There is a lull between my Formal Logic class and my Victorian Literature class; my gaming buddy from last term's course on existentialist philosophy is in both classes with me (apparently, she shares my intellectual tastes) so we generally spend the hour between the two classes hanging out together in the student union lounge. It gets a little crowded and noisy for me, to the point where sometimes my skin feels like it wants to crawl, but it's easier to hang out here than it is to wander around looking for an empty classroom to occupy. Warmer weather will be here in a month or two, though, and then we'll be able to sit outside on nice days.
"Why do you always wear that black scarf wrapped around your wrist?" she asks. "I've never seen you without it."
I suppose someone was bound to ask sometime.
I could just give a simple answer. My boyfriend gave it to me. However, some impulse in me makes me blurt out the truth in greater detail. "I wear it as an outward sign of my submission to my Magister."
"You what for your what?" She blinks at me.
"My boyfriend. He also happens to be my magickal teacher, my tutor, and my mentor in the erotic arts." If I'm going to come out with it, I might as well go the whole nine yards. I couldn't just keep it quiet, could I? Oh, well. The only reason I've been discreet so far has been because Magister is easily embarrassed, but my friend from class is unlikely to tease him. And it's not like the rest of the gaming group doesn't know, although it's not the sort of thing we talk about while sitting around the table.
"Oh. Oh, wow."
It seems like whenever there is an awkward pause in the conversation, it's not just you and the person you're talking to who are hushed – the entire room suddenly stills, and everyone seems to be listening to you, waiting to hear what you have to say. No doubt that's completely illusory.
"So," she asks at last, "that means you're into bondage and stuff?"
"Among other things."
"What kind of magic is he teaching you?"
Where should I even begin? "Are you familiar with the Neoplatonists of the Renaissance? The Hermetic scholars? The occult philosophers of late nineteenth-century Europe? That's a part of what he's teaching me, for the philosophy part of my studies. He's also been devising practical lessons in magick based on what I'm studying. A lot of it is Thelemic sex magick, with an eye to gnosis through ecstasy and self-perfection, but a good part of the practicum comes from Siberian and Finnish shamanism because we found my personal energy works better with primal stuff and chaos than it does with ritualistic ceremony."
"Sex – oh, wow." She stares at me. "That's amazing. I didn't know there was such a thing. Does it work?"
"Sex magick?"
"Yes."
"It depends on what you want it to do," I reply quietly. "Mostly we use it to search for our higher Selves, and to share our souls with each other." We drink from each other as if we were wine.
"How long have you been together?"
"About two years, now."
"It sounds beautiful. Weird, but beautiful. You must love each other very much. You're glowing. Your whole face just lit up."
YOU ARE READING
Ancilla
RomanceA shy public reference librarian, and a college dropout who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, encounter each other in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over...
