The Goddess Archetype: Or How to F**k Like Aphrodite

The Goddess Descends to the Altar...

Sex always seems to evoke the otherworldly; a little healthy in-out always take us to the Empyrean realm. I have to shamelessly admit that I was fellating my bon ami about a week ago; there is a little trick that I’ve perfected, seizing the base of the sacred phallus, then slobbering vigorously all over the glans. Perhaps the technique is ancient—his response was “damn, you’re a goddess.”

I took the hardened implement, then pulsing with shivers of irrepressible delight, between my décolletage—the compliments continued, less articulately. Then, as if my breasts had tapped into some primal power of the spheres, he pulsed wildly and a little mischievous drop issued forth, as if summoned by the deity. I lapped it up and then mounted the organ, imagining myself commanding heaven and earth.

But what is this vague goddess idea? It always returns instinctively, stuck in our collective cultural craw. I am only a gentlewoman amateur, but here are some random ideas that define the noble history of an elusive idea:

Scattered across Paleolithic Europe were so-called Venus figures, which give a little insight into the thought-picture of primitive humanity. The most famous is the Venus of Willendorf, dating from roughly 22,000 BC, resplendent with breasts larger than Jenna Jameson’s, and other distended features, whether from pregnancy or just some healthy jelly. Décolletage divided the universe, aping the curves of the world, inspiring our forefathers to joyfully rut. Yum.

Willendorf to Hendricks: Goddess 2 Goddess...

Archetypes survive, and I can only think of Joan Holloway on Mad Men, played ably by Christina Hendricks, ancient yet modern, inhumanly curvy, the “best piece of ass” that Roger Sterling ever had, ineffably earthy yet divine, sharing the mammarial presence of the German Venus. Another panting Mad Men refers to her, drooling in worship, as “So much woman,” half in adulation, half in despair. I can only agree.

And then the archetype divides and complicates, becoming decidedly literary: Aphrodite, the goddess of love; Eros, the incarnation of our baser inclinations; Robert Grave’s “White Goddess,” the ineffable feminine force that inspires poetry and imagination. We then land in the elastic Wiccan conflation of nature worship and femininity— the world is fertile, dripping, the simulacrum of a giant pussy ready to be tasted and engorged.

In the end, I like to go back to the concrete world of sensation. These goddess-ideals are superlatives, tributes to the earthy universality of healthy f**king. My boni ami’s evocation of goddess-hood lingering in my mind, I summoned a little Artemisian energy to bonk the hell out of that ardent, willing tool and it responded to my will again, issuing forth the milk of Hermes like the fountain of Montecavallo.



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