Cuddling on the
Wild Side

My mother was a witch. Her mother was a witch. Her mother, too, was a witch. The women in my family have been witches for as long as there has been a family. Each woman has had only one daughter and has never kept a man longer than needed for conception. On the day of my birth, my grandmother and great-grandmother cast the circle into which I would emerge. They were excitedly awaiting the continuation of a tradition, of a lineage. They were not expecting me to be born a boy.

The women grieved for years as if they had lost a member of their family who’d been with them for a lifetime. They looked upon me as if I’d somehow intentionally thrown a wrench into the gears of their most intricate plans. My Gran and Great-Gran faulted my mother. It had been part of her earliest training in magic to enable herself to only conceive of a daughter. My Grans’ scrying throughout her pregnancy had consistently delivered the message that I was a healthy, baby girl, however. There was no precedent for any of this in our lengthy and detailed family history.

Even through my mother’s bitterness at having bore a son. she secretly taught me magic. My Grans had forbidden it. They felt that a “man-child” not only shouldn’t, but couldn’t know of or practice magic properly. My mother took secret pleasure in my natural aptitude for all things arcane. She still tells me the stories of my correcting the spells that she was teaching me for the first time and of how quickly I moved from the crutch of spellcasting into advanced practice. I suppose that the most evident show of skill that I showed was my keeping from my Grans not only that I had magic but that I was a boy before even being born. While I was the first male born into our family I was not the first conceived. My Grans blame their failings upon my being gay and confusing the magic with my very being. My mother has a differing opinion. I believe she is right. She holds it as truth that I was blessed from my first blinking into existence because my father was no mundane sperm donor. He had an understanding and command of magic that had dazzled my mother into defying her mother and producing his offspring.

Being born into such a fucked up life in a world that isn’t so great itself could have made me a bit fucked up myself. While some people in the ‘magical community’ are just misfits trying to connect with other misfits and people walking through the motions of spells, my people are natural witches. We walk the wheel of eternity and we move magic in our lives and through the lives of others. There are rules, of course. We follow them. The rules that your average new age bookstore kitchen witch knows, however, are not the rules that govern our existence. Those women would never dream of aborting a child for being male. That is just the tip of the iceberg.

For all the unscrupulousness of my family, however, I have been pushed the other way. It is a relatively odd thing for rebellion to make you do what is right but that is how it has gone thus far. Life is an interesting thing.

I record this telling of my life not because I think it terribly interesting or of great import. I record this telling because there are other men, like me, who have stumbled through life learning less than they should from where they should learn it. Perhaps this telling will help them move forward more smoothly than I was able to do. May my mistakes be the foundation of your understanding.

A note on organization: I have scratched out these tales through the years. I have arranged them mostly in order of my gaining new magical skills or on the ways I have learned to be of service not only as a witch but as a person of power. That power comes not only from my ability to impact the perceived reality but from my having made a decision to hold up and encourage others as they work to change their own world. Some of the stories, admittedly, are revealing and sometimes steamy. A life without love is a life half-lived. I have lived my life thus far and continue to do so. Love shows up in many ways and for differing lengths of time. This does not change that it is love. Blessed be.

Excerpt from part 2:
“…let his fingers slide into every ridge between his abs. He squeezed his own biceps. He molested his pecs like he was afraid…”

Related posts:

1. Witch’s Son series
2. Witch’s Son: Learning to Grow
3. Witch’s Son: Wrestling with College (Part 1)
4. Witch’s Son: A Tale of a Tail (Part 2)
5. Witch’s Son: A Tale of a Tail (Part 3)

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 22nd, 2009 at 7:24 pm and is filed under Fiction Story, Magic, Muscle Growth, Witch's Son series. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.