There's No Overdraft Protection at the Spank Bank
And other pandemic lessons | Witch Craft Magazine
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Thanks for reading — this week we’re posting the weekly Witch Craft piece just a tad late as I was in Dublin last Thursday to do a reading with the illustriously dark Chelsea G. Summers at Gallery X. It was a blast. On to this week’s piece! <3
by Kawai Shen
I'm remembering a night, just another night, a party with my friend Tye and his new lover whose name I forget. Di-something, like Diamanda. She's not Tye's type. Lady Di is a burner bisexual witch with dramatic wavy hair to her ass, pillowy tits, eyeliner for days. An empath. A double Scorpio. A hexxing sizequeen cuntslut. She says she can cleanse my apartment with some banishing pentagram ritual if I want. It's all very magickal with a k.
This was before these two had an epic falling out. At the time, I visualized the impact like an atom being split, severing the bonds of their little polycule, all these attractive young protons and electrons exploding in an ugly mushroom cloud before scattering their separate ways. Lockdown provided the perfect excuse to leave those bridges evapourated. Shortly after covid actually blew up the lives of everyone else around me: illness, lay offs, evictions, death. I once tried to describe my new normal to someone but couldn't because my brain kept replaying that one sorry evening I ended up lancing a friend's massive abscess with the 22Gs I'd procured for erotic play. This seemed smarter than sending someone I loved to a backed-up emergency room where nurses were being driven to suicide. Are we there yet, I kept asking myself as I kept squeezing out unforgivably long ribbons of rank smelling pus. I felt like a fucking American, just going for it, free like a cowboy without any health insurance. I have not touched that box of sharps since.
But this story is not about all that. This story is about Diamanda, dazed and abused in my arms. Tye and I worked her over pretty hard and as the coup de grâce, I order him to eat out her pussy and fingerbang her until she cums. Tye told me in confidence that Di can't fake orgasms because when she cums, you can smell it in the next room. I called him a pig for that but the kid is right. Post-climax, the two lovers swap spit then pause and turn like synchronized swimmers, their expectant eyes on me like I'm their secret little drug stash. I wag my finger. Nay nay. I'm putting my whips and gear away because I've an early conference presentation to give the next day.
Threesomes are not really my bag, not even as a co-top which in theory would split up the labour but in practice, I'm monitoring a sous. I figured this night where I called it early would not rank very high on my personal list of fond memories of frisky times. But that was then and this is now and when you look back at the past as a changed person, you remember things differently.
After years of hardly talking to any strangers, that first blush of getting to know someone totally unlike yourself takes on a neon glow. The way I carefully applied my perfume so that Tye could enjoy it when burying his face in my cleavage and muff now seems like the height of glamour to me given that I don't know if I can even walk in stilettos anymore without wobbling about like a baby deer. These trivial matters and distractions used to really excite me because my libido hadn't yet bled out my tear ducts in grief and exhaustion.
I don’t see Tye as much these days. I heard he found work as a community animator at a local food bank and started an OnlyFans account selling videos of him pissing on various members of his rotating cast of playfriends. Diamanda has been posting pics on social of her new beau who stands grinning before her body contorted in rope bondage. It sounds they're riffing off cheesy photos of big game hunters posing in front of their trophy kills but really, they just look like two people becoming dopey and obsessed with each other. I've been vaxxed more times than I can recall, and I've booked my first appointment for a manipedi since the WHO announced the pandemic. Honestly, this fills me with more anticipatory pleasure than thinking about my next fifty orgasms.
about the author
Kawai Shen is a writer based in Toronto.
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