Fucking Day: Vulvamancy (Patreon)

Abandon all employment all ye who enter here.

I foresee a normal lesson.

Nah. I didn’t become our third strongest wizard by heeding premonitions.

Poetic. The author remembers his friends and mentors, despite reaching the peaks of self-published power. And from this perch, opens with “you’re in or you’re out.” What are we soft-pedaling?

An uncensored dove? Gross.

I won’t forget that image for many cycles. Good thing I can share it with other explorers of the divine, or I’d be hogging all that goddess-force. Just one of many secrets hiding in Vulvamancy. There’s a subtitle, but you don’t need it. You barely need the book. The author’s entire world is in the title Vulvamancy.

Jeremy’s something of a Renaissance maniac: his ideas on vaginas are from the Renaissance. Beyond that, he’s an alleged radiologist and provable founder of the Temple of Miriam, dedicated to ancient Jewish magic. The middle point in his journey from insane resident to standard cult leader? Vaginal divination.

If it sounds like I skipped a lot, we have a lot to get to.

I wondered, for a heartbeat, if I was quite right to cover this book. Then I noticed that Jeremy checks the same demographic boxes, headspins aside. But life’s bigger than that: what matters is that I have no self-control, and Jeremy has no standards. Let’s learn vulvamancy.

The first! Not quite, but delightful confidence.

You might think of Signs of Intimacy, which compared various dicks to animals they don’t resemble. But unlike Aiden, Jeremy remembers vaginas exist. They’re all he can think about. He’s on a 24/7 frat house grind, looking for more vaginas to apply his gift. Vulvamancy is closer to Keys to the VIP. While they’ve never touched a vagina, Jeremy refuses to stop.

As for other counter-examples, please mail them to me.

Jeremy’s settled an ancient debate: the role of forceps and star charts in bed. On one hand, chanting at your partner’s labia might send them screaming into another zip code. On the other hand, only magickal framing can make some warlocks consider foreplay.

There are two copies left at press time, I assume you own the other one. But you don’t need me to pitch you, when you have Jeremy’s independent, editor-free jacket copy. The tone’s much more aggressive than the contents, since even independent pussologists kneel before marketing.

“Getting guys down there is easy. Just tell them they’re summoning Yog-Shoggoth, and you’ll have to pry them off with power tools.”

I don’t only learn to bend time in these books. Occasionally, I get new mandatory vocabulary. There’s no timeline where I don’t say “mantic arts” for the rest of my unnatural life. It’s like learning magick’s true spelling, or how much money tarot cards can make you at one renaissance faire. The wonders of the mantic arts are many.

That’s money. With the mantick artes, we can master the art of romance. This must mostly be about sex, right? Reading the future can’t be the first priority, right? Or one at all?

Oh ye of little faith, and much straw.

Confession: I read this paragraph without blinking. My mind’s gone to the Summerlands. Of course vaginal scrying is separate from semen retention tulpas. Does this look like my first nude seance? It’s obvious. You might as well tell me two and two make four, or that Thomas Jefferson didn’t think consent was sexy. It is known.

I’m not asking you to help me, I’m saying it's far too late.

If you know more about spells than people, you might wonder why Jeremy only covers half of genital magick. Keep that energy, it’ll save you in the times to come. But if you insist on the truth, remember the overlap with Keys to the VIP. Vulvamancy, in the right/wrong hands, generously donates time to women of every element (though you’ll see less of practical-minded water labia). For Jeremy’s earthly motives, phallomancy leaves him less…driven.

Imagine buying a two-hour astrogynecology reading, and hearing “sorry, can’t help you. These freak glans are illegible. It’d be like throwing a wand into a bottomless pit.” I suspect vulvamancy’s more perilous than Jeremy lets on. While necromancy risks backlash from the spirits, vulvamancy earns beatings from the living.

A hoodoo practitioner might flush their haloperidol. A hoodoo practitioner might bless a bobby pin with piss before hexing an ankle bracelet. A hoodoo practitioner might unleash the ancestors on a parole officer. A hoodoo practitioner might ignore court orders on the solstice. A hoodoo practitioner might go to fucking jail.

Note that, in a single-paragraph cameo, hoodoo exes out-crazy Jeremy’s vagina fixation. They are, far and away, the strongest fuck wizards, and you should swipe carefully.

Anyway, vulvamancy. Jeremy hits practical matters eventually, providing a step-by-step guide to reading the soul crotch-first.

On a wholly unrelated note, Jeremy’s website and author bio are vague about his medical career and exit. Fair enough–doctors hate bragging. We all remember Stephen Strange’s punishment for his buzzkill humility. Columbia and Harvard get namedrops, but it’s unclear if Jeremy was director or air conditioner technician. He does describe human subjects like cheap horses, so I’ll vouch for the Columbia connection.

Besides, he’s crafted a complete system. No skimming the clit and reading a fortune cookie today. Vulvamancy has diagrams.

Lots of diagrams.

Broken up by photos.

Note that page 554 doesn’t exist. Jeremy’s eyes are for clitoral glans, not copy-editing.

Which explains why most of Vulvamancy isn’t vulvamancy. Jeremy mostly explains how sweet vulvamancy would be, used alongside various other spellbooks and anniversaries. Think steroids for other mantick arts. The middle of the book, however, spells out his nine-step method.

Its power shall be ours.

Hold that thought on lubrication.

Fun writing fact: dates always skim the last thing you wrote. So I’m catching up on Gundam this week.

If this looks dehumanizing, you’re probably unshaved.

We don’t get separate readings for tattooed and pierced? Someone doesn’t know their audience.

Here’s advice sorcerers and netizens can share: if you think shaved vaginas are for hypochondriacs, you’re probably a wizard.

Whether you believe or not, you knew we wouldn’t leave this book without learning how Jeremy likes his pubic hair. Think “I prefer women without makeup,” but for vaginas. Jeremy won’t send a tattooed vagina home, but you’ll hear a quaver of disappointment throughout the reading. And testimony.

You know those fleshy-labia’d women, flipping from rooftop to rooftop. You’re now closer to knowing what Catwoman’s vagina looks like.

More labia scrying. Jeremy doesn’t tell us which reading takes priority if they clash. So he’s definitely a pro, only the strongest seers can say so much while explaining so little.

Congratulations on your detective vagina.

Congratulations on your wizard vagina.

Congratulations on your depressed vagina.

“Wow Jeremy, you’re really a professional vulvamancer. I thought that was a joke, most profiles tell jokes. Whatever. At least you run your own cult. I’ll stick around.”

Jeremy’s excited. By now, half of Patreon can draw Jeremy’s ideal vagina by hand. As for the other half, we’ll need more data. Hopefully we can finish up before Jeremy meets Mariska Hartigay.

I wouldn’t follow Jeremy on this topic. We’ll skip ahead.

Place your bets now. No peeking at your vagina, that’s cheating.

That’s right, fellas. If you need a mommy to clean up your magic circles and vagina charts, lock down a petite clitoris. Just make sure to burn this page first.

Jeremy loses some points here for citing nameless readers. This is your complete system. Own it. Offloading blame for the clit power rankings on the reader is a sheltered labia move.

Magick is powerful: I can feel the sex ed fleeing my body. It knows it's beaten, and that I’ll need the RAM for more wisdom. The next time I see a clit bigger than my porn, I’ll tell my partner “I can tell you’re not easily scared away. Because I’m a vagina genie, and you have a giant komodo dragon clit. Massive. Monstrously independent. You should be proud, and already are.”

Look: I see the appeal of skepticism. Disdain. Mockery. Barrel-chested, full-throated laughter, for days at a time. That was me, until it became funnier to play along. But after that, I discovered the power of sorcerie. So consider a simple question.

If magick isn’t real, how did Jeremy type this book with one hand?

Look, you got me. It’s gross. Do you want these Powerball numbers or not? I don’t know the buyout price for the WW3 draft, but it’s more than honest living makes.

Divination comes at a cost. Sometimes, it’s learning to rig a deck, or buying a nice mirror. Today, it’s watching a failed doctor inhale and write down “Menstruating? Get more panties to confirm.” When you can, stick to the card tricks. Today, we’re sniffing twice.

Allow me to translate for Jeremy: you can settle for mediocrity and panties. Or reach for your dreams, and get rich, redolent, soaked sheets to divine for weeks on end. Yes, clients may harass you to finish some kind of reading at some point. But nirvana belongs to those brave enough to chase it.

Discharge flavors include:

This looks insane if you read it, and sounds insane recited. But the pages feel sane to the touch. As for the book’s smell and taste, you couldn’t pay me enough. I’ll just enlist.

When is it enough? How much squirt does Jeremy need to read one victim’s fortune? How many kinds?

Jeremy’s deflection habit pops up again. This book isn’t Hinduism’s fault. Or the readers, or Kabballah, or any woman that’s donated frayed underwear to stop his tears. The man’s starved for pussy and he’ll keep typing until someone pays for a yoni reading. Or lets him pay.

Charming.

This is true, when Jeremy reads you. The Kama-Salila channels desire, and he craves unpaid touch. In my study, the most accurate method is writing down your debit card number, security code, and recovery questions. If that’s not freaky enough, you can use your fluid of choice. Again, my standards are dead.

Probably not relevant.

More vaginal rpg classes? That’s impossible. This book has more vagina builds than drafts.

Taste-testing gets precise results: you might be organized, or you might have diabetes. Hard to tell, if you keep Oreos sorted by flavor and layer count. It depends on if you’re shaved, really. If you’re unsure, go ahead and fill a jug for Jeremy. Hecate will reward your sweet, delicious faith.

Rejection hurts, no doubt. But some people just don’t feel that way, no matter how many quarts of kama-salila you mail them. All you can do is learn from the experience, and find someone that appreciates every frozen milliliter. Your Jeremy is out there. Try a local prison.

“You can call her vagina umami without her sprinting to another state. She’ll tell your parole officer you’re harmless. A Pollyanna for our times.”

There you have it, mucusbenders. All eight steps.

Right.

I’m writing this in a German cafe, with a hard copy of Vulvamancy. One nice thing about Germany is that everyone’s very open and permissive, and I look like someone that belongs in society. If I skimmed the election results correctly, this is a pretty good time to be a black offender.

There is no citation, trivia, misquote, or other act of cultural banditry that can convince me today’s third spread on squirting is about anyone but Jeremy. This is a dehydrated soul. A man that would give anything and everything to trade places with a Tampax.

Once again, spellcraft gives way to cranking at hummingbird speed. You’d think I’d see it coming, but all my tutors are like this. If I bought Tea Leaves for Dummies, chapter three would be Teas that Taste Like Sexual Fluids, and four would be Sexual Fluids That Taste Like Tea.

I can’t leave bedsheet reading alone. It’d kill my brand. Determination earned me the nickname Burger Widerling.

Finding a bat on your bedsheets means Gotham needs justice. And you need to do laundry. Double check that the ants are actually a sign to tweet, and not from old crumbs in your fuckstained sheets. As for bags and/or wings, you’re near a vulvamancer. Time to go.

We’re avoiding the elephant (unlisted, surprisingly) in the room here. Your vagina’s cursed. Likely by the vulvamancer, trying to drum up business or romance. Apply weight until he confesses.

Again, let’s be direct. This means you have a psychic vagina. You’re the only one that can stop the plague of rogue vulvamancers. Go forth, and be brave. No matter how perilous the journey, you have Yoni Platinum at your side.

At least we can apply this section. Only half of Jeremy’s steps brush against magick. Or even a personality test. There’s a lot more of a retired/disgraced/imaginary doctor mixing vaginal rumors with cultural theft. Not that he’s much more graceful with his own. Jeremy crammed enough sexual repression into Vulvamancy to overshadow inventing his own branch of Torah magick.

Absolutely. I go a little more openly, overtly, and certifiably nuts every day. And sometimes the magick’s weird too.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: John Dean, a Level 3 mucusbender with full bedsheet privileges.

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