The entire zodiac, from the heaven’s hemispheres, were intertwining to the primitive beats of the Frank Samidino Swing Band from the wedding party below.
“Stop!” demanded Artemis, looking to the skies, “Show some decency!”
Artemis abruptly grasped onto a nearby palm tree. She felt helpless. Satan’s playground, Earth, was beginning to show its corrupt effects on her virtuous mind and wholesome body. Artemis dropped her bow and quiver full of golden arrows onto the soft sand.
The ‘uncontrollable factor’ scared her. Am I sweating? Her immortal “cool” had left the building. Is this how my friend Tempestus Stormius feels when she unleashes a hurricane? Five thousand years of sexual tension slowly began to well up, then exploded. The more she dug into the tree’s trunk, the more she shook. Coconuts tumbled from the treetops, barely missing her head. Newborn volcanoes began to explode along the black edge of Kupaio’s barrier reef like festive party poppers.
Artemis dropped onto the beach. Weak and humbled, after a few moments of tranquility, she’d realized that she should return to the wedding. She grabbed a palm frond and pulled herself to her feet. Then, Oh no! A second tsunami of thrillisquious energy rushed through her fabulisquious body forcing her to her crumbling knees. Her ‘Look-no-hands-ma!’ orgasm fanned out across the night sand causing thousands of perturbed ghost crabs to leap from their tunnels.
Artemis felt a slight tinge of “mortal” (i.e., in need of a cuddle and a cigarette.)
What she really felt was “γαμημένος great!” as though she could melt right into the γαμημένος earth. Her contented dulang-dulang-dulang purred like her a fluffy kitten with a big red bow and a tummy full of warm cream on Christmas morning.
Don’t get too comfortable yet, baby…
Mr. Greencheese —the moon— moved across the heavens to shield the overheated goddess from the eyes of her parents above.
The goddess lie still waiting for her breath to return.
Instead, there was a weaker third orgasm, though still powerful enough to set off car alarms as far away as the Guadalajara Mexican Restaurant on 3rd Street in Santa Monica.
A final wave of warm energy washed through her.
She turned her head seaward and exhaled. “Ιερά χάλια! (Holy crap!) Whoa. That’s better. Whew. Γαμώτο! (Damn it!) What happened? What…was…that?” She turned her head back toward the sky. “Can anyone tell me what just the γαμώ happened?” Then Artemis began to itch. “God γαμώτο! My κόλπος is full of γαμημένος sand!”
The remaining stars winked and nudged each other silently, knowingly.
“Ευχαριστώ, μαλάκες! (Thanks, assholes!)” She sighed. Spent, Artemis quickly fell asleep on the red powdery sand of Kupaio as her disorientated, moon friend, Mr. Greencheese, set in the east.
Most of her gang on Olympus missed it.
Many of them were still sick in bed or on their jewel encrusted crappers with the Nosoi Flu (aka the atomic trots).
“I think that she was faking it,” said the blissful Mmbopalula from behind a thicket of succulents to her beaming Hotat spy hubby, Monq. Her own well-beamed sweet dulang-dulang-dulang was also purring — like a fluffy kitten etc. etc.
“What will you report to MacHeath? We never even saw the ceremony,” she asked. “What will you tell him?”
“He’s got to see the legs on the new goddess in town.”
“What???? You son of a bitch bastard! Keep that filthy thing away from me!”