God is a girl hungry

And I'll eat you whole

I remember floating on someone’s boat, a small yacht on Lake Texoma. This particular someone, a relative or family friend of my next-door neighbor, had invited us and left a boat full of kids alone to govern themselves. It was, as you’d imagine, anarchy, mayhem. I was maybe 9 years old, maybe 10, and I felt turned on. There were boys—or at least one boy, according to my memory—and I felt like showing off. I felt like slipping skins—transfiguring myself into whatever would excite his neurons in my direction.

I felt like catching the prized fish in my bare hands, showing it off to the village elders with the smug confidence of a budding teenager learning how to hunt her prey.

I’ve always been a hopelessly Venus-ruled person—a Libra rising, the masculine aspect of Venus. In this face of the seductress, the goddess of love becomes the mistress of the hunt. I have always most enjoyed the times when I feel in-pursuit of something—when I am a big titted, big dicked Venus going after what should rightfully be mine.

Because everything that the Sun casts its malefic light upon should be mine.

When I was only 12 years old, a friend of mine gave me the number of her crush and asked me to inquire about his attraction to her. As soon as I laid eyes on his photo, I saw less a person and more an opportunity.

I could just see that carved alabaster head backed by a nice gold plating against perfectly polished wood. I knew exactly where he would go on my wall.

I measured him with my eyes and plotted accordingly.

I kept my promise. I asked him how he felt about her, I retrieved the information I set out to attain, but I didn’t stop there. I never intended to. I knew, as soon as I saw his golden-haired picture, that he would be mine. I didn’t need him to be so. I simply knew that he would be.

It took only a short number of months before he committed himself to me.

Of course he would.

Because who could resist my charms when I fix them with my big, blue eyes? Who could deny a Sun that shines only for them? Ostensibly, at least.

But this Sun is just an illusion. If I were a heavenly body, I would be the Moon—emitting a light that casts itself as untrustworthy, unreliable from one moment to the next, impossible to hone in on. I shone my ghoulish light on him and he was powerless to resist me. In a few short months, we were going steady. All the girls at his private school—a veritable breeding ground of the rich and well-to-do in our small Texas town—locked their sights upon me in envy. Why should I be the one to ensnare this most juicy catch?

I was young, thin, and blonde. I was engaged in community theatre—meaty roles handed out to me like party favors, ample adulation shoveled onto me in rich dollops, and without so much as a wealthy or influential cousin to warrant this expenditure. No, no, I was given these roles because I had talent. Because I was undeniable. Because I had the voice of an angel—stewarded by thee top vocal coach in town—a mirage-like ability to shapeshift, and the face of God himself. Beautiful, bountiful, blonde. Curvaceous (at my young age), muscular (in defiance of my gender), and self-possessed (an affectation that kept me safe). At that age, I asked myself, “who would deny me? Am I not the brightest star in the heavens? Am I not the most exquisite angel to grace this scorched earth?”

I was terminally insecure…and yet, somehow, also, completely self-contained. An anomaly. An exception. My entire life I have been exceptional in the theaters I move through. After a time, it began to lose its luster. After a time, I became numb to the constant praise.

The golden-haired boy was not the first I would steal. As the gods would have it, I was insatiable. The very same friend I had betrayed soon set her sights on another boy, one I had grown up with but never would’ve considered boyfriend material. Yet, under her influence, I began to see someone worthy of my attention. No more than a few weeks later he was mine. I was dating a boy I had no prior interest in whatsoever; simply because someone had made me see the value in him. Purely because he had been added to the catalogue of catches. Once again, I saw a disembodied trophy to be hung on my wall rather than held in my hand. I couldn’t help it. I was a deranged god collecting mortal paramours. I was a dizzied dionysus deflowering random boys in my middle school. (Metaphorically, of course) I dumped him only a few days later, leaving him to pine after me for the rest of our academic careers.

As I entered high school, I began to gain weight. My genetic disease ravaged my body and left me curiously estranged from my power. Even while I lost the confidence to compel others in the way I had before, I still felt it. I knew that I was a demigod hidden in plain sight. I saw myself in my true glory—a modern Medusa that could turn men to stone with no more than a sardonic glance, a sarcastic remark.

I never forgot that power. The power to weaken knees, to bring men before me—prostrate in their lust.

There’s no force on earth that could take that power from me. Not even the autoimmune disease that made off with all my hair—thick mane, thin brows, densely fringed eyelids.

You might be surprised to hear that I am not wanting for suitors. Even now, a married and consummately defeminized woman, there’s usually at least one dude up in my DMs telling me the Sun shines out of my ass as if I haven’t noticed an unusual glow trailing behind me.

I’m a Venusian, darling, we’re never too far out of step with the Sun.

And for me personally, my Sun sits right at the high noon of my chart—perfectly poised next to my midheaven. How could I forget? In the sequestered stars of my astrological chart, the Sun shines only for me. And damn the man who can’t see that.

These days, my star is on the rise. Watchful eyes chart its passage overhead like ancient priests of a now-extinct parish following a meteor, fearing its touchdown. The more eyes land on me, the more my legend grows.

And damn the man who can’t see that coming. Damn the man or mortal who doesn’t recognize my power.

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Special thanks to Adriana Michelle for supporting this publication. <333

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