She was the first woman who ever paid any sexual attention to me. And she was my High Priestess. She was supposed to be the embodiment of the Goddess. How could I not love her? Her name was Maeve, mother goddess of all Ireland, the land I had practically worshipped since childhood. Like a lithe dancer she moved, weightless in her thin pale skin. To my young impressionable 18 year old self she seemed like the key that would open all the doors in the universe.

Older than me, Maeve seemed to have experienced so many things that I could only imagine. I listened, a rapt pupil, to her fantastical stories of hauntings, sex, and drugs. I wanted her with a desire that I had never known before. There was no way I could be good enough for her, I was just a child who didn’t know how to act. I simply followed her. I would have followed her off the ends of the earth.

Men were simple. They wanted me, if I wanted them, we fucked. But that, you see, was my fundamental problem. I can picture it all in my mind now, 15 years later, as an outside observer. I can even put myself in Maeve’s shoes. Maybe she wasn’t sure how I felt about her. Maybe I hurt her feelings when I slept with those guys she knew. At the time she seemed like she was above all that. How could lowly little me reject the Goddess herself?