by Jean Roberta
Lightning turns the stormy sky an alarming shade of bone-white as thunder almost deafens the worshippers at the temple. The High Priest throws himself on the ground before the temple door, and his followers prostrate themselves behind him.
This day had been prophesied, but no one in the temple had paid much attention to the bumper stickers on volkswagens in the 1970s that read: “God is coming, and is She pissed!”
“Forgive us, O Lord!” howls the High Priest. “We have allowed unnatural perversions to go unpunished in our cities. We have allowed filthy words to be read by all, even in our schools. Our women are impure and they are filled with pride, not shame. Strike down all those who break Your holy laws!”
The raging of the sky grows quieter so that She may be heard.
“In that case,” a low, silky voice croons from a large purple cloud, “I hope you are ready to die, Jeremiah.”
Heads are cautiously raised from the ground. Doom, it seems, is better met head-on.
“You dare to call yourself the lord and master of five women,” continues the voice, “my daughters, made in my image. You dare. You cannot begin to satisfy one of them, let alone all five. You have driven men out of your cult for no crime other than their love for each other. You have treated children like toys to be used and broken. You have forced your followers to work without pay that you may profit from their labour. You have sickened the healthy and denied healing to the sick.”
The High Priest opens his mouth, and spontaneously bursts into flames.
“Now then,” says She to the terrified and confused mortals who have all scrambled away from the fire. Their leader had no real friends among them. “This isn’t my usual style, but it’s what you’ve been led to expect. You realize that you’re all hallucinating on the potion he made you drink, don’t you? No, you probably don’t. It’s probably just as well.”
“Understand this, as far as you’re able: I am the Earth, and you have exploited Me for too long. Pleasure is what you were made for, because you are my children. Life-hating cults drive me crazy, and the cult of profit is the worst. That’s going to change now, at least for those of you who want to live long enough to see the sun rise tomorrow.”
She blesses them with sleep because they aren’t strong enough to stay conscious in Her presence for long. Her smile, in the form of moonlight, shimmers through a storm cloud as it disintegrates like smoke.
She is thinking of all the fun she is going to have with them on the first day of their re-education.
There are wiccans and neo-pagans who pay tribute to a Deity like this, but they are a powerless minority of the world’s population. The best erotic stories I know of that deal with Her are set in times when the Fathers of Christianity were not yet established in power, and they saw Her as a serious threat.
Here is the last paragraph of “Salt,” Simon Sheppard’s retelling of the story of Sodom, in his erotic story collection, Sodomy! (Lethe Press, 2010). A Sodomite addresses a male newcomer:
“The lamps are burning low, and Aram [one of the two male strangers who came looking for Lot, a “righteous” worshipper of Yahweh, and who stayed with the narrator instead] is waiting for you in the next room. May you enjoy each other, share the joy of the earth, and may the Goddesses grant you dreams of peace.
Heartbrother, welcome to Sodom.”
[You have to read the story to find out how naked worshippers pay tribute to the Goddesses.]