Before I ever knew I was a woman, I knew I was different. As a child growing up in the Catholic Church, I realized early on that I was drawn to boys. I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I felt it clearly—the flutter in my chest, the fascination, the longing to be close. And then came the fear. Because every sermon, every catechism class, every whispered warning made it clear that what I felt was forbidden. I learned that desire was dangerous, that love between two men was a sin, and that my body itself was suspect.
So I prayed. I confessed. I promised God I would be “good.” But what I really wanted wasn’t forgiveness—it was freedom. I wanted to stop feeling ashamed for being alive in my own skin. The Church told me that holiness meant self-denial, that my desires were dirty, that purity was the absence of pleasure. But even then, I could feel that something about that story was wrong.
Before I realized I was a woman, I thought I was simply a feminine gay man. I loved men deeply and openly in my heart, even if I couldn’t in my actions. I admired beauty, softness, passion—all the things the Church warned me against. But those feelings were never impure; they were human. They were sparks of something ancient and divine trying to break through the guilt I’d been taught to carry.
It took me many years—and my transition—to see what had always been true: sex and spirituality are not opposites. They are reflections of the same sacred force. The energy that moves between two lovers is the same energy that stirs the wind, opens flowers, and births stars. It’s life itself expressing its joy.
When I found Faerie Wicca, everything finally began to make sense. For the first time, I encountered a spirituality that didn’t treat the body as something fallen. Faerie energy moves through all forms of love and desire, without shame or hierarchy. It recognizes that sensuality and holiness are not enemies but partners in creation. In that space, I discovered that what the Church once called sin was, in truth, a kind of prayer.
Sex magick isn’t about lust without meaning—it’s about intention, connection, and reverence. It’s the practice of channeling sexual energy toward healing, transformation, and manifestation. That energy is powerful because it’s raw creation—the same pulse that formed the universe. When we raise it with awareness, we participate in the divine act of making and becoming.
For me, sex magick has been a way of reclaiming everything that shame tried to steal. My body, once a source of confusion, has become a vessel of sacred energy. My desires, once condemned, are now pathways to understanding myself and others. When I move in ritual, when I touch with intention, when I breathe through pleasure, I am not committing sin—I am communing with life.
There’s a kind of redemption in that—not the kind offered by priests, but the kind you find when you forgive yourself for ever believing you were unworthy of love.
As a transgender woman, sex magick carries another layer of power. My body has been politicized, questioned, even vilified. But through this practice, I have found a way to make peace with it. Each moment of sensual awareness becomes a declaration: I am whole. I am sacred. I am mine. In a culture that tries to separate us from our own divinity, that act is revolutionary.
I understand now that what the Church called “impure” was never about morality—it was about fear. Fear of freedom, fear of pleasure, fear of bodies that don’t conform. But Faerie energy has no such fear. It dances in the spaces between gender, between flesh and spirit, between shadow and light. It reminds me that there is no part of myself that is unholy.
Sex magick isn’t dirty because sex itself isn’t dirty. It’s the meeting of body and soul, the sacred exchange of energy that sustains the cosmos. To touch another person—or to touch yourself—with love, awareness, and intention is to honor the divine within and without.
I no longer bow to shame. I no longer pray for forgiveness for the way I love. Instead, I celebrate. I move. I breathe. I feel the Faerie current shimmer through my skin and know that I am exactly as I was meant to be.
What was once called sin has become my sacrament.
What was once hidden has become my light.
Sex magick isn’t about corruption. It’s about creation. It’s the art of remembering that pleasure is divine, the body is sacred, and love—in all its forms—is holy.