The fading of Christianity has had its predictable results: supernatural spirits more familiar to the Ancient Greeks and the superstitious Romans have returned to our city. The Goddess Persephone * , in particular, the consort of Hades, Lord of the Underworld roams the streets of Toronto. Persephone, who rather resembles Lady Gaga in taste for material possessions, also has a taste for mortal men. Being a goddess she has, it is said, the most beautiful vagine. So much so that those who have sampled her divine affections are no longer capable of ejaculation. Of course, those so touched by the divine are driven by their craving for release, and incapable, that they go mad. They also turn into satyrs, their feet slowly reshaping into cloven hooves, their bodies hairy (often mistaken for Italian or Portuguese construction workers), and their need for food or sleep disappears. They haunt the night life of the city, live under bridges and in the forested ravines, and exist in torment.
Reports are starting to surface about the satyrs of Toronto. One woman, a cougar in the over fifty age group, while walking her yappy yorkie, fell into conversation with one of the smelly, constantly erect but incapable, satyrs. She found his sexual nature irresistible, this being the splash down effect of those that copulate with the divine. Satyrs are attractive in a non rational way. The cougar took to conversation with the creature (whom she assumed was a man) and over a few days ended up taking him to her bed, while her husband, and up and coming lawyer born into the Winners Circle of life, was at work, working. Inevitably, the sex life of the lawyer was ruined: his wife became likewise insatiable and incapable of release as the satyr, and ran off with the car and credit cards to the Airport strip. A drug overdose, then the rumors started. Nobody believed the tale of the macabre, but the social workers involved (being secret right wing extremists) brought the tale to my attention.
There are many bridges not far from the queer quarter in Toronto. A satyr has taken up residence under one of them. The police are aware, but refuse to reign in someone described as a chronic masturbater, as such things could be considered legitimate expressions of homeless behavior. A certain segment of society finds the crazed, animalistic (quite animal, supernatural animal) lusts of the unquenchable quite attractive, even if, one by one, those supplicants of the beastly satyr have disappeared. The bridge where the satyr lives you can easily identify. There is a smell. As you walk under the bridge there are cast off garments of the gay club wear variety, along with the detritus of the sodomite lifestyle: half squeezed tubes of lube, deflated blow up dolls, fetish sexual toys (broken, bent, or twisted), and gnawed bones, presumably of some species of fried chicken (for the smaller stinking bits) and bar-b-que pork. Unfortunately, a casual inspection of the discarded bones soon gives the impression of human, not beef or pork. My informant, a conservative gay who keeps his political beliefs cloaked in the closet he used to hide his sexuality, told me he only got five paces under the bridge before he stepped upon a wig, that was not a wig, that appeared to be the gnawed off scalp of some vain person of thinning locks who dyed his grey hair blonde. My informant retreated, and his companion, who proceeded on, into the stinking cave where the satyr dwelt. The companion has never been seen again. His last contact was a poorly spelt message sent to the entire address book that he was going on vacation to San Fran. The police were informed, but threatened to accuse the concerned citizen with a hate crime for questioning the lifestyle of one so high up the ladder of white guilt.
Religious figures have intervened. The two local Christian sects that still send out missionaries to spread the word and save souls have pulled their proselytes from the area where satyrs are lurking. A pagan group, more conversant with the powers and possibilities of satyrs, has taken up residence, filling the bistro and public cafes with whispers and rumors of the coming and goings of hooded figures wearing strange silver rings and about on strange business. They stink of patchtouli. An American big game hunter, fresh from a hunt for some Mountain Gorilla, has just appeared this very day, asking pointed questions, and not fitting at all into the vegetarian, anti-gun, no hunting, small testicle community that exists in downtown Toronto. The satyr is to be avoided, worshiped, or hunted for a trophy.