Libido: Fiction: Playing with the Goddess
Playing with the Goddess
from The Ecstatic Moment,
edited by Marianna Beck and Jack Hafferkamp

By Sophie DuChien

I don’t believe in omens. But all that sunshine and the promise of a break in my routine had me smiling at everybody…even on a jammed afternoon United flight into Washington D.C.’s National airport.

Barbara was the first person I saw when I emerged into the terminal. Her big brown eyes locked onto mine like radar.

I have known Barbara since college, when we were very close and about as intimate as two non-sexually-involved roommates could be.

Years, marriages, careers and half-a-continent have opened time and distance between us, but when she called out of nowhere one day, we picked up the threads no problem.

"I read a marvelous story by you and I had to call you up. I found you listed in information! Astounding!" Barbara always has had the ability to charm birds out of the trees. And so persuasive is she that I found myself agreeing to spending the week of spring break with her. Her husband was taking the two kids on a seven-day trek in Central America, and she was staying home for the pleasure of being single.

"So I thought of you," she said. "Please come. I promise it will be even more fun than back then. I want to get to know you again."

And so we did.

Talking to Barbara in person, I soon learned is as natural and easy as on the phone. So easy that after I rediscovered the charm, my almost-forgotten sense of awe returned, too. Barbara is one hell of a go-getter. She looks great; her kids are fine, growing quickly; her career is still expanding; she loves living in Virginia and most of all she loves being the wife of the kind of man who will stay afloat in Washington no matter who sits in the White House.

"Even Pat Robertson," she says he said cockily.

Underneath it all, however, I detected a sense of anger in Barbara. I’ve seen it often in women of my generation. The world is their oyster, but something’s not right in the sauce. There’s an undertone, hard-edged and polished by years of experience, that unexpectedly goes on the offensive. I wasn’t quite prepared when she brought up my late marriage.

"I don’t know how you stayed with him for so long. I was beginning to lose respect for you…"

Before I could fully register and respond, the warm glow returned to Barbara’s tone. She said "From travail, does experience grow. And in your case it’s given you a new voice. A very interesting voice."

Barbara was surprisingly knowledgeable about and interested in my, you’ll pardon the term, reputation. She said she was was "interested in separating fact from fiction," and that I might just be the right person to help her in a project."

I said, "And…"

"A women’s empowerment event. I’m still working on how, exactly, it would work, but the idea is to bring women I know, like, and respect together to tap into a deeper connection, to explore our goddess selves…"

My snort was involuntary and she didn’t let it stop her.

"Don’t laugh, I mean this. I want to reach a new level of group intimacy and awareness. I want us to feel empowered by the realization that we can strip ourselves to our spiritual levels and feel secure, accepted and appreciated. I identify this state with my goddess self. I want to bring women together to experience this feeling. Yes, there is a strong sexual element in this. And I thought that if anybody I know might have some ideas on this, it would be you."

What could I say?


As she chopped broccoli, Barbara casually let it be known that she enjoyed her vibrator’s company more than her husband’s. I poured her a glass of wine.

"Do tell," I said.

"I started using it when we were apart for too long. Dick’s work at State is important. It keeps him distracted." Barbara averted her eyes.

"Then I realized I began to look forward to going to bed with my vibrator more than with Dick. We used to have fabulous sex…" Barbara sighed. "But that was years ago. Now what are my choices? I don’t want to get involved with someone. With my vibrator I can relax completely, instead of always worrying about whether I am turning him on, or looking good, or whatever. Propped up on some pillows, I can let my mind go. I can go as slowly as I want. I can flip my own switch. This is not easy for me to say, so do you know what I mean?"

Her eyebrow rose in a way that flipped my switch.

After dinner, drinks, and more pointed conversation, Barbara asked me if I would dance with her. I was tired, but I admit it was fun. Especially the tango we did to Piazola. I, for one, wound up not only turned on but sweaty. Barbara had a solution. "How about a bath?" She said it seemed a good way to end a grand day. She presented the idea as a dare.

I unzipped and stepped out of my skirt. "I like the water hot." And at that moment, I noted, I was not clear on who was the spider and who was the fly.

When I got to the tub, Barbara already was in it, buried to her chin in bubbles. The tub was an ancient, four-footed thing, and although surprisingly long, it wasn’t so big that Barbara could pretend to avoid touching.

I lay back, bending my head around the faucet handle, washing under my arms and across my breasts in ways I knew would make my nipples harden. This gave me Barbara’s undivided attention. Sometimes I am an exhibitionist.

My hands stole down my stomach to the water line just below my navel. Barbara’s eyes widened as they followed my fingers below rapidly disappearing suds. I must confess something else. At that moment I became very aroused.

Not just turned on; very turned on.

I lay so I could see her face through my parted knees. I wanted to shock Barbara, but what mostly seemed to be happening was that if I didn’t stop, I’d lose control. So I stopped. Her eyes eyes rose to meet mine and she gave me a smile that has burned itself into my brain. It’s a late-night vision I trot out often.

I invited Barbara to spin around and lean back against me. "I want to get the kinks out of your neck," I said, trying to keep my game face on.

Wordlessly Barbara turned and scooched back between my legs, and put her head against my shoulder. Water splashed over the top of the tub. The texture of her skin was a surprise. Stroking her shoulder with my fingertips launched waves that radiated across her breasts, creating knobs at their ends.

Barbara’s brown nipples. I remembered my secret attraction to her nipples, so full, so brown, so firm, so different from my own palid, little, waspy pink tips, barely there at the end of my little cone-breasts.

Huskily, I told Barbara that back in school, I wanted her nipples on my breasts. There was an intake of breath when my fingers moved to squeeze a time-ripened nipple. It grew under my pinching and the feeling reverberated between my legs. Barbara made a sexual sound. Her hand emerged from the water to pull on her other nipple. When I stopped to watch, her other hand pushed me away to get to the nipple I had abandoned.

My duty was clear. My hand slid slowly and with clear purpose across Barbara’s still-flat stomach. I wanted my fingers to feel like an eel swimming through moss. I resisted landing on the knob I knew I would find there as long as I could.

Objective as I am trying to be now, this moment was big for me. In college, Barbara’s natural earthiness was a revelation for the Midwestern Episcopalian in me. She was smart, determined, always in control, and sexual. Many was the night I drifted to sleep listening to her and her boyfriend. I loved the smell of her, especially after sex. I think I idolized her ability to get what she wanted. Now, reading the depth of her need by the quickness of her breath felt very powerful for me. She surrendered herself to me. And she clearly was even more turned on than I was. She was trembling.

In her ear I whispered "I want you to show me how much you like to show yourself off when you are hot. Lift yourself out of the water so we can see my fingers play with you."

She barely broke the surface, when a spasm took her. Her hips splashed down, rose and splashed down again, fingernails dug into my arm and a most wonderfully moist, guttural gasp passed her lips. A chestful of air came out and her hips undulated in another, grander spasm that sent more waves over the top of the tub. Her eyes rolled up. A note came from her that was so urgent, so compelling that I lost all control. Fingers still in her, I clamped my thighs around her leg, buried my free hand in my bush and ground myself and howled to meet her every note.


In the morning we were lazy.

When I awoke, I made as if I should go to my own bed, but I let Barbara talk me into staying put while she squeezed oranges and brought me the Washington Post on a platter.

I lay back into the pillows, pulled my knees up and drank in the sweetness in the air.

Next to me, looking at the ceiling Barbara said softly, "When I came the last time, I was thinking that what we were doing was so good that we can’t keep it to ourselves. We have to share it."

I had no idea what she meant, but the way she said it made me wet. It also gave rise to a powerfully aphrodisiac recollection, something that made me feel both aroused and guilty in a way that felt very familiar.

I remembered why. In college, I passed Barbara’s bedroom door very early in one morning. It was open enough for me to see her on top of her boyfriend, fucking him with an abandon that made them oblivious to me. For a moment I was frozen, then I realized that in their state, even if they noticed me, it wouldn’t matter. It would just make them hotter. A phosphorescent heat from my pudenda ran up through my body and probably emerged from my ears as blue static. I nearly swooned as I staggered away, rushing back to my bed where I masturbated over and over. For months after, I fingered myself often to that blazing image of Barbara: head back, mouth open, hair whipping, hip-thrusting, bronco-busting, butt-squeezing, man-eating, earth-mothering sex…

My eyes must have drifted closed, because I didn’t see Barbara’s hand move under the covers. I felt them find the wetness seeping from my cunt.

I felt Barbara turn and even with my eyes closed, I could see her eyes exploring my face. She whispered, "I hope you can help me, Sophie. Please help me to prove that women can have hot sex together that is satisfying, renewing and completely safe."

She was toying with me. I knew it. I exulted in it.

"I know this isn’t a completely original idea. Other people have done it way before me, Annie Sprinkle, Betty Dodson, maybe even Emma Goldman, for pete’s sake. But now I feel it’s important for me to act this out. I want to create an environment where women can explore their bodies together, celebrate their woman-ness and find our goddess selves. I want a supportive, erotic environment where goddesses can howl together; where we can be the witches we really are; where we can get off together."

Meanwhile, Barbara’s fingers stopped their stroking. My hips moved on their own, up after Barbara’s retreating fingers. She laughed.

When her fingers returned they landed knowingly. She tipped my head back and stuck her tongue in my mouth as her fingers strummed my clit. She bit my lip and then she whispered. "I want you to help me bring women here and get off together. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Think of the energy, think of the exhilaration. Women together, getting off."

I thought and I came on Barbara’s hand.


On the morning of the big day a month later, I awoke in Barbara’s bed with a knot in my stomach, and Barbara knew what to do. She greeted me with nectarine slices, coffee with warmed milk and a hug — wherein she reached into my robe to pinch a nipple.

Barbara had sent her family to a weekend-long Civil War re-enactment, telling them she was hosting a women’s support group retreat. This, after all, was true.

Barbara said "When we were in school I always wanted to do this to you — to touch your breasts and to turn you on. I thought you needed it. But I was afraid you would think I was gay. Now I say gay schmay; who cares? I’m more into what is inside heads than genders and whether the body looks tight or not. Right now, I want to do this with women, to see if it can be done. I know some great heads here…" Her voice trailed off and she laughed. "My God, I do sound like some hippie now! What I mean is these are women you will like. What we want here is a feeling of primal togetherness, the intimacy of eight spiritual nurturers really getting down to it. My idea is simply that the way we’re going to get to that level today is through sex. I see all this as a clitoral convergence, a swampy mingling of primal oozings, a harmonic hormonal hoedown that breaks down all the barriers among us."

I laughed.

She said: "It’s also going to be the hottest time you ever have had. Forget your short stories, you’ll get novels out of this one. You’ll be coming in chapters."

Barbara kissed me warmly and said brightly, "When I ask for a volunteer to take off her clothes so we can all practice massaging someone to orgasm," Barbara enthused, "it will be you. "

And that’s precisely what happened.


I should tell you that the women were an impressive group. The former-model and some-time actress I recognized immediately. Another is a senior staffer for a conservative western U.S. Senator. One doles out major arts grants. One is married to a prominent eastern liberal congressman and is active in the Junior League. One is a nationally-known radio reporter. One writes for Vanity Fair. And the last one is jet-setting socialite from Chicago who raises funds for Republicans and writes trashy novels. Sweetness, as I remembered calling her, and I had met at charity functions many times in Chicago, but I was put off by the combination of her attitude and her legs — I never felt that she even noticed me.

Funny how so sophisticated a group could be so nervous. Despite Barbara’s warmest greetings, the initial moments were quite awkward. The introductions were stiff and postures included lots of crossed arms and legs. I began having serious doubts, which did not improve my mood. I stayed away from Sweetness, who was looking positively palid. But Barbara was ready for us.

She began the process of getting to know one another by asking us all to change into exercise clothes and leading a series of stretching and movement exercises to music. Barbara’s family room was just big enough to hold us all. She got us to break the ice among ourselves with a series of trust-building exercises. We took turns putting on blindfolds and falling into outstretched arms. We closed eyes and touched faces. And then we went out for a group run around the university park nearby as the sun set.

When we returned, the transformation was complete. People took turns using Barbara’s two showers. She put out raw vegetables and dip, and conversation began to flow. I soon understood why Barbara had selected these particular women. The oldest was 52 and the youngest 32. They were accomplished, articulate, united by an edginess and obvious interest in pushing boundaries, and once warmed, good humored. I wish I could say much more about them, but I have to be careful about revealing identities and betraying confidences.

Barbara lit candles and burned frankincense and myrrh.

Under Barbara’s lead, the talk became quite personal. I was surprised at how easily we began talking about our fears and shortcomings, unhappy sexual experiences, STDs and learning to love latex and Nonoxynol-9 in the 1990s. At the right moment Barbara asked us to move close enough so that we could complete a circle, touching both the person on our right and left. Underneath the talk and laughter, a clearly perceptible sexual tension was incubating. Barbara encouraged us to take turns massaging one another’s necks, calves and feet.

Barbara and I were the last to shower and we took ours together. From behind me she soothingly soaped my body and stroked away my final traces of doubt, which seem to have been lodged mostly between my legs.

"These women adore you, Sophie," she whispered in my ear just before she bit it.

Within a few moments Barbara had me lying on a sheet, gloriously naked, aglow in candlelight and surrounded by seven women for whom I knew I was going to have an orgasm. Around me floated the sounds of the Bulgarian women singers, with their endlessly woven harmonies. Barbara invited the women to move in close.

"Sophie," Barbara whispered soothingly. "Just close your eyes and let your body do your talking."

She began to massage my legs with warmed lotion. I lay on my stomach with a pillow under my hips, feeling wonderfully wanton. Barbara said, "In the beginning I was shy about my vibrator. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I enjoyed it more than making love to little Richard, let alone discuss it with anybody else. But gradually it came out that a lot of women I know have them. More than I ever guessed — at least until I began finding ways to ask my acquaintances about it.

"Some clammed up, but what I love about you is that you all told me, at one time or another, that you have one and enjoy it and that the idea of being with other women while using them is a turn on. That’s why I have invited you all here. I want to turn loose that impulse. I want your pussies to twitch. I want to conjure up primal images of musky amazons in you. I want you to find the goddess in you by journeying up the river of your juices. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do here, and if you feel like touching others, you may, as long as you use common sense. There are gloves and lube and Saran wrap if you feel like dining in."

As she spoke, Barbara’s hands moved steadily north and soon were kneading my butt. I found myself becoming quite aroused thinking about how I must look.

Barbara said. "And to help put you all in the proper mood, I am going to use this vibrator on my oldest friend here, Sophie." Even though I knew it was coming, when the vibrator touched me I jumped. "In college, I regularly fantasized pulling Sophie’s panties down and putting her across my knees. I didn’t want to spank her, I just wanted to pet her lovely round ass. And now here I am doing it for you all to enjoy. Doesn’t she have a lovely pussy?"

I know I was enjoying Barbara’s performance. Her knowing hands guided the vibrator around my elevated butt. Holding the vibrator head in her fingers, she let her hand settle for the briefest of moments deep into my parted legs.

It felt so good that when she abruptly withdrew, my rear squirmed. I wanted more. So Barbara turned off the vibrator.

"I get the feeling we’re ready to try something a little more adventuresome. I want to invite any and all to begin stroking Sophie. She has told me how turned on she is by the idea of being touched by so many people. So please make her feel it."

In a moment, hands fluttered all over me. I wasn’t sure how many. The touches all were different. Definitely exciting. "Good, good, good…," Barbara said soothingly again and again.

Then: "Now, Sophie, I want you to show us how you like to play with yourself while you lay on your stomach."

I hesitated; this I had not anticipated. Yet I was too turned on not to obey. I lay so I could bury my face in my left arm and slide my right hand down to press my clit against the hardness of two bony fingers. I held the fingers still and pushed myself against them.

I had a brief moment of self consciousness then. The hands felt odd in such a personal moment. They were disjointed and separate in their motions. Then, Boom!, all the separate hands came together into one motion. The movement synchronized with mine. Time stopped.

I heard myself singing in a voice I almost did not recognize. Hands lifted me to my knees, pushed open my legs far enough to see my fingers glistening, and began to probe me. When Barbara bent down to put her tongue in my ear, I did not hold back. I had a crying, trembling, dizzying orgasm that stretched on and on and on.

And so began the most remarkable sexually-charged evening I ever have spent.


Some time while I was still drifting back to earth, Barbara gave everyone a vibrator and told them to strip to bra and panties. I remember the scene in snippets, women pulling off leotards and sweats. Barbara played gamelon music softly on the stereo and made them all kneel in a circle, left arms over right shoulders, and apply their vibrators. It was electric.

In less than a minute the group began breathing in unison and the sexual tension became palpable. Lying back and looking at them through still-blurry eyes, as spent as I thought I was, I found that the energy vortex they were creating was pulling me into their orbit. I, too, was breathing along. Soon even without a vibrator, my pussy was calling me again.

The group swayed back and forth a couple of times and seemed to be trying to steady itself when the first woman gave in to the pleasure and began whimpering in a way that amplified the effect of her approaching orgasm.

It set off chain reactions in both directions around her, and the chain broke down into parts. Three women fell into one heap, and after a round of intense eye contact, broke for latex gloves and lube. Barbara came to sit beside me, and Sweetness followed.

I took Barbara in my arms and kissed her deeply. Sweetness spread Barbara’s legs and layed a length of plastic wrap between then. As Barbara and I necked, Sweetness went down on her.

Across the room, the threesome was taking turns playing two on one. The other two women, the oldest and the youngest, were sitting on the floor facing one another knees to knees, faces inches apart, their own hands vigorously dancing in their pussies.

I know I’ll not soon forget this scene.

I wish I could better describe the sounds in that room. I wish we had recorded it all. With gamelon in the background, female energy was in full bloom, full of chirps and gasps and grunts of individual and synchronous arousal and climax. The smell was unbelievable. The air was ripe with estrus. If a man had walked into that smell, he would have squirted spontaneously.

Barbara’s latexed fingers found me and as we kissed we brought each other off. I confess I enjoyed knowing that Sweetness was frustrated because we ignored her, until I reached out my hand for her to rub on.

I am not sure how many times I came before I staggered off to sleep, but I’ll bet that if we had been counting collectively we would have a Guinness Book of World Records entry.

In the morning there was some initial sheepishness, but then the humor of it all kicked in over our morning coffee and before we quite knew what we were doing, we lay on the floor in a heads-together, eyes-closed circle, skirts up and pants down, vibrators between legs, ohm-ing together with hands-roaming, giggling, panting, squeezing, grunting, and deep-breathing, in a visceral getting of the whole group off together, as one, erupting and cursing the darkness with the primal flame of eight women, together.

What else can I say? It was awesome. We left there feeling as if we had tapped into the electric mother lode. Some of us had more orgasms between Saturday night and Sunday morning than we have had in years. I know I was positively bow-legged when I dragged myself away.


A month later, Barbara called me one morning. She said she was horny and asked if I minded talking to her while she played with herself. I got wet instantly, and I let her talk me into coming. It was my first real insight into why phone sex is as fun as it is safe.

We couldn’t help but talk about Barbara’s Big Day, as the event is now unofficially known in polite but progressive D.C. circles.

She said: "I love what we did for lots of reasons, some even beyond the obvious. For example, I told my husband, who was so green with envy and so aroused that he came before he even got his pants off. He’s been passionate for a whole month. Big whippy…" Barbara bubbled. I encouraged her to go on.

"I even toyed with the idea of having a group jerk-off safer-sex session for couples, but fortunately I remembered that when men get off once, they’re not worth much anymore. And when they realize their wives are having such a hot time, they’ll get demanding like 2-year-olds. Men would just spoil it…" Barbara’s voice trailed off.

"Oh, I don’t know," I said. "If they can get past their mine’s-bigger-than-yours hang-ups, think how lovely it would be to have half-a-dozen men all squirting at once."

And the next thing I knew, Barbara had talked me into organizing a spermathon. To be honest I’m still not sure exactly how to pull it off. I’m not sure if I know six men who will agree to a circle jerk for the benefit of two curious women. But if I can find them, I know it will be fun.