Vinum et Nympha

It is said that deep in the shadowy forests outside Rome, where the light filters through dense treetops and the moss is softer than any bed, the nymphs – the companions of Bacchus – once gathered around a thermal spring.

They were not the gentle, good-natured forest creatures with flowers in their hair from children's fairy tales.

Rather, they were the frivolous, uninhibited nymphs from ancient tales. They were wild, lustful creatures, born of human erotic desires to intoxicate themselves with their pleasure. They danced barefoot in the mud, made love in the grass, and drank wine not from jugs, but from the bodies of those they deemed worthy.

I was one of them. He was the stranger who wandered into our secret feast: a mortal, tired of the noise of the city and seeking peace, who was instead found by a nymph.

From me.

I wore nothing but a harness that revealed more than it could conceal, and a look that spoke louder than any language. I led him to a waterfall that cascaded into a warm pool. We bathed in silence, naked, our lust between us like an invisible vapor.

Then I fetched the wine: a golden white wine whose fruity soul evoked summer itself on the tongue. A gift from Bacchus himself, intended only for his retinue of nymphs and fauns.

"Taste it," I whispered, "but not from the cup, but from me." I took a sip. I held it in my mouth. Then I lowered myself onto the warm stone. I lay back. My exposed breasts glistened in the light; my skin trembled as I let the wine flow slowly over my lips, down over my chin, between my breasts, over my navel, and deep between my thighs.

He followed the stream with his tongue. With deep reverence, he drank the wine from my skin. He tasted not only the sweetness of the grapes, but also the salt of my heated skin, my moist lust, which had long since become more than the play of a bored nymph and a mortal seeking peace.

We had become part of the eternal cycle of nature, in which desire and energy, joy of life and transience are inextricably linked.

I was the divine cup of pleasure. He was the thirsty one who quenched his thirst on me. And Bacchus laughed softly in the shade of the spreading canopy of an ancient oak, and his laughter was carried away by the wind as a song.

Later, when I came, it was like a sacrifice to the ancient deity. My legs twitched, my voice was ragged with ecstasy, and the last drop of wine trickled from my navel onto his lips as he looked up at me. I was enchanted by the joy of being part of a ritual older than language, yet as present as the drop of wine glistening on his lips. He had drunk me as if I myself were the sacred chalice of an ancient ritual, filled with the wine of the gods and the juices of my lust. And I had not only allowed it, but longed for it, with every fiber of my still-trembling body.

He looked back briefly – and like a dream in the morning light, she had disappeared.

The nymph had departed. But the mortal often wandered into the forest, searching for her return. In vain. Only in the breath of the wind, in the secret rustling of the leaves, did her moans occasionally echo.

But you know what?

Maybe it was never a myth. Maybe just a story—refracted in the light of the colorful fragments of my life's kaleidoscope.

Whether it really happened remains my secret. A high-class escort knows that true stories only retain their value when they live on in the memories of those involved—and aren't wasted in the noise of the tabloids.

So raise a glass with me – to Bacchus, to the nymph and to everything that life still has in store for you.