The Nuances of Gay Witchcraft

When the Spell Is Lust, Stop Dressing It Like Love

Some people will tell you love is love, so every love spell is equal. A man wanting a man, a woman wanting a woman, two people trying to remember the taste of each other’s mouth: same pink candle, same Friday, same rose petals that smell like a soap shop, same sticky sweet oil. I understand why that sounds kind. It sounds modern. It sounds like you are refusing to treat anybody as a special case.

It is also how you burn the wrong candle and then sit in a room that still smells like sugar while nothing in the body has moved. Pretty smoke. Cold groin. A plate full of leftover romance.

I write this as someone who actually runs these workings. I keep gay love oil on the shelf where the light hits the glass and turns the bottle the color of old amber. I keep lust oil next to it, darker, thicker, the kind that clings to the lines in your palm. I have carved names into red male figure candles until my thumbnail tasted like wax and my wrist smelled like patchouli for the rest of the day. I have had men tell me, almost embarrassed, voice low like the neighbors might hear, that they already have love at home and they still want to walk into a room and feel eyes turn on their skin.

Personally I have a fifty fifty success rate with this style of spell landing the way the client hoped. That number is not me being modest. That number is sweat, pride, timing, and testosterone answering a push. Sometimes the answer is heat in the mouth. Sometimes the answer is a slammed door and the particular silence that comes after a man has been told what to want.

So before I take the job I ask a question that sounds unromantic on purpose.

What does he look like when he is angry?

Does his jaw go tight?

Does his voice get quiet?

Does he put hands on people?

If you do not know, we divine first. If you do know and the answer is violent, we do not light a red man on a Tuesday and hope Venus talks Mars down.

This post is the method I use when the petition is desire, not a wedding.

The argument I am tired of hearing

Should it matter if the love is between a same sex couple?

Don’t you use the same ingredients?

Generally you could say yes. Honey still pulls sweet. Rose still softens the air until the room smells like a florist’s cooler. A figure candle is still a little body on a plate, soft when the room is warm, stubborn when the room is cold. Fire is still fire. If the job is partnership, come back home, stay through the ugly season, I will reach for a lot of the same plants I would reach for in any love working.

The job is not always partnership.

Lust magic is not love magic in a tighter shirt. Love wants a bond you can sleep inside. Lust wants a temperature change on the skin. Love will forgive a slow burn and a candle that takes three nights. Lust gets insulted when you dress it in bridal language and then wonder why the spirit on the plate feels lied to. You can smell the lie. Sweet oil on a hungry working smells like cake at a wake.

Same sex desire does not need a moral exemption. It also does not need you to pretend the physics changed. What changes is which current you are willing to name out loud, and which correspondences actually match the heat in the petition. If you are shy about the word sex in front of a goddess, you will pick Friday by default because Friday smells like perfume and safety. Friday is a beautiful day. It is the wrong day for this candle.

Love, lust, and the planet people skip

Venus rules love and attraction. The wish to stay. The sweetness after. The second glass of wine and the mouth that still tastes like it. When I want two people to soften toward each other, I think Venus. I think green wax with that faint plant smell. I think copper. I think Friday if the calendar will allow it.

Mars rules lust and will. Forceful passion. Warrior appetite. The body arriving before the speech is ready, pulse in the throat, heat in the palms. Mars is also the planet of conflict, so you do not get to borrow his heat and act shocked if a little fight comes with it. That is the bargain. When I want pursuit, hunger, the feeling of being chosen with the lights still on, I think Mars. I think red wax that looks like cooled blood in the dish. I think iron. I think Tuesday.

Mercury gets ignored in too many love cabinets, and that is sloppy in this lane. Mercury is movement, talk, recognition, the glance that becomes a conversation that becomes a door opening and night air on your face. Vetivert is the herb a lot of shops have sold for years in gay love formulae. Crush it and the smell is not floral. It is damp root, green bitterness, something like wet wood after rain. I use it. I am not going to invent a sacred law that Mercury secretly owns homosexuality. I am going to tell you what the bottle and the old shop talk have been pointing at. Vetivert does not replace Venus. It adds the slide. It helps people see you and move. If you only load Venus into a lust petition you often get tenderness when the client asked to be hunted. The candle will smell expensive. Nobody will touch him.

I have watched that mistake in real time. A client wants sex. I build a sweet Venusian plate because some part of me wants the work to look respectable. Rose. Sugar. Green. The flame burns even and polite. The smoke goes up thin and pretty. The wax pools like a quiet lake. Nobody is in his bed. Respectable is not a result. Respectable is a nice smell in an empty room.

A real petition, said without decoration

A man wrote to me the way people write when they are done performing for the reader. Short lines. Little punctuation. Heat under the spelling. He is gay. He is already in a relationship. He has love. He can feel that love like a house key in his pocket. He does not want another love spell. He wants men to look at him and want him. He wants that pull low in the belly. He works with Astaroth and he is careful about her, the way you are careful with a woman who can smell a lie on your breath. He does not want the working to offend her.

That is a clean petition. The mess starts when we translate it into a reunion candle because we are more comfortable selling romance than appetite.

I am not going to scold him for having love and still wanting to be desired. I am also not going to pretend those two hungers are the same spirit job. If he wants the relationship intact, the petition has to say so in plain words. If he wants to be a magnet in the world, we work his name, his body, his field. If he wants a specific man bent toward him, that is a different plate, a different risk, and a different conversation after the cards or the pendulum have had their say.

Astaroth does not need us to wash the request. She needs us not to lie about it. In some books she is a duke. In some houses she is a goddess. Some of us can feel the old Venusian heat in her even when the grimoire voice is infernal, that perfume and iron mix, beauty with a blade under it. In this working she is who he called, so that is who I address. I do not feed her a speech about soulmates when he asked for sex. Lying to the spirit about the job is how you offend her. You can feel the room go flat when you do it. The flame leans. The oil smells suddenly too sweet. Pleasure was never filthy to the old ones. Dishonesty is the part that curdles.

Two workings. If you mix them you will not know what failed.

Magnet work is the cleaner road and it is the one I push first. You dress your figure. You carve your name while little curls of red wax collect under the blade. You burn to become the thing people move toward. No stranger’s date of birth. No photograph of a man who did not ask, his face going soft under oil. You are changing the weather you walk around in. People should feel you before they have a reason.

Target work is influence. Photograph. Name. Date of birth. A sentence that tells a specific will to lean. I will do that work. I have done that work. I have felt the paper go translucent where the oil hit it, the ink bleeding a little, the face shining. I will not smile and tell you it is the same as self attraction. Influence has a bill. The bill is sometimes a yes that arrives like a hand on the back of your neck. The bill is sometimes a man who feels shoved and decides to prove he cannot be shoved.

If you do not know how he looks in an angry state, you are not ready for target work. If he is normally violent, you are asking Mars to knock on a door that already slams. I would rather you be annoyed with me for refusing than proud of a candle that put you in a worse room.

Why the candle is red and why the day is Tuesday

You may think I would be keen on Friday. I understand the reflex. Love spell, Venus, roses, the whole room smelling like a drawer of old letters. I work this spell on Tuesday under Mars.

I want warrior heat. I want the active current. Red is Mars in the body of the wax. Hold a new figure in your hand before you carve it. It is cool at first, slightly dusty, the mold lines raised like veins. After five minutes in a warm kitchen it starts to give under the thumb. That give is when I cut.

A male figure candle is not me being literal for its own sake. The candle is a stand in for a living appetite. When the job is make me the magnet, that figure is the operator. When the job is a target, that figure is the other man, and you had better be honest about which body you just set on fire.

I carve the name and a short petition into the wax with something sharp enough to bite and not so sharp I split the figure down the breastbone. The sound is a dry scratch. Wax gathers under the nail. Short is not lazy. Short is how you keep from writing a novel the fire cannot carry. I have watched people carve a paragraph around a candle’s ribs and then wonder why the burn was confused, the flame sputtering, the figure listing like a drunk. The wax can hold a name and a will. It cannot hold your entire dating history.

How I actually build the plate

I clean the room first. Sage if that is what I have in my hand, the smoke bitter and white, catching in the throat. Another incense if that is what the day wants, copal snapping, frankincense resin popping when it hits coal. If you have a clearing ritual you already trust, use it. Do not invent a theater you will not repeat.

You can sit at a table, an altar, or the floor. Comfort matters more than looking like a painting. The floor will put smoke in your clothes. The table will show every oil ring in the morning light. Pick the mess you can live with. Hoodoo does not require a cast circle. If circle is your training and you feel naked without it, cast it before the red candle goes up. That is optional. It is not a grade.

A white candle goes in a holder and gets lit first. The wick takes with a small sound, almost a kiss. That white candle is the clean room. You may pray. You may say nothing. I have done both. Silence is not a lack of magic. Silence is sometimes the only honest tone I have left after a long client day, sitting there with wax under my nail and the white flame standing still as a bone.

On the plate I write Mars and Astaroth. Sharpie on ceramic if I am in a hurry. A paint pen if I want it to survive the wash. I have also drawn a mark for sexual fire when the petition is performance as well as pull. That mark can live on the plate or on a paper that later goes into a mojo, folded until the crease shines. I am not precious about whether the drawing is beautiful. I am precious about whether it means what we said it means.

If I want Venus in the room without letting her steal the job, I will add the Second Pentacle of Venus. Paper that smells faintly of printer ink or ink from a pen that bled. That talisman is for love, lust, grace, beauty, and the desires that belong to her domain. The verse that rides with it is from the Song of Solomon: set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. I use that verse when the client wants heat that still knows how to hold. I leave it off when the client wants heat and nothing that sounds like a vow.

The petition paper gets the photograph if we have one. A face in cheap ink. Sometimes a smile that does not match the petition. Name on the back. Date of birth if we have it. One short sentence. A drop of oil on each corner, enough to darken the paper, not enough to make a puddle. Gay love oil if that is still the true name of the job. Lust oil if we are done dressing appetite in softer clothes. I do not trap the paper under the candle. I set it under the plate or behind the plate where I can still see a white edge of it. I need that paper at the end, and I do not want it welded to a puddle before I have decided what the puddle is saying.

The bowl, the oil, and why I put my hands in the plants

I dress the figure with oil before herb. Always oil first. Dry plant on dry wax is a mess and a weak grip. The plant falls off in sad little flakes and you spend the night picking dill out of the table grain.

Gay love oil is what I reach for when the current is same sex draw and the client still wants the word love in the room. It smells like a shop decided to be romantic and rooty at the same time. Lust oil is what I reach for when he has already told me he has love and he wants sex. That one sits heavier. It takes longer to rub in. Olive oil blessed for the same purpose will work if the fancy bottle is empty. I have told students that for years and some of them still wait two weeks for a shipment instead of blessing what is in the kitchen. The spirit does not grade your shopping. She can smell olive oil on a sincere thumb just fine.

Then the bowl.

• Damiana is heat. Yes in the body. Dry and green, a little dusty, the smell of a summer drawer. The plant people have used when they want the blood to agree.
• Patchouli is sex with weight. Crush it and the room changes. Earth. Damp cloth. Something sweet underneath that is not sugar. It keeps the working from floating off into perfume.
• Dill stirs. It is not glamorous. The seeds click against the bowl like tiny nails. The smell is pickle jar and field. Appetite needs a push sometimes, not a poem.
• Hibiscus is mouth and blood and the kind of pull that shows in the face. The petals stain a wet finger pink. If you lick that finger like an idiot, and I have, it is faintly sour.
• Vanilla is the linger. Bean split down the middle, dark and oily, or a crushed piece that leaves brown grit in the oil. The warmth after the first hit. Without it the working can feel like a spark that dies in the parking lot, that sudden cool on sweaty skin.
• Vetivert is the Mercurial draw I already argued for. Recognition. Movement. The gay shop classic. Root, rain, bitterness. I use it because it has worked in this lane, not because I need it to be a doctrine.

I put all of it in a bowl and I run my fingers through it until the dust sticks to the oil already on my skin. The bowl smells like a whole argument: sweet, dirty, green, bitter. I thank Astaroth there, in the plant, before the fire. That moment matters to me more than a scripted chant. You are asking a goddess to put her mouth on a human hunger. Touch the medicine like you mean it.

A figure candle does not roll the way a pillar rolls. Anyone who has tried it knows the arms get bald and the chest gets caked. I rub. I press plant into the oil until the figure looks dressed, not breaded. Loose bits fall. I sweep them into the ring. The rest of the herb goes in a circle on the plate so the plant keeps sitting in the current while the wax burns. When the flame is up you will smell that ring every time the heat blooms: patchouli first, then the green lift of dill, then something darker as the vetivert wakes.

Some nights I want it pretty and I use glitter. Fine red or gold that sticks to the oil and throws sparks when the wick leans. Pretty is not shallow. Pretty can hide a working in a house where not everyone should see what you are doing. A glittering red man on a kitchen plate is harder to explain than a quiet oil stain. Some nights I feel more like a black magician and I skip the loose herb entirely. Just oil, slick and dark in the grooves of the carving, the figure shining like it has been sweating. That is a mood. It is a real mood. I will not apologize for the nights I want less kitchen witch and more iron.

If the work needs to walk after the fire, I build a mojo. Sigil or pentacle, damiana, patchouli, dill, hibiscus, vanilla crushed or whole.

The bag takes on the smell of the plate and then, after a day against the body, the smell of skin. Carry it on the body that asked to be wanted. A plate you never touch again is a show. A bag you wear is a continuation.

What I do when the flame is up

When I am ready I state the petition to her. Out loud if the house allows it, the words feeling larger than they look on paper. In the mind if somebody in the next room does not need this education. Then I light the red figure. The first flare is always taller than you expect. Wax at the wick pops. The carved name goes glossy as it warms.

Hoodoo does not owe you a rhyme. I have given students lines when they freeze. I have also watched a man whisper one true sentence and get more movement than a page of old English. Speak the desire. See it. Hold it until your mouth goes dry.

The visualization I want is not you on your knees. I want you as the temperature change. People feel better in your orbit. They feel more alive in it. They want to stay in it. You are not collecting scraps of attention. You are becoming the magnet. If you cannot see yourself that way, the candle will still burn. The wax will still talk. The talk will often be walls. A candle cannot install a spine you refuse to stand up into.

The figure may take a long time. The room gets warm in a small circle around the plate. Your eyes sting if you sit too close. You may sit the whole burn. You may snuff it, that pinch of smoke in the nose, and return at the same hour each day when the light in the window is the same color. I snuff. I do not treat the flame like a birthday cake. If you come back sloppy, at random hours, with a different petition in your mouth every night, you are running a new spell on old wax.

I have sat with a plate for twelve hours because the wax and the herb would not quit. The ring of plant kept catching, a low orange crawl, the smell going from fresh bowl to roasted root. That is fire watch. It is not a meditation retreat and it is not proof of extra holiness. A figure candle, loose plant, and a glass plate can become a problem if you get bored and walk away. Stay near it. You do not have to stare a hole through the wick. You do have to be in the room, with the heat on your face and the knowledge that this little red body is your responsibility.

When the figure is done I burn the petition in a second flame. Paper takes fast. The photo curls. The oil spots burn brighter. Ash lifts and then drops. I let it go. I thank her. Then I stop asking. People ruin good work by lingering in the please. You asked. You paid in attention and fire and the smell in your hair. Let the current leave your mouth.

How I read what is left

This is the part students want to be a chart and it will not quite be a chart. Wax talks in dialect. I will tell you how it talks to me.

The best look is a flat sheet, or almost nothing left. A smooth pond of red, maybe a skin on top that wrinkles when it cools. The road opened. The current spent itself. Nobody had to climb a fence.

Walls are a block. I always read walls as a block. Hard ridges standing up from the plate, sometimes still warm in the center and already dull at the rim. Confidence. Access. Timing. A no you have not admitted. A bedroom you never leave. An office you never look up from. A mouth that wants to be wanted and a body that hides.

A curl like a wave or a petal can mean someone is bending. It can also mean inattention wearing a pretty shape. The wax folds over itself, glossy, almost beautiful, and people clap at it as if it were a love letter. Sometimes it is. Sometimes it is the target leaning away and the wax making that lean look artistic. I do not turn every curl into he is wrapping himself around my will. That is how readers lie to clients and then the client lies to himself.

On a working I still think about when I write this, the candle left walls. Large ones. Thick enough that I could feel the height of them with a fingertip before they fully cooled. Spirit was listening. You can tell when the plate feels attended, that faint sense of being watched without a body in the chair. Spirit was also saying the road was not open the way he wanted it. I told him the truth. Maybe he wants to be a sex god and he never leaves the bedroom, the sheets still smelling like sleep. Maybe the existing relationship is the wall and he does not want to look at that. Maybe the target already answered and nobody liked the answer. A white candle for backbone and self regard may be the next burn, clean flame, no glitter, no performance. Another red man on top of a wall is just a louder wall.

If you already read cards, you may not need the wax to be your only mouth. Pull the cards after the fire, while the plate is still giving off that roasted herb smell. Let them argue with the puddle. I would rather two languages disagree in front of me than one language flatter me.

The option I only name after the wax has spoken

In black magick some of us refuse to accept the wall as the last word. I have taken the petition, held it in the second flame until it became a dying leaf of fire, and laid that fire onto the walls. The ridges slump. The block goes glossy. Heat hits your knuckles. The smell spikes, paper and wax and leftover oil, a little acrid. Then there is a puddle. A smooth puddle is the old yes. Desire fulfilled, or at least the road forced open far enough to walk.

Hear what I am saying. At that point I am no longer reading the candle. I am forcing the road.

I will do it. I have done it. I will not pretend it is gentle. If you are sensitive you will feel that shove in your own chest, a pressure under the sternum, sometimes a flush in the face that is not embarrassment. If the man never wanted the current, that shove can come back as anger. If the client cannot hold an angry result, I leave the wall standing. Melting it as a favor is not a favor. It is you deciding they are ready to win a fight they have not agreed to have.

There is always a risk when you manipulate the last image of a working. The wax was counsel. You overrode the counsel. Sometimes that is exactly the left hand. Sometimes it is impatience wearing a black shirt. I call it an option because it is. I call it black because I am not going to wash it. The puddle looks victorious while it is still wet. In the morning it is just cold red on a plate you still have to scrape.

What I want sitting in your mouth when you leave this page

Same sex love does not make the spell kinder. It does not make the spell a different religion. It asks you to be accurate.

• If the petition is love, give Venus her Friday and her sweetness and the smell of rose in the hall.
• If the petition is lust, give Mars his Tuesday and his red figure and the iron taste of an honest risk.
• If the client already has love and wants to be desired, do not sell him a reunion.
• If Astaroth is on the plate, tell her the truth and do not insult her with a costume.

Divine first. Ask how he looks when he is angry. Pick magnet work unless you are ready for target work. Sit with your fire until your eyes water. Read the wax before you melt it into the answer you wanted. If the walls say you never leave the bedroom, leave the bedroom before you light another man.

That is the lesson. The rest is people being polite to a hunger that was never polite. Polite hunger makes pretty smoke. It smells like a shop. It does not make anybody want you.

Personally I have a 50-50 success rate with this style of spell having a positive result. Testosterone can sometimes work against the desired outcome, where the male may react with anger toward the pushing of a magical energy which is asking him to do something which he naturally does not wish to do. So I will ask my client if they know what their target looks like in an angry state. Are they normally violent? If so be careful, as this maybe the reaction towards you once you cast the spell! This is why we always recommend performing divination before you cast any type of spell.

 Reference & Source:

Candle Magic Course for Beginners