Loving the Sacred Vessel

A Gay Pagan Journey from Body Dysmorphia to Ritual Self-Love

As queer pagan men, we are no strangers to complexity. We live at the crossroads — of masculine and feminine, flesh and spirit, ecstasy and shame. For many of us, our bodies have been battlegrounds, marked not by tattoos of initiation but by years of ridicule, rejection, and painful silence.

For me, this journey began in childhood. I was underweight, all sharp edges and hollow cheeks, my ribs showing through like a picket fence. Family worried. Doctors waved it off. But what I remember most was the laughter — children mocking the way my clothes swallowed me whole, making me feel like I wasn’t even real.

Then puberty hit, and the pendulum swung hard in the other direction. I became “the fat kid.” My belly jiggled. My chest softened. The word “husky” haunted every shopping trip. My peers, now drunk on adolescent hormones, grew crueler. Their teasing became sophisticated, layered with sarcasm. “Looking good,” they’d sneer, and I’d feel my face burn.

I was already an outsider — poor, gay, and draped in hand-me-downs from a hyper-religious cousin. My clothes were neither fashionable nor flattering. Compliments felt like traps. I grew wary of mirrors. When I had to look, I’d isolate my face, cutting out the rest of my body like it was an infection. I’d scrub my skin raw with facial scrubs and Sea Breeze, punishing myself for every blemish. My mother, trying to save money, would cut my hair herself. Bowl cuts. Rat tails. Mullet disasters. I was the boy at the pool who swam in a T-shirt and stared at the ceiling in the shower, doing everything I could not to see the body I’d learned to hate.

In high school, I tried to win approval by joining the track team, hoping to impress my sports-minded stepfather. A trophy I would never win from him. What I hadn’t noticed during this time was the physical transformation.I lost weight, my frame changed — but I didn’t see it, still averting my gaze in shame and disgust. Compliments didn’t register as real. They were threats. Sometimes I’d flee to the bathroom and cry, convinced everyone was in on a joke I hadn’t yet understood.

Then came the Senior Photos.

I forced myself to dress up and pose. The photographer was gentle, encouraging — her kindness felt safe because I assumed it was just part of her job, and was of a performative nature rather than the derisive one of my peers and stepfather. But when we returned to view the proofs, something extraordinary happened. One photo stopped me cold. I was lying on a white backdrop, one arm behind my head, eyes heavy-lidded and confident. I looked like a model. Like someone worthy of desire. I broke down. “That’s me?” I asked through tears. Unfortunately my mother refused to let me choose that photo — she thought it looked smutty — but it didn’t matter. I had seen a new version of myself. One I could love.

Coming out as gay in a small-town school wasn’t as isolating as I had anticipated. True, I had no prospects for a boyfriend, but at homecoming, the entire JV football team took turns dancing with me, sometimes even intimately. This took the sting out of being alone. But once I entered my twenties, things changed. I became flirtatious, sexually curious, hungry for touch and recognition. I modeled, did sex work, performed live BDSM shows. I reveled in bodies — all kinds. The bear’s warmth. The tautness of the twinks. The chub’s soft embrace. The leather daddy’s dominance. The power of the gym rats. The skilled prowess of a handful of porn stars. The fraternal bond of the boy next door. I had inhabited many of these archetypes myself and longed for the rest.

But time, as always, moved on. My twink days faded into twunkdom. Career stress piled on. My metabolism slowed. The pounds returned, and with them, the doubts. Fashion became my last sanctuary — I knew how to dress my body, how to project confidence. But once the layers came off, the old shame rushed back in. I was too short. Too round. Not “endowed enough.” Fortunately, I had already found my husband — a beautiful man who loved me deeply. But his own struggles with body image mirrored mine, hearing him grouse over his body, which put mine to shame, his compliments began to ring hollow. If he couldn’t believe he was worthy, how could I?

And then — I found my place in an online queer pagan community.

I joined hoping to rekindle my spirituality and reclaim my sexual fire. I found a tribe. A circle of queer, pagan men who welcomed me wholly — body, spirit, desire, doubt. When NSFW spaces opened up, I was nervous. Would I be accepted? Was my body enough? Would my cock become another joke? I posted anyway. The response was overwhelming. Genuine. Lustful, yes — but also loving. Reverent. Sacred. That day, I stepped back into my body not as a prison, but as a temple.

Through this journey, I’ve come to understand something sacred: our bodies are the ritual tools. They are the altar and the offering. The many forms our bodies take — slender, stocky, lean, round, soft, muscular, hairy, smooth — are not deviations from beauty, but expressions of divine diversity. Our bodies are the language through which we express ecstasy, devotion, eros, and transcendence.

We, as gay pagan men, are inheritors of a long lineage of sacred sensuality. Our gods are gods of the body — Pan with his wild desire, Dionysus with his ecstatic abandon, Priapus with his proud phallus, Antinous with his immortal beauty. The sacred masculine is not singular; it is multiform, erotic, feral, fertile, and tender.

So I offer you this:

The Sacred Vessel Ritual

A rite for reclaiming your body as holy, worthy, and beloved.

Write it down.

On a piece of paper, record every cruel belief, every hateful whisper you’ve internalized about your body. No censorship. Let it pour out.

Stand nude before a mirror, ensuring your entire body is visible to you.

Light an Orange, Pink and Yellow candle. Each one engraved with a sigil for Confidence, Self-Love and Healing, and Optimism respectively. Anoint each candle with Bergamot, Sandalwood, and/or Cypress

Call upon the Queer Pantheon.

Speak their names. Ask their aid. Let their archetypes awaken your own divine reflection:

“Great Pan, Lord of Lust and Wildness — help me reclaim my raw, untamed desire.”

“Dionysus, God of Ecstasy — release me from shame and fill me with divine confidence.”

“Frey, Golden One — may your light nurture the beauty of my flesh.”

“Priapus, Sacred Phallus — grant me power, joy, and pride in erotic play.”

“Shiva, Destroyer and Creator — shatter my illusions and remake me in truth.”

“Cernunnos, Antlered God — anchor me in natural strength and wild reverence.”

“Osiris, Lord of Resurrection — let my old self die, and raise up one who knows he is worthy.”

“Eros — send me lovers who see the divine in this body.”

“Min, God of Fertility — bless my phallus with potency and pleasure.”

“Tuer-Shen, Rabbit Spirit of Gay Love — bless me with tenderness and erotic delight.”

“Xochipilli, Aztec Lord of Pleasure — let my pleasure be sacred and abundant.”

“Antinous, Immortal Youth — let me see myself through the eyes of love.”

“Logun-Ede, Child of Duality — may I honor both my masculine and feminine self.”

Burn the words.

Light a candle. Read your list aloud. Then ignite it in the flame. Let the paper burn in a cauldron or safe vessel. Watch the smoke rise.

Speak your truth.

Say aloud:

“Great Ones, take witness. I release these lies. I reclaim this Sacred Vessel. I return to the grand temple of my truest self.”

Let the silence afterward be filled with presence. Feel your breath. Feel your body. Place your hand on your chest, your belly, your groin. Offer gratitude. Offer forgiveness. Offer love.

Brother — your body is not a mistake. It is the incarnation of your spirit, the form through which you love, worship, play, and connect. It is beautiful. It is sacred. It is yours.

So dance naked under the moon. Touch yourself with reverence. Take lovers who see you clearly and love you fully. And when you see another brother — round, soft, muscular, slight, silver-haired, dark-skinned, scarred, adorned — know that you are witnessing a reflection of the divine.

Blessed be the Sacred Vessel.

Blessed be your journey.

— Arkadios Vasco