There was no girl drool intervention needed for Toughie, but that doesn't mean I didn't brew one up. I very much did. Like broth I could bring up at will. I could think it up at him, I could smell him, I didn't have to "fantasize a scenario", I could just lay hands on him in my mind, kissing him after many other points of contact, my fingers and tongue everywhere exploring, my face my thighs pressing against his thighs his face pressed against my panties wringing wet until I come my brains loose biting back his name and whipping Nebraska's head nearly off his shoulders to the right to the right..

Privileged people expect everything is transactional. What are they getting out of you? What does it cost? Larry Summers (the Obama econ dude) is married to a friend I made here, and she explained to me the emotional economics of relationships through this lens: it is the math of "transaction costs". So it is possible to imagine transactional magic. 

She gets what she needs. And that helps her be who she is, in her own right. 

The sex act is vital to my keeping my real magic oiled up. Spit shined. Flowing. I hate toys of any kind, I've tried the new "tongue simulator" things, nope. See that's the thing with my magic - it only works with real things. Even OG stopped working in the end, I could feel the veil, feel the reduction of my self into pros/cons, feel it becoming what I have now, all I've had since. I did my own calculations then. I watched as he was too busy with himself to see me any more, to see any of us, even Ears. I let him pack the photo album, hiding things so clumsily that a toddler could win that game. I kept that up as long as I could stand it, making love to him and feeling him grow cold-enough. He even tasted different. I imagined him breaking apart into motes and reassembling himself. So I herded the motes into one thing left to say to me: good-bye. I could have done better, which I think about a lot now that I'm verging on another goodbye. 

But I am hurt. I am breaking apart and breaking apart, ressembling frantically. I'm the one going. In the other direction. Away from transactions. It is possible to imagine transactional magic, but witches should be recompensed in the coin of each their own realm, and my magic is made of hands on absolutes.

There is somebody with a hidden, perhaps here-to-fore unknown, inner life whose capacity for, whose need for, sex (material body) magic is waiting to resonate with my own animal call. I can feel lurking. Until that bell rings, I'm brewing tinctures of love potions to set by, like canning pickles only different, as any well prepared witch would. I take the orgasms offered by Nebraska, effective transactions that my body laps up and stores away with less fuss now that I'm done giving him my words. Toughie helped me brew up some very strong sexdabs. I will be ready to drown a man in drool and swallow to rehydrate, blasting his inner life with an otherworldly pressure washer of pleasure. My lovehealing ways know a body very differently than medicine men do. But it only will work on the ones it works for. So I wait, watch, stew, brew. Think. Write.

I make the low songsound of it again now. My little call. Here, on their weird carpeted concretes and sidewalks traversed with power conduits. You know the tune. Kinda like a purring growl if you play it at 1.5x speed, which is how everyone here listens to everything: stompstompstompstomp...

Today, I want hoop dancing. Nebraska brought guns, bought ammo, found a range - he knows I've been wanting that, but not from him. Gone Already hurts. I would ask if I taste different, but I know the answer and he wouldn't understand the question.