Reading my old journals from when I first got involved with paganism/witchcraft/wicca, I started to tear up at my first gathering. A women gave me a pair of pentagrams for a dollar, then, a naked man in a red robe popped out of his tent and handed me a orvilee Redenbacher popcorn bag full of sage leaves. They didn’t have any ziploch bags, but he had finished his snack. He was barefoot, and sleeping next to his supply booth at the campsite and winced at the pebbles against his soles.
"Gravel is a bitch."
It was this gathering where I met my pagan dad Bill, the man who buys me vodka and nailpolish and holds me while I cry at 2am about some dude or some girl. The man I told about Vinnie while we were cutting wood and I burst into tears sobbing hysterically. The man who lifted me up like I was weightless and pushed me on the swings. The man who drank chocolate milk with me after we went camping. The man who took me to the beach and reads my writing. My Dad- my magick dad.
Actually, I probably have more magick abilities then him, because he does not meditate like I can. He also doesn’t do ruins or tarot, and for the most part, hasn’t read a lot of books. While I find ritual to be intoxicating, he gets high from the concert after. He’s more of a researcher, a scientist for 30 years who studied Christianity and buys books on herbs, while I’m more of an experiencer: a poet who sees pretty colors and occasionally astrally projects herself out of her body during sex so she doesn’t have to feel it.
I was making him his Christmas/yule present yesterday. Over thanksgiving break, It occurred to me I was afraid to simply be in the car with him that afternoon we were cutting wood. I was afraid that he put sunscreen on my shoulder at summer solcistice. Now, it justseems normal. I was overcome with such a relief I called him immediately and told him. Thankyou, my chest tuttering like birds, Thankyou for being in my life!
"I love you too. It’s cool having a witch daughter." Bill said.
I told him about Mark and our crazy magick experience. He had no idea what the fuck it was either, but wants us to get together soon. In many ways, becoming a witch has healed the traumas in my life.
I met a poet who I occasionally send my stuff too. We email, we’ve seen each other naked around a fire, we’re magick companions. I cant wait to see him soon! I also met a guy who gave me all his magic files on his computer. Three men had the same story that I did. You heard right. Three. My witchy men understand me .
Mark was telling me about his past life, and to prove to him that I didn’t think he was insane (because he was worried about this) I showed him mine.
"You need to get this published!"
I’m having so much fun looking back on it, that I think I will be able to finish my short story collection over break! I suppose I should think of a title to help me decide what to include.
Maybe Cigarettes and chocolate cake?
From Samhain to Samhain
I am so bad with titles, so help.
Like every other woman, I have often struggled with my sexual history and the number of my sexual partners. Since I have enrolled in college, I have engaged in close encounters of the moaning kind with people of all different races, genders, religions, and majors. Some call me an equal opportunity employer, others call me a sexual pioneer- Like Johnny Appleseed with a box of glow in the dark condoms and whips, I spread desire and hope. I guess I just LOVE making people moan. It’s a science of sorts.
There’s the uninhibited kinky bisexual man: FUCK, Yes! Yes! Who… are you?
The black woman: Oh SHIT!
The Baptist Sunday school teacher: Oh god, please god, JESUUUUSSSSSSSS!
The Italian guy: Baby, you smell like rose petals.
Our society puts so much pressure on sex being the be all end all thing. Don’t have sex, but look like you are fucking everyone! Virgins do it better, in fact, go get drunk and flash your tiny
untouched vagina. Not too drunk though, guys can rape you then. And if you’re not a virgin you were asking for it.
When you think about it, there really is no need to count ones sexual partners. Your body, your sex life, is your own. It doesn’t matter how much sex you’re having or not having so long as you want it, its consensual, and safe. My boyfriend and I were having the talk and he asked what my number was. I had 30 seconds. I put my face in my hand. “Im thinking.”
"Maybe you should take off your shoes." He smiled. So many women base their worth on the scale of virgin to slut. I told him my number. He nodded. He had been with the same.
"The only person who should care about your number is you, your doctor, and the poor schlub your stuck with for the rest of your life."
I don’t feel guilty and I don’t feel proud. Sex is sex. The only thing that matters is how each participant feels about sex.
"So what are you into?"
As I looked back on the history of my sexuality, I answered honestly.
"I’ll try anything once!"
My boyfriend and I both have this incredible fantasy- since we are each the first witch each other has dated- to have magick sex. Granted, it’s stereotypical- most people believe witches have orgies all the time. Sex Magick in witchcraft is controversial. Witchcraft is based upon polarity- or ying and yang, masculine and feminine, duality, balance. The god sacrifices himself for the goddess so that she can carry on, and then she opens herself to a new life in an endless circle. Love, in itself is the strongest form of magic. For it is only during love, that we will ever experience what it is like to be fully alive.
In this way, preforming magic with someone is extremely difficult because it can get sexual. Your opening currents inside of you, releasing your energies, and being filled with another person. It’s like going to coffee with someone who is going through a rough time- you pick up on their girlfriend dumping them or their upcoming exam jitters and feel like shit afterwards. Or, you go to a concert and the crowds rush makes you feel intoxicated. In a way, Mark and I are already having sex because we are two witches, water and fire, man and woman, doing magic. He felt all of it inside me when we were doing a purification. I screamed, and clawed, and wept, and we were bound. Yogis and Buddhists believe that the energies of the people we have sex with stay inside us for seven years. But when a guy absorbs your demons during a ritual and you scream at him in a voice you had no idea you were capable of making- that in itself is such a deep form of sacrifice- love.
I imagine casting a circle of sage as Mark calls in the elements. We would burn a red dragons blood candle, as my ritual clothes swayed. I would be wearing the black capsleeve dress with red flowers I usually wore to celebrations, or my journalism internship interview, for prosperity. Red and orange candles would be arranged around us for fire, while Mark lit his blue and green candles for the element of water. We would smudge each other and annoit our foreheads with sandalwood. Then we would seal our sacred trust with a kiss, and the moon and the sun, brigid and Kronos, would meet as one on Imbolc.
Mark and I were talking, actually I was sobbing, then laughing hysterically. My mother moved my alter out of the south corner to charge her phone, and placed her starbucks cup on my manifestation side next to my fertility beads. This caused me to have to whip out my compass and clear the entire room with sage. It was as if she didn’t even give a shit about my faith and littered on my tigers eye! As if my dresser of candles and leaves served no purpose! As if I was a silly little girl! Clearly, my pms was getting the best of me because I was a woman on the verge when she told me “Oh you don’t believe in god anymore” when we were walking around Walmart and saw Christmas decorations. I told her I believe in many gods.
Mark listened, and then as I began crying, he told me I was okay. I told him I really wanted to bond with my mother over Christmas break since our relationship had been rocky since I told her about my sexual assault. My mother told me she was invited to go to cocoa beach and drink with friends and didn’t want to have a mother/daughter weekend. I told him about the whole scenario and how my mother was too embarrassed to talk to anyone to sort her feelings. He told me it was okay if we never had sex, he didn’t want to objectify me, which I thought was so incredibly romantic and sweet. And then. I have never wanted to fuck anyone so badly all at the same time. Clearly, I’m a little confused.
"Sex objectifies women." Mark said.
"Not if they reclaim their desires for themselves and what about men?"
Mark reminds me of Johnny depp circa Whats eating Gilbert Grape. Ever since I was a little girl, I always thought Johnny Depp was the most beautiful man in the world. My ex-girlfriends frequently laughed at me, or got freaked out when I licked the television screen while we watched Pirates of the Caribean drinking vodka. Then again, I have strange taste in partners to begin with. I’m more of a quirky girl then a eyecandy girl. Give me the choice between a supermodel and a cashier at Pottery Barn obcessed with Stevie Nicks to the point of preforming at The night of a thousand stevies- and Stand Back! I’m chosing them.
"I think sex is a beautiful intimate expression of love and spiritual, but it also can be a struggle of lust and power and oppression-"
"And Bagels!" I added.
Mark has shoulder length mousy brown hair like my lit professor, and deep set eyes that widen when I told him about the time I had sex for a bagel.
"That better have been a damn good bagel. No dunkin donuts shit."
I start laughing at myself so hard I literally have to sit.
"I love Bagels so much, MAN!" Mark laughs even harder.
"You know what you would love? A lox bagel with salmon, redpeppers, creamcheese, red onions, and capers." He annunciates each word slowly and licks his lips.
"I think I just came."
Instead of crying about my battles with food and sex, Mark and I were laughing!
"Would you fuck me for that bagel, dear?"
I rolled onto my back and lifted my ass in the air into plow pose, my legs kicking side to side like signaling an airplane for landing. “My body is ready!”
"Seriously, honey, I want to wait for you." Mark said, when he finally was able to breathe. "But after Imbolc all bets are off."
"Or after a trip to Bagel King," I smirked.