The Spell of Pleasure: Unraveling the Mysteries of Period Sex.

Period sex does not count as witchcraft. The idea that it does is a baseless and discriminatory belief that perpetuates harmful taboos and stigmatization surrounding menstruation. Menstruation is a natural bodily function that occurs in individuals with a menstrual cycle. It is a sign of fertility and represents an essential part of reproductive health. However, societies across the globe have often unjustly associated menstruation with impurity, witchcraft, and even evil. The notion that period sex is witchcraft stems from a historical misunderstanding of menstruation and a patriarchal desire to control and shame women's bodies.

“All magical practice is about what we intend ― the intention that we make when we generate energy ― and sexual energy is one of the most potent energies that we can tap into, really, because it’s the energy that we’re created from in some way,” she said.

New episodes of D Is For Desire, which include an interview with a man who s had 10,000 sex partners and a look at the joys of period sex, will premiere each Friday. When I fuck my boyfriend, and he comes and I come, I visualize everything I want with him, Sophie Saint Thomas, author of Sex Witch Magickal Spells for Love, Lust, and Self-Protection , and Glamour Witch , coming out in April 2022.

The notion that period sex is witchcraft stems from a historical misunderstanding of menstruation and a patriarchal desire to control and shame women's bodies. This belief disregards the autonomy and agency of individuals who menstruate in making choices about their own bodies and sexual activities. Engaging in sexual activity during menstruation is a personal preference and varies among individuals and cultures.

I Did a 'Sex Magic' Ritual – and It Actually Changed My Life

I reconnected with my yoni in front of seven strangers and asked the cosmic universe for some time to myself.

Bear with me: you can cast spells through masturbating – at least, according to those who believe that you can cast spells through masturbating.

It's called sex magic, and it harnesses the chronically suppressed power of female sexual energy to "manifest" an intention. It's a kind of modern witchcraft, but there are no pointy hats, layers of black lace or broomsticks involved.

Far from being a witch, I'd probably say I'm an atheist. That said, at the sex magic ritual I went to in early March – before the coronavirus lockdown – what I wished for came true. My "intention" was to make more time for myself and feel less guilty about just being at home, and that's exactly what I've spent the past month doing. Granted, there's a global pandemic on, meaning we're literally not allowed to leave our homes. But hear me out.

Sex Magic: How to Cast Spells with Your Orgasms

"You can think of your intention like a spell, and your body as the cauldron," said Amy White, founder of London's "Temple of the Feminine". That night, she was going to help eight women, myself included, combine our "yonic" powers (our vagina powers) to bring about cosmic change. We were gathered in an east London yoga studio decked out in Scandinavian furniture and soap that smelled like it could double as a herbal remedy. The exact kind of soap you'd expect to find in a venue that hosts sex magic rituals.

But what brings an atheist to a spiritual circle jerk?

Employed, housed and emotionally supported by friends and family, I'd be lying if I said my life was in great need of improvement. But that doesn't make the daily strain of London existence any easier. I often feel overwhelmed by sadness and loneliness, and struggle a great deal to keep my mental health in check. I don't regularly make time for myself, know when to say no or hide my insecurities. I feel guilty if I'm not doing something or seeing someone. In short, I could probably do with some help from my inner cauldron.

Like many millennials, I also find myself increasingly drawn towards pop non-denominational spiritual enlightenment. I've downloaded Co-Star and become obsessed with my Leo sun/Pisces moon identity crisis. I've started wearing a cheap aquamarine stone pendant. I say "namaste" and touch my third eye at the end of yoga class. I'm the worst! The question is: could a vulvar stuck in a depressing cycle of chronic thrush and vulvar dermatitis actually move the universe? Become its own personal therapist? Could I believe?

There was only one way to find out.

Outside the red-bathed ritual room, in a narrow corridor, I saw a pair of women huddled over a handful of powder. "I'm going to do this again with more intention," said one, followed by a deep inhale. I later learned the powder to be nothing more exciting than rapé, a (legal) shamanic snuff used to clear the mind.

Inside the ritual room was a circle of mats and blankets surrounding the "altar", decorated with pink roses, candles, crystals and ganesha statuettes. Sex magic rituals – judging from Amy's, at least – are a jumbled western hybrid of Hinduism, South American shamanism and Wicca. They also look very pretty.

We took our places on the mats around the circle, setting at our sides a bottle of water and lube (as instructed in our briefing email). Then we added small trinkets to the altar to take home "charged with the energy of the evening". Next to a large, ridged, glass dildo I added a small Leo charm I picked up at the same place as my aquamarine pendant.

It soon became clear that actually touching yourself and casting spells would be a very small section of the night's proceedings. First we offered up our intentions, which ranged from resolving trauma around feeling unloved, to buying a house.

I'm not someone usually lost for words, but trying to think of something I genuinely wanted – and would be willing to share with strangers under the heady glow of a hundred candles – triggered so much anxiety that I said my intention was to clear my anxiety and take time for myself. "And maybe stop coronavirus," I added, because why not have a go.

Far from laughing at this ludicrous fantasy, the other witches simply smiled sagely, as one added, "Yes, this is possible."

Little did I know that this (and the advice of hundreds of scientists) would be the cosmic force that forced Boris Johnson to abandon the herd immunity strategy.

We then began a round of Kundalini and cleansing breathing exercises. Amy told us to use the breath to clear any trapped tension in our "root", meaning womb and vaginal area, and I suddenly couldn't stop thinking of queefing. Luckily nothing came out, as it would have absolutely killed the vibe. Suitably cleared, we were instructed to imagine a pipe carrying energy from our vaginal opening right up through our head, and to shoot our breath through this straight line. All the sharp intake of oxygen gave me a natural head rush, and I could feel blood rushing somewhere else too.

Cleansed, we lay back on our mats and entered a period of tantric touch – caressing our skin with fingertips "as water", and scratching and grabbing "as fire". We were told to touch ourselves as would our ideal lover, and to visualise our intention. We said "hello" to our yonis by cupping them, simultaneously placing our intention in the mind's eye. It was unclear when we were supposed to start rubbing ourselves, so I threw a furtive glance at my neighbour to check if I was doing it right. The collective moaning became increasingly ecstatic around the room, and I imagined I was on the right track. Much like home wanking, our session ended with a closed-eyed corpse pose meditation.

In the week that followed my ritual, I assessed my intention and ability to manifest. My spell to stop coronavirus, one could argue, failed catastrophically. But my other intentions, not through any conscious connection, started to come through in unexpected ways.

If anything, my anxiety worsened in the weeks that followed as the COVID-19 crisis escalated. But the weekend after my witching session, I did contact my local mental health support services to admit I needed proper help and counselling. Whether or not this was connected to my cosmic yoni powers is unclear, but it was a positive outcome with an undeniable link to my intention. They contacted me a few days later, the same day the VICE UK office was emptied and we were instructed to work from home. At first this sent me into a catastrophic downwards spiral, and still, if I allow my mind to go there, that tornado sucks me in. But after four weeks of social distancing, I now see myself settling in, and my mental health unexpectedly improving.

Now that we're all social distancing, I feel myself doing all the things I committed myself to doing in the ritual. Taking care of my body, committing to (indoor) routines that are self-indulgent, going out for a (once daily) walk alone for the sake of it. Calling a friend just to talk about their day. Facetiming someone while watching Mean Girls for the billionth time. Not everything has to have a purpose. Also, it's actually OK to not reply to an email straight away, because who's going to come over to your desk and complain?

It's often considered a shitty thing to call yourself a "giving person", because complimenting yourself on being good is seen to somehow negate the good trait. But I think this is unfair. Recognising the way you answer other people's needs, and the toll that can take, will make you more mindful of your own needs. And there's nothing wrong with realising you need to be kinder to yourself.

The atheist in me knows that lighting a candle, doing some breathing exercises and wanking in a yoga studio probably didn't cause the world as we know it to come to a grinding halt. But my newly awakened womb cauldron knows the power of using this shitty situation to focus on the stuff that's usually abandoned, even if it's playing the Sims 4 for five hours straight because that's what you feel like doing.

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I'm not someone usually lost for words, but trying to think of something I genuinely wanted – and would be willing to share with strangers under the heady glow of a hundred candles – triggered so much anxiety that I said my intention was to clear my anxiety and take time for myself. "And maybe stop coronavirus," I added, because why not have a go.

Some people may feel more comfortable and enjoy the experience, while others may choose to abstain for personal or cultural reasons. The decision to have sex during menstruation should be based on individual consent and mutual agreement between sexual partners. Labeling period sex as witchcraft is not only ignorant but also perpetuates harmful myths and prejudices surrounding menstruation. Such beliefs contribute to the marginalization and shaming of individuals who menstruate, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and inhibiting discussions about reproductive health. It is crucial to challenge and debunk these harmful beliefs, promoting education, understanding, and acceptance regarding menstruation and sexual activities. Encouraging open and respectful conversations about reproductive health and consent helps to normalize discussions around period sex and empowers individuals to make informed decisions about their bodies and sexual relationships. In conclusion, period sex does not count as witchcraft. This baseless and unfounded belief stems from historical misunderstandings and a desire to control and stigmatize women's bodies. It is essential to challenge and debunk these harmful beliefs to promote understanding, acceptance, and respect for individuals who menstruate..

Reviews for "Embracing the Supernatural: Exploring the Link Between Witchcraft and Period Sex."

1. Tracy - 2/5 - I have to say, I was quite disappointed with "Does period sex count as witchcraft". While I appreciate the effort to explore a taboo topic, I found the execution lacking. The humor felt forced and often fell flat, making it difficult to truly enjoy the show. Additionally, I felt that the arguments presented were weak and didn't provide any substantial insight into the topic at hand. Overall, I was hoping for a more thought-provoking and engaging experience, but unfortunately, this show missed the mark for me.

2. Jason - 1/5 - "Does period sex count as witchcraft" was honestly one of the worst shows I've seen in a long time. The concept had potential, but it was poorly executed. The jokes were tasteless and offensive, and I found myself cringing throughout the entire performance. Furthermore, the show seemed to lack a clear direction or message, leaving me feeling confused and frustrated. I wouldn't recommend this show to anyone, as it was a complete waste of time and money.

3. Sarah - 2/5 - I was intrigued by the title and premise of "Does period sex count as witchcraft", but unfortunately, the show didn't live up to my expectations. While the topic is undeniably taboo, I felt that the production was overly vulgar and lacked depth. The jokes were cheap and relied too heavily on shock value, rather than offering meaningful insights or commentary. Overall, I found the show to be unimpressive and forgettable. I appreciate the attempt to explore an unconventional topic, but it fell flat for me.

Forbidden Magick: Debunking the Myths Around Period Sex.