and rep a legend of Greek mythology reborn.

With the girls freshly lubricated, I tuck them back under the wrap and slip out of my dress, revealing more of my black lace underwear and more of the strange body in the mirror. My head, unchanged over the centuries, feels mismatched in this new form. Well, newish. I have been occupying this avatar for the past year, but it still doesn’t feel like my own. If I stare long enough, I can make out the faint seam on my neck where the goddess Athena reattached my head. But maybe I see what I want to see. There is plenty of praise for this current figure from the construction workers who catcall. But I merely see a foreign body patched together with guilt, so I make a face when I receive such approval. Apparently, that means I can’t take a compliment.

Ryan’s voice echoes into the bathroom, his tone so sharp that it ricochets and cuts into the high-end finishes: “What’s taking so long?”

“Be right out!”

I wash my hands and take out my contact lenses. The last step. My body can already taste Ryan.

As I step into the bedroom, eyes closed, I can feel his excitement. His starving lips spread across my hungry skin. Adrenaline sends shivers through my body. I moan as he kisses his way to my neck.

“Take my scarf off and use it as a blindfold,” I say. “Then do what you want to me.”

 Everything feels sharper when he frees my hair and screams.

You know when you look into someone’s eyes and their whole world splinters into pieces? And you think, yes, of course, this is what I’ve been waiting for all this time.

Ryan tries to shout for help, but a couple of my girls pierce their fangs through his lips, swallowing the sound. My eyes lock onto his. The girls and I hiss delightfully as I feel his body harden and grow heavy. I have perfectly calculated every moment to reach this climax and practically burst with decadent pleasure. This is the only way I truly enjoy men, my only real happy times.

I roll him off me, his arms frozen upwards, his feeble face carved permanently in granite. And I lie there, rollicking in my indulgence as I drift off to the views of the Monument…

Shop our Medusa tee and other legendary merch to celebrate the myth behind the monster:

The stage is set, and the myth has been told, but the story isn't complete without your comments!