Who Wants To Be A Sex Goddess?. Gemma Bruce

      Andy heard the knock on the door and looked at her watch. Ten to five. She groaned. Please don’t let it be Body Beautiful. He was just too tempting. And if he kept escorting her everywhere, she would have a hard time keeping a blank look on her face and her hands off his butt.

      Three women stood on the other side of the screen door: the tall, skinny redhead, Jeannie, who’d sat next to her on the bus, a round, shorter woman with pink cheeks and a blue perm, and a distinguished seventy-something with aquiline features and a swept-up French twist. They were dressed in long chitons and smelled of afternoon cocktails. They probably carried Gilbey’s in their suitcases, not rappelling rope.

      Andy opened the door and got a brief look at their smiles, before their faces went blank and their mouths dropped open.

      Okay. So she’d put on a long-sleeved white shirt under her toga. Muscular biceps and visible nipples were not exactly the look she was going for, so she’d resorted to camouflage. Her hair was pulled back even tighter than before, and an extra layer of pale makeup covered her face and lips.

      Andy slipped her glasses on and stepped onto the porch.

      “Dear,” the distinguished-looking woman said in a New England accent. “I’m Evelyn Monroe; this is Loubelle Smothers.” She gestured to the plump lady. “And I believe you’ve met Jeannie Jenkins. We thought you might like to walk with us to the orientation.”

      “Sure, thanks,” said Andy, flattered that they had thought of her.

      Evelyn tucked Andy’s arm in hers, and they all started down the hill. “You’re going to love the program. And you’ll feel more comfortable once you meet everybody.”

      “They’re all just as sweet as they can be,” seconded Loubelle in a soft southern accent.

      “Especially the slaves.” Jeannie laughed. “I tell ya, honey, not even Texas grows ’em like this. My Demetri is good enough to eat.”

      Andy tripped over the hem of her toga. “Slaves?”

      Evelyn grasped her elbow. “It’s what everybody calls the attendants,” she said. “But not in front of the staff.”

      The path became steeper, and their talk turned to silence, then to huffing, as they maneuvered their way down through the woods. They crossed the expanse of grass to the main building and joined other groups of chiffon-clad women climbing the entrance steps.

      It looked like a cattle call for a Ben Hur remake. Every age, shape, and size, all swathed in flowing white.

      The lobby buzzed with conversation. A woman with a clipboard and a purple sash stretched diagonally across her toga, à la Miss America, was directing women to different lines.

      “What does the purple sash stand for?” asked Andy.

      “Priestess,” said Evelyn. “She’s passed all the levels of goddess training and is qualified to lead her own workshops. Loubelle and I go to the Initiates, since we’re second-year returnees. We’re aqua. And Jeannie—”

      “Gets to wear royal blue. A Handmaiden at last,” said Jeannie, giving a little shiver of pleasure. “That’s your line over there. The Novices.” She pointed to the longest line where women were receiving light blue sashes. “But before you go, just let me give you a little get-go. A pretty girl like you doesn’t need to hide her assets. After you get your sash, you just go on into the ladies’ and change out of that shirt. Like my mamma always said, ‘A big smile and a little flesh will get you everywhere.’” She winked what had to be false eyelashes at Andy. “We’ll save you a place at dinner.”

      Andy took her place at the back of the line of Novices and slowly made her way to the front. The name of Dr. Bliss rose from every conversation and floated around the room like an effervescence. Everyone seemed fascinated by the TV guru. She hadn’t been at the Welcoming Ceremony, and Andy was curious to see her.

      When she reached the head of the line, another purple-sashed priestess gave her a stick-on name tag and a light blue satin sash.

      She followed the others into the auditorium and saw Evelyn, Loubelle, and Jeannie sitting near the stage with the other higher ranking goddesses. She found a seat in one of the rows of folding chairs at the back of the room, reserved for the Novices. Peeking over the top of her glasses, she began a systematic search of each row, looking for a tall, auburn-haired, middle-aged stuntwoman—just in case—and came up blank.

      She did find Dillon Cross, standing in the line of men on risers at the back of the stage behind a long table that presumably would seat the staff of the retreat. The men were bare-chested and dressed in short white kilts. They were all handsome and fit, though some looked self-conscious and some looked ridiculous.

      Unfortunately, Dillon looked good enough to make her forget her reason for being here. He was also perusing the rows of seats, a slight frown on his face, and she took the opportunity to get a good look.

      He was tanned and buff, sleek more than built—like a panther, Jeannie had said. There was something predatory about him. A natural grace that was only slightly disturbed by the hitch in his walk. He had long legs and a developed chest that tapered to a narrow waist. A gold braided belt was fixed several inches below his navel.

      Andy gave herself a buzz, just imagining what was under that little pleated skirt.

      Suddenly he looked right at her. Something zinged in the air between them. He smiled, then shook his head and grinned. Andy shoved on her glasses, chastising herself for being caught ogling her attendant. The world became a blur again.

      Conversation abruptly ceased as several priestesses, all dressed in flowing white robes and purple sashes, entered from a side door and took their places at the table on the stage.

      Katherine Dane came next and stopped at the podium at the center of the long table. She was wearing an off-white silk pantsuit and no sash, just a purple jeweled pin fastened to her lapel. Two men followed her onto the stage.

      The first man, a giant blond with powerful muscles swathed in undulating white pajamas, walked to the far end of the table and sat down. The second man was much shorter, slight, with dark shiny hair that receded from a high forehead. He was dressed incongruously in a pinstriped suit. The overhead lights picked out a sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he sat down.

      Ms. Dane signaled for quiet. The rustle of conversation gradually subsided, and the house lights dimmed until only the stage was left in light. She nodded to the audience, welcomed them again, read off a few announcements, and reminded everyone to apprise themselves of the rules of the retreat.

      “And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the founder and guiding spirit of Goddess International, Dr. Fiona Bliss.”

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