FIRST COME THE BEARERS of fruit, wine, and water; next come the sacrificial bulls. There are enough of them to feed the entire island. After them comes the basket-girl, the chorus, and the wooden statue of Dionysus. Then come the dicks.

As Dionysus's child, this year I have the honor of pulling the cart that contains the largest of all the penises.

You know, most dads show their support with a pat on the back.

In my free hand is the clay penis I was working on before breakfast, now hardened and stiff from the sun. My mom walks beside me, carrying a dick-on-a-stick and repeatedly thrusting it into the air. Ironic, because the dick we are celebrating is Dionysus's, and I do think his is the only one that she's gotten in her life.

She has to yell to be heard over the din of the crowd. "LOOK AT ALL OF THESE PROSPECTIVE BACHELORS!"

"MOM, WE ARE LITERALLY SURROUNDED BY DICKS."

She pokes me in the side with the one that she's carrying. "SO YOU GET THE PICK OF THE LITTER!"

It is sweltering, the heat coming off our bodies and the sun in waves. Up above, the sky is an endless tapestry of glittering blue wound with veins of cotton. The ground we walk on is rough. Every step is at a different height than the last, as our city was built into a mountainside. To the left of me, the jagged white cliffs rise high above our heads. Everyone is dressed in their finery, temporarily free of the one red cloak that we all have to wear year-round. However, that does not make any of the men seem more appealing to me.

"IF I AM GOING TO THROW MY LIFE AND CAREER AWAY FOR SOME MAN, I WANT HIM TO AT LEAST BE CUTE. AND PREFERABLY NOT CARRYING A WOODEN REPLICA OF MY FATHER'S PENIS."

I can feel my father's presence pulsing through the crowd, purple and wild with divine frenzy. It makes the whole world feel a little drunk, a little dizzy.

"I THINK YOUR STANDARDS MIGHT BE A BIT HIGH."

"I AM NOT WILLING TO COMPROMISE."

"OF COURSE YOU AREN'T." Again, she pokes me in the side with her dick-on-a-stick. "LOOK. IT'S MORNING WOOD. GET IT? DO YOU GET IT, SWEETIE? IT'S A PENIS MADE OF WOOD, SO..."

Moms.

The parade continues on. The men yell obscenities at each other. The women act as if words like pussy and sissy used as insults don't leave a sting. Lewd comments are just a part of the festival. They're expected, they don't mean anything. Give us a smile. See? Much prettier now.

It goes on for hours, it seems. All the people laughing and talking, their voices buzzing in my ears. It is easy to get drunk on all the excitement, and I drink it all in.

Finally, we reach our final destination: the Theatre of Dionysus. Built onto the side of a hill, it is this semi-circle of sloping stone seats known as the theatron around the orchestra—the small circle where the actors perform. Opposite the seats is a low stone building called the skene—a sort of backstage for the actors to change their costumes and masks—painted elaborately with a scene from one of the times pirates attempted to kidnap Dionysus.

People begin settling into their seats. The parade disperses. The theatre's acoustics amplifies the din of the crowd. My mother and I follow the bulls and their leaders down to the skene. I drop off my gigantic wooden penis (but keep my clay one) and head back into the crowd. She stays there, her and the other priests and priestesses preparing for the sacrifices.

I find my way to the very front row. Usually, it is reserved for priests and priestesses and members of the royal families. However, during festivals honoring a specific god, all of their confirmed children are allowed to sit there. It is a very high honor. All of the other rows are uncomfortable, lumpy stone, but the front one has been covered in a layer of smooth marble.

My half-siblings crowd around me on the bench, excitedly chatting. Some of them even try to hug me. There is maybe a dozen or two of us. Much more claim to be Dionysus's child, but it hasn't been confirmed; they sit a couple of rows above us, sending nasty jealous looks our way.

Events like these feel like a big family reunion that I want no part of. Sure, they might be a nice idea, but in reality, I have nothing in common with these people. Well, other than the fact that the sperm that brought us all into existence came from the very same man that we honor tonight.

I see them twice a year at best. Some of them are twice my age and married with kids. Some of them are toddlers that look at me with my sword in awe. Some of them I've never met before. And each year new ones will be born, some will die, and some of the previously-unconfirmed will join us. It is always changing, and I do not have the energy to keep up.

"You got the big dick this year!" one of my sisters tells me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. "Nice!"

"What was your name again?" asks one of my brothers.

I'm people-watching, half-paying attention to my siblings' babbling. I half-heartedly thank my sister and tell my brother that my name is Dick because I did not properly hear him. Thankfully, he does not listen for a response.

I watch as one of the kings walks in carrying a classic dick-on-a-stick. He is the unmarried one, young and handsome (or so I have been told), the one that my mother has repeatedly told me I should try to "get with." He is met with respect, but tonight we do not honor him; we honor the gods.

I wave to some of the kids I went to the agōgē with and some of the soldiers I recognize. Some of them look surprised to see me sitting down here and have to do a double-take. We never talk much about our personal lives, so of course they would not know that I am the daughter of a god. There is no such thing as me in the Apollonisian army nor the agōgē. There is only we.

A couple more half-siblings trickle in. I know the names of two of them. One of the unconfirmed tries to sit with us, but they are instantly booted out.

My eyes trail to the top of the theatron, where a white boy sits by himself, looking around with wide eyes. He proudly carries a clay dick in one hand and a bowl of fruit in the other. There's something odd about him, something that makes him stick out.

For starters, he's wearing a red cloak. Why? One of the few days where it is not required, and he still wears it?

But this, on its own, is not unusual. Many own nothing other than it, and still wear it on holidays.

The most unusual thing about him is his appearance.

His hair—brown, curly, unruly—is long. Our army is all about uniformity. Boys have to cut it short at the very least, if not completely shave it off. It comes down nearly to his jaw in messy little tufts. And his arms—they are covered in these strange little drawings and symbols, some kind of tattoos. Is he a criminal?

Screw my half-siblings. I want to see what's up with that.