Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Warlock Magic
“What a minute,” says my friend. “I thought you were cut.”
We're taking a break between sauna sessions.
“In fact,” he continues, looking more closely, “I know you were cut.”
“That's right,” I say.
We've been sauna buddies for years. For two guys who have never been lovers, we know one another's bodies pretty well.
“But...you're not,” he says, puzzled.
“Not any more,” I say.
He's silent for a while. Finally, he shakes his head.
“Warlock magic,” he says.
“That's right,” I say.
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