The offering of my body is a sacred ritual. I choose the altar, the recipients, the incense, the incantation with care. What music will light me from within today? What scent do I need to breathe in so deeply that it fills every cell with heady delight? Who do I call to my altar and what will it look like tonight?
On Fetlife, I’m listed as being curious about “being fucked on an altar like a sacrifice.” My boy asked me what that means and what that would look like. I’m still trying to figure it out. It might not be one thing.
It can look like the night I masturbated in an open field enveloped in darkness at Beltane, my tits skyclad, my fingers on my clit, May wine coursing through my veins and making it easier, though nowhere near easy, to be so brazen and unafraid of being made fun of. Because I’m fat. Because my tits are small triangles that point down. Because I have a double chin.
None of that mattered that night. That night was about the cut and clear ritual I did, the synergy of friendship bringing me the last elements of the ritual I needed earlier in the day, the mango I ate the midnight ritual, juices dripping from my nipples, making them glisten in the moonlight. The acrid smell of smoke from the bonfire and the mild thrill of the couple who almost tripped over me on their way to it. The awkward laughter we shared but also…benediction by way of simple acceptance.
That night was reclaiming my body for myself. Calling my energy back from a Dynamic and Relationship that ended in neglect and sorrow. Knowing I was worthy to make my orgasm an offering to the land, to release the pain, to open to pleasure. Feeling in my rushing blood that I deserved to be loved in healthy and joyful ways.
My therapist has told me that I’m a sacred being and sacred beings take up sacred space. But it’s hard to believe that when I’ve been told that everything I am doesn’t matter. Or worse. Is actively bad, evil, less than. Vile. Because I’m a second generation witch. Because I have PTSD and anxiety and depression. Because I’m polyamorous and pansexual and really fucking enjoy fucking. Because I used to take my clothes off on stage for the applause and attention and expression. And thinking about that now, that was really just another ritual. Another altar. Another offering.
When I offer my body, it is a celebration of connection. It is dark desire, delightful dreams, clasping two hands together in prayer and pleasure inside my boy’s tight hole as he makes his own offering. It is calling upon all the Gods and Goddesses to witness the fact that the offering of my body is goddamn divine rite.