1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.
2) This story contains characters and settings copyrighted by DC Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters and settings. It is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.
3) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read-this being the Internet, you shouldn't have to look hard.
4) I'm no continuity buff, so for simplicity's sake this story uses the TV show "Justice League" as its model, with bits and pieces picked up from the comics as I'm familiar with them. Please accept it as the best knowledge I had when the story was written.
5) Stories like this take time and effort to write. The chief reward an author receives for this labour is the knowledge that other people have found them good. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop the author a line at the link below and let him know. The more feedback he receives, the more likely it is he'll keep writing new stories.
Most people think 'Epicureanism' means devotion to fine food. They're wrong. Those with a slightly better education think it means devotion to pleasure of all sorts. They're wrong too. Epicurus, the philosopher whom this school of thought is named after, taught that the pursuit of pleasure was the only appropriate goal of life; but he thought that there were higher and lower pleasures, and we should devote ourselves to the former. Dissolute, intemperate use of lower pleasures, like food, would dull us to higher ones, like philosophy. Even then, the higher pleasures should be taken sparingly, lest they-and we-become jaded, and spoiled.
I only met Wonder Woman three times. But because I'm an Epicurean, in this original sense of the term, the fact that I may never meet her again doesn't trouble me. To expect more than what she's given me already would spoil me indeed.
The first time was in Boston. I remember that whole period vividly, because it was an exciting time, in sharp contrast to everything that had gone before. Two years earlier I had been a grad student, living in a beat-up apartment next to a second-rate university in a third-rate town, slaving away at a dissertation I knew in my heart I would never finish. (It was an attempt to do a post-modern analysis of Euripides' Aeschylean parodies. I don't think the world is any poorer for its never being completed.) Bored and frustrated, I started a book about Greek drama and Greek philosophy, which discussed them both generally and tried to relate them to the problems of the contemporary world. It started as a hobby, but it quickly invaded time I should have been spending on my work. No surprise there; it was a lot more interesting, if I do say so myself. By the time it was finished, so was my funding and the patience of my advisor. I found myself kicked out of college, with nothing to show for my time there except my manuscript.
That was rock bottom for me. Without school and without a job, I sat in my apartment, trying to figure out what to do with my life. What saved me was that manuscript: I had sent it to one of the bigger American publishers of general-reader non-fiction, and to my surprise they picked it up. I got a sizeable check-sizeable enough to pay off all my outstanding loans-and what was even more exciting, a book tour. The publishers wanted me to travel around the country, the east coast mostly, promoting my book at different bookstores. My travel, my accommodation, my meals, would all be paid for, and all I had to do was talk about my book to interested audiences. So I found myself bouncing from city to city, in a whirlwind of lectures, interviews, and appointments. I was being treated like an important intellectual, a celebrity. Small wonder I remember that time so well.
Why was I, a first-time author of what should have been a niche book, being given such treatment? My timing was good. As the fates had it, my manuscript had crossed the publisher's desk right after Wonder Woman made her public debut. The Justice League had just defeated the Martian invasion, and world attention was on them all, but particularly on her. She had never been seen before; she hailed from a secret island of Amazons, where men were not allowed; she seemed to have powers in the Superman class; and most importantly of all, she was drop-dead gorgeous. All of these things meant the public eye was on her, and she kept it there. Apparently, she had left her home of Themascyra -'Paradise Island' - to be an ambassador for her people and a promoter of her way of life. So she was happy to talk to the media, and they were happy to talk to her. The result of all this was a sudden interest in all things having to do with Ancient Greece. My book arrived at just the right moment to catch that wave.
Boston was one of the earliest stops on my book tour, I think because it has so many colleges; the publishers wanted to reach as many potential readers as they could, and these days college students are one of the few groups with the time, money, and inclination to read non-fiction. I was only there for one day, regardless. It was a full one: radio interview in the morning, lunch meeting with a publisher's rep, public lecture at Boston College in the afternoon, and then a book-signing at the LexBooks superstore in Cambridge. It was at the LexBooks that I met her for the first time.
I was sitting at a desk in the back of the store, a line of people snaking out away from me through the aisles. One at a time they approached, I signed a book for them, and made brief small talk-"nice to meet you, thanks for coming out," and so forth. It had been a long day, and I was tired. I had only fifteen minutes more until the event ended and I could go back to the hotel, and I was counting the seconds. Then there was a commotion near the front of the store. I looked up with a frown; the line was parting, and there was a buzz of voices, everyone talking at once. Before I put together what was happening, the people in front of my table moved aside, and I saw her.
She was in her costume, with the star-spangled tights, the metal belt, the golden corset, the unbreakable bracelets, the tiara, the works. I'm sure you've seen images of her, but seeing her in the flesh has an impact that no reproduction can match. Believe it or not, it's the eyes you notice first. Her gaze is firm, direct, intelligent; you look into those eyes and you know you're in the presence of someone more than mortal. Only then do you take in the rest of her-that dark hair, falling down around her in waves; that perfect face, heart-shaped; that clear, tanned, skin; that stern expression. It gives you a shock, like stepping into a blizzard without a coat on. At least, that's what it did for me.
She stood before me, and put out her hand. "I am Diana of Themascyra. I am pleased to meet you." Her voice was a full, rich contralto.
Glassily, I shook her hand. "The pleasure is all mine." Her grip was firm, but not painful. Later I remembered that this woman could tear steel with her bare hands; if I'd thought of that at the time, I might not have risked the handshake.
