Girl on the Net

It probably won’t shock you to learn that I’m not much of a spiritual or superstitious person. Apart from the occasional knock on wood or crossing of fingers (which I do despite knowing it’ll have absolutely zero impact on the universe), I am a pretty boring, sceptical person. I don’t think I’ve ever slept with someone who’s really superstitious either. So please, as you read the following fantastic guest post from Zapatica about an incredibly superstitious guy she slept with, imagine my jaw fully on the floor and me yelling ‘RUN’ like in a horror movie. She’s been here before to discuss ending a long-term booty call, and I’m delighted to welcome her back – with her magical soul-hexing pussy…

My magical soul-hexing pussy

Ever heard of a soul tie? Yes? No? Well, for the uniformed, it’s a magical concept where two people become connected and bound via fucking. This spiritualesque philosophy created by people that absolutely don’t understand casual sex shames people—particularly women—into feeling an obligation of devotion to even the most lackluster one night stands. Elexis explains this phenomenon much better than I do so let’s get onto the subject of my apparently soul-hexing pussy.

Enter El Greco. El Greco is a philosopher I met waiting tables. He was tall, emotionally volatile, and everything you’d want in a secret lover. He’d take me to hidden gems around The City and then—a little giddy on wine and banter—we’d tumble into bed and into hours-long love-making sessions.

Cross cultural dating can be so fun and so strange and gastronomically enriching. But there always seemed to be a wtf moment with El Greco. The first was when he pulled me away from his threshold and commanded I step into his apartment with my right foot only. And that was only the tip of the superstitious roller coaster. We once crossed paths with a woman known amongst the community as someone who could cast the evil eye and he proceeded to… spit on me for my own well-being.

Even so, I couldn’t get enough of him. I loved the way he ate me out. There was something in the way he circled my clitoris with his tongue and then sucked long and hard. My bad back was hardly an issue when I would climb on top and ride him while we watched ourselves in the full length mirror. And my feet! I cannot forget how he would carefully massage my dancer’s tendonitis while kissing and adoring my feet.

Still, he wondered out loud about our compatibility, my faithfulness, and how many men had lain in bed with me. One. The answer was one but he never believed it though he felt bewitched by my mere presence. I guess I brought the whole accusation of witchcraft onto myself when I jokingly told him I snatched his soul with my impeccable blow jobs—not the wisest thing to tell a fellow with a multi-step morning habit.

Silly rituals aside, El Greco was as unstable as the Libra scale he claimed dominated his life. Every joke was a slight. Every slight was met with dramatics. Every break up and make up a boom clap fucking occasion. It was messy. It was sexy. It was completely draining. Our relationship came to a head a few weeks before his birthday. I gifted him a souvenir from the Dominican Republic and he accused me of accusing him of being the White Devil. I should’ve realized then he actually identified with the Diablo Cojuelo but instead I took it personally. We parted ways and didn’t see each other again for another year.

Unfortunately, communication did not immediately cease. It always started innocent enough—with appeals to a continued friendship—but would quickly devolve into sexual desire. I could count on his messages as much as I could count on the monthly appearance of a full moon. His sad sack ways always managed a Valentine’s surprise, a birthday wish, an offer of a summer fling, but his raging insecurity alway got the better of him.

Quarantine horniness got the better of me and I responded to his email inquiry to my wellbeing. I was on deadline with a porn rag I wrote copy for and decided to give in to the familiar. BIG MISTAKE. He started picking apart men he thought were possible lovers and went into a tirade on how untrustworthy I am and have always been. Then came the zinger: he asked me to lift the hex I put on his dick. He was malfunctioning because he could not stop thinking of me and my mouth and my pussy and he was sure my Dominican Black Magic was the culprit.

Palo—Dominican Voudun—does exist but it is something I have no part in. It’s just that my sloppy head was just damn good and unforgettable. And his own terrible decisions were to blame for our breakup, not magical interference. Still he persisted. His floppy dick and enlarged balls were my doing. There was no medical issue the doctors could find. Clearly, it was psychological but he failed to see that.

Ever the internet troll, I changed my twitter handle to Bruja Hechizer (Hexing Witch) and joked mercilessly about the power of my pussy. He watches my every written move and I knew he was following along with the taunts. With different friends I came up with different names—magical pum pum, vaginal socerery, cunty hexer. My friend Aarayis even had a song dedicated to her:

Your pussy talks business, dollars, and cents

Your pussy talks food, cooking, and ends

Your pussy talks crazy guys into shit

Your pussy talks into everything

That’s it

Whatcha gon’ do with this pussy talk?

Whatcha gon’ do with this pussy talk?

Aaaahhhh

You take Nathan’s and Glizzies

Sabrett and Grey’s Papaya

Can’t believe your fire

You talk to business attire

Your pussy tries to do cartwheels

You even pick guys your whichever your heart feels

Even though that’s hearfelt

Your evening pussy talks like Garfield

OOOooooo

But the joke soured quickly and I decided it was just time to block. No más. No more access. My pussy is mine and although it has no true power over El Greco’s dick, the real flex is barring further interference in my life.