Daphne Tells All

Really?  You really think I was so attached to my virginity that in order to save my rep I agreed to be turned into a tree? 

As if. 

I was flirting with gorgeous Apollo who had chiseled pecs the likes of which were unmatched both in heaven and on earth.  My highly polished, hard-to-get act was working.  I would caper, hide coyly behind some foliage until spotted, then caper some more.  I never ran too fast or too far.  You know, keep the mystique going but don’t make it downright impossible.  Classic come-hither scenario. 

My dad, Dickhead – ok, officially the river god Peneus, but Dickhead is apt – had a thing about the neighborhood boys, mortal and immortal.  He often warned me to stay deep inside the woods, out of sight from wandering males of all ages and species.

I’d heard it a thousand times:   “Look at what happened to Leda.  Daphne, my innocent, you must be vigilant, and watch out not just for lusty gods but also for any wildlife that seems to take a sudden, unnatural interest in you.  When in doubt, knees together, STAT!”

I kid you not.  His dire warnings and endless lectures grated.  I was getting good at tuning him out. 

One day, as I was hanging out in the woods and thinking I was going to remain single forever, I chanced upon Apollo.  His muscles, which I believe he had oiled to please my appreciative eye, gleamed with exquisite definition in the dappled light.  His wavy, golden hair glimmered and his tunic was supernaturally white and cinched in all the right places. 

Best of all, Apollo appeared to be one hundred percent human, albeit in a godlike way.  He had not transformed himself into a randy squirrel or a lusty loon.  He might have been immortal but he looked like the best-equipped he-man I had ever seen.

I was going to clinch this deal while I still had a chance.  Dickhead was nowhere in sight.  It was now or never.

“Oh, Apollo,” I trilled, tossing my cascading, auburn hair and batting my green-gold eyes.

By the way, I was quite a catch.   I was slender where it mattered and well-padded where it mattered more.  I had it all going on.  The best hair in the woodlands and the best body of all the nymphs, and there was pretty stiff competition among us girls.

I couldn’t blame Apollo for wanting to taste a little of my ambrosia.  I would have wanted me if I’d been male.  I’m no Narcissus but I always did have a healthy appreciation of my womanly charms.

I edged a curvaceous pinky toe out from behind the hedge where I was hiding.  Apollo gasped his appreciation and moved a step closer.  I flashed the length of my shapely calf.  Closer yet he came.  My elegant hand emerged, then my well-toned arm, then my voluptuous torso, and last of all, my face.   It, by the way, was the fairest of them all, no matter what you have heard, and absolutely could have launched a thousand ships if I hadn’t been about to be turned into a frigging tree. 

Apollo ran toward me, arms outstretched, with the unmistakable look of love-lust in his eyes.

“Daphne,” he said, desire thickening his voice.

“Apollo,” I answered, almost unable to breathe, as my yearning intensified.

“Daphne,” he crooned insistently.  He closed the distance, running hard and fortunately not tripping on the roots that covered the forest floor.

That’s when the world’s worst dad, Peneus, AKA Dickhead, appeared on the scene.

“APOLLO?!” he roared. “Daphne, beloved daughter, I shall save you.  You shall not be defiled.  Kazam!”

And, before I could shout “hells no!” I felt myself begin to transform. 

My skin turned from dewy and pearlescent to rough and unyielding.  My legs merged, as did my feet, which rooted themselves to the ground, extending downward into the dry earth.  My arms stretched and twisted, shooting out sub-arms which then became branches that all burst into leaf.  My glorious, radiant face disappeared into the bark of this newly created entity.  Somehow, without eyes I could see and without ears I could hear, but I was unable to speak and I certainly couldn’t feel Apollo’s head as it crashed into my embarrassingly thick-waisted trunk.  I was trapped, conscious but unable to communicate, inside a tree. 

A bay laurel, to be precise.  You know:  cute, spear-shaped, shiny leaves.  Fragrant.  Adding flavour to a hearty stew.  Definitely not good for having a torrid affair with a hot Greek god.

Thanks, daddy-o.   You lost a daughter but gained an attractive shade tree.  Like you needed another one when we live in the freaking woods, right?

Apollo wept.  While my foul father went whistling off, considering his parental job well done, Apollo grieved.  He cried for the love that could have been.  He mourned the loss of my womanly beauty.  Most of all, he wailed out of frustration.   He had been this close.

Sweetie that he was, Apollo stayed with me all afternoon, patting my coarse bark and kissing my perky leaves.  Perhaps he hoped that I would revert to full nymphet splendor.  Alas, this was not to be.  Tree I was and tree I would remain, evergreen but never, ever sexually satisfied.

I felt no pain as Apollo snapped twigs from my branches.  He wove a wreath with my glossy foliage and placed it aloft his golden curls.  I have heard that from that moment on he used my leaves as a symbol of his enduring affection, but I did not see him again. I was left, all alone, branches wafting in the wind.  I was sturdy, pure, and eternally furious.

So that’s it.  The real story of Daphne and Apollo.  A cautionary tale it is, too.  Daughters beware:  make sure your interfering fathers are away before you try exploring your inner goddess with any hunky boys next door.  Times may have changed, but dads will always be dads.