We want to preserve it. We mourn when it’s passed. We desperately want to recreate it in long-term relationships.

But me? I’m tired of feeling like my relationship has to be picture perfect and on fire all the time. And I’m tired of all the sex-coach-influencers telling me if it’s not, it’s broken — as they preach from relationships too short to know what long-term love truly looks and feels like.

I recently shared this piece with my private newsletter community, and my inbox has been exploding with responses. This is a conversation that wants to be had. So sink in and let me know if it lands with you, too.

I had a post on Substack go viral this month. Well, maybe not technically viral, but it certainly blew up more than anything I've ever shared here. It said...

I’d written it a couple days after celebrating my wedding anniversary, reflecting on the fact that I’ve loved this sweet man of mine for over 12 years.

It was also after a morning weeding through social feeds that mostly featured young, hot (at least through the filter they used) women dishing out sex tips, calling themselves ‘experts,’ while in the midst of the Honeymoon Phase of their own relationships.

It made me think about how wild it is that we romanticise the Honeymoon Phase.

Too many people leave relationships when the magic dissipates.

Too many people stay and feel disappointed, constantly trying to find their way back to the euphoria they experienced in the early days of falling in love.

Too many people preach that if it doesn’t feel like that anymore, then the relationship is expired, move on.

And yet, the reality of the Honeymoon Phase is this:

The relationship becomes not only the top priority, but the only priority. Even though we feel high on falling in love, we actually experience a spike in cortisol when we begin to accommodate another person’s constant presence.

The high-intensity rewiring that occurs in the brain isn’t sustainable long-term. The early days of a relationship are intoxicating, but the hyper-arousal we experience was always meant to be temporary.

I may not have entered my Crone era just yet, but one of the things that makes me damn good at this work is my personal experience navigating long-term love and sex.

Moving through every season —

The euphoria.

The immense safety that comes from being fully known.

The fizzled spark.

The dry spells.

The urges to run.

The urges to stay.

The fighting for each other.

The desire reigniting just when you least expected it.

And doing it all over again.

All the while, knowing this is only the beginning. That I have decades to collect even more wisdom.

But with the wisdom I have now, I can say this:

Relationships are not black and white. They are not perfect. They are not linear. Neither is sex. Some days, we struggle. Some days, we bloom. Our relationship to relationship itself is one of constant unraveling and revelation.

That’s why I love this work. It’s full of nuance.

Sometimes the desire that returns after months of numbness is sweeter than the desire that showed up without effort.

Sometimes the conversations that happen after a fight create more intimacy than the chemistry that came before the first one.

And sometimes the real work isn’t trying to stay where we once were, but instead, it’s learning how to fall in love with what comes next.

Recommended reading if you loved this post:

• I Don’t Want Relationship Advice From Someone’s Honeymoon Phase

• Why you should ruin your honeymoon phase on purpose

• The Illusion of the Honeymoon Phase

• How to Love Someone Beyond the Honeymoon phase

And if you want to be in my world and soak in the wisdom that I share with my clients, the next cohort of Sultry Storytellers is enrolling soon. An intimate six-month immersion for women who want to explore desire, relationships, intimacy, and self-expression through the power of writing and storytelling.

Comment ‘SULTRY’ and I’ll send you all the sultry details.

The one that knows no bounds.

The one that breaks the barriers of reality, makes no sense, makes you cringe and ache at the same time.

The one you’ve never said out loud.

This is mine: every man I’ve ever slept with on their knees at my feet.

This fantasy is about coming face-to-face with your past, not to relive relationships, but to integrate them. It’s a fantasy of control and surrender. It’s a fantasy of sensory overload. It’s a fantasy of being watched and being seen. It’s a fantasy of being overwhelmingly wanted.

Isn’t that what we all desire?

It always begins with J. Not because I miss him or because the sex was particularly special, but because I’ve always wanted to know the feeling of him at my feet.

He kneels on the hardwood floor in nothing but his black boxer briefs. He’s a little older, a little greyer than he once was, his chest still milky white, freckled, and smooth. His gaze drifts up through thick lashes, and when his eyes meet mine, I reach out and gently smack his face. Not enough to sting or leave a mark, just enough to remind him of his place. He looks down to my feet again, takes the left into his hands, and resumes massaging it.

M squeezes my other foot, long fluid strokes up and down the arch. His long, dark curls are pulled back in a loose bun at the base of his tan neck. He keeps his eyes cast down, already knowing that’s where they belong.

I breathe deeply, my eyes fluttering closed, melting into the crimson velvet armchair in the middle of a candlelit room, letting myself sink into the sensations overwhelming me. The room is filled with every lover I’ve ever had. Ten hands roam over my body — J and M are at my feet, and the two men who share a name are on either side of me, massaging my arms and hands in unison. I notice the calloused fingertips from one and wonder if he still plays guitar.

The men whom I’d never allow their hands to touch my skin again are gagged on the edges of the room. Some kneel on the floor, their heads bowed. Others stand in Barbie pink stilettos and uniform black boxer briefs in the corners of the rooms holding silver platters full of glass bottles of massage oils. They click-clack over to us only when needed.

The first lover I ever had kneels between my legs and places his hands — one on top of the other — over the centre of my chest. He presses firmly as I exhale, and then begins to stroke my breasts in slow circles — up through the centre of my chest, finger-light touch across my collarbones, sweeping down the sides and around my back, every bit of tension leaving my body.

He takes my hand from the man on my right and guides my finger to trace his dark, swollen lips before taking it into his mouth and sucking. His tongue swirls around my finger and my pussy responds with a flutter. He guides my finger from his mouth, a strand of saliva connecting us, and then gently to my right nipple, circling it. His pupils dilate, he bites his bottom lip, and then he leans forward and takes my left nipple into his mouth. His teeth graze me, nibbling enough so that the hairs raise on my arms.

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As I do, my screen fills with my own face staring back at me. Not a mirrored image. A time machine that’s bent back 12 years. The face filling the screen is grainy, distorted through the fish-eyed lens of an old Go-Pro. Long hair falls over one shoulder, blonder than it is now. Blunt cut bangs are swept to the side. She sits on the edge of a queen-sized bed, light streaming in through the cracks in the shades covering the window behind her. A smile stretches across her whole face, crinkling her eyes that look past the camera to the person holding it.

She laughs with her whole body before he steps into frame with a grin that matches hers — and instead of sitting on the bed next to her, he pushes her back so she’s lying flat, moves so he’s hovering over her, brushes her hair behind her ear, and dives in.

Not gently. Not slowly. But consumes her as if she’s the air he needs to survive.

I’ve had my sex tape sitting in my inbox for almost 12 years. In that time, I’ve watched it twice.

Once back then, cringing hard at the imperfections — the way I didn’t know if I should make eye contact with the camera or him, the roundness of my belly in certain positions, the movements that felt good in real time but looked awkward when watching it back.

The second time was today.

I was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend earlier this week, who told me she’d found a sex tape from years ago that she’d recorded with an old lover. And instead of the cringe I felt when I watched mine the first time, her face lit up, she smiled, leaned forward conspiratorially, and said, “It was amazing.”

It wasn’t cinematic-porn quality. It wasn’t especially kinky. It probably had an equal amount of cringe to any amateur-made sex tape out there. But she wasn’t looking at the cringe. She was looking at the preservation of a moment — the light in her eyes, the shape of her body in its youth, the innocence in how she approached sex, the short-lived love between her and this man that became eternal by capturing it on camera.

It reminded me of Moira Rose’s advice to Stevie on an episode of Schitt’s Creek.

“Take a thousand naked pictures of yourself, now… Believe me, one day you will look at those photos with much kinder eyes and say, ‘Dear God, I was a beautiful thing.’ Oh, and make sure you submit those photos to the Internet, otherwise your own children will go looking for them one day, and tragically, they won’t be there.”

It’s true. Beauty is so much more vivid in retrospect, when the self-consciousness has eased and the cognitive clutter that has you analysing and in your head has dissipated. Imperfections seen in the moment completely disappear with time.

When it comes to how we view our bodies, it’s common to feel perpetually dissatisfied with what we see in the mirror — and yet, if we took a photo and showed it to ourselves five, ten, twenty, forty years from now, I bet we’d all sigh and say a collective, “Fuck, why didn’t I appreciate how beautiful I was in that moment?”

But making a sex tape isn’t just about capturing beauty or youth. Yes, it’s partly that, but it’s more than just capturing a still snapshot of the smoothness of your skin when it hasn’t yet aged from too much sun or been adorned with stretch marks. It’s capturing real-time footage of multiple moments pieced together when you were turned on, alive, and in a state of youthful exploration.

The way we approach pleasure changes as we age. Youth often has us indulging in pleasure that is fast, hard, urgent, all-consuming. Our hormones are at an all-time high, causing us to not only crave intensity, but to just crave more. Sex is laced with novelty, a platter of first experiences laid at our feet to devour.

As we grow older, our responsibilities grow, too. Stressors show up more often and spontaneous desire can feel out of reach. Sex becomes less about novelty and more about presence, emotional safety, fierce boundaries, and honouring our truest needs. If we “do the work,” we often become more aware of what we actually want versus what we thought we should.

We can look back on our youth and see ourselves as naive — as not yet knowing who we are or what we wanted — but we can also look at our youth through the lens of wonder. We can choose to see the beauty, not just in our bodies, but in our innocence. In the wide eyes that meet a new lover with a sense of awe. In the way we open our hearts before they’ve been broken, not yet fearing the possibility of pain. In the way we chase what feels good, let pleasure be all-consuming, lose ourselves in sensation without a second thought.

We can look back and remember what it felt like in that moment — to be wanted, desired, possibly even loved in the most soul-nourishing way, even if it’s not the same way in which we would choose to be wanted, desired, and loved now.

As I watch my own sex tape today, it’s not the technique that I’m happy I captured. It’s not even the act of sex itself.

The moment I keep rewatching is the one where he climbs behind me on the bed and we clumsily bump heads when I flip my hair back, and then we both dissolve into laughter. The sun streaming through the shades behind casts us in silhouette. He wraps his arm around my waist, plants a kiss to my tousled hair. I lean my head back on his shoulder, silent laughter filling the space.

That’s the moment that feels most intimate.

That’s the moment that transports me back to that day in that room.

To the way I felt wholly and completely loved and desired by that man.

To that version of this body that will never exist again.

And I absolutely adore her.

All that to say, make the sex tape. Keep it somewhere safe. Because you never know when it will serve as the perfect reminder of a moment that felt precious, a body that felt alive, and a version of you you’ll never get back.

I’ve worked as an expert in the sexuality industry for six of them.

And let me tell you what makes sex good. No, not just good — but time-stopping, mind-bending, toe-curling, whole-body-tingling-with-pleasure, don’t-stop, don’t-want-it-to-end, more-more-more, fuckkkkkk-that’s-good sex.

It’s not another sex tip.

It’s not learning a new technique.

It’s not more orgasms.

It’s not eye gazing or manifesting with sex magic and crystal dildos.

And it’s definitely not following a script written in a book or prescribed on a podcast by a person who isn’t here, in this moment, in this body, with you.

The kind of sex that makes the whole world shimmer in technicolour relies on presence.

Not just presence within yourself, but shared presence — arriving with another person, becoming so erotically aware of sensation in that very moment that everything else falls away and all that matters is the pursuit of pleasure. Chasing pleasure. Letting pleasure lead.

And here’s what I’ve learned after two decades of sex and six years inside the sexuality space: presence cannot be performed. It can’t be faked, intellectualised, or downloaded in a five-step framework.

There’s a big problem I see in the sexuality industry, and it’s becoming more problematic day by day. The internet is littered with sex coaches, pleasure mentors, and embodiment guides who are handing out scripts for better sex.

And yet, the mere act of following a script places you back in your mind. It pulls you out of sensation and back into the performance you’ve been trying to escape. It prioritises skill over being met and seen, over the essence of what your body and their body truly desires. It bypasses the very thing we need in order to be in our bodies at all.

You already have the skills you need — you don’t need another map to follow.

But presence isn’t something you “figure out.” It’s something you practice.

Most of us spend our days moving quickly, overriding sensation, editing ourselves before we’ve even heard what our bodies are asking for — and yet, we expect ourselves to suddenly become turned on and deeply connected to desire the moment we get naked.

Presence requires a different rhythm.

And one of the simplest ways I’ve found to shift into the rhythm of presence is writing.

Writing asks you to pause. To stay in one moment longer than your mind wants to. It turns sensation into language, memory into texture, fantasy into something you can actually feel in your skin and bones.

You begin to notice the heat in your chest when you recall a lingering touch. The way your body reacts to imagined desire before you’ve even decided what to “think” about it. The subtle difference between what you say you want and what actually turns you on.

Writing builds the muscle of attention. And attention is the foundation of presence.

If you’re wanting to evolve your sex life and expand your capacity for pleasure, I have something to offer to you.

Not a script. Not a technique. But a practice that brings you back to your own authority.

And it’s simple: write.

Write your memories.

Write your fantasies.

Write your desires.

Write what you wish had happened.

Write what you’ve never admitted that turns you on.

The practice of writing trains your attention. It asks you to stay with sensation rather than abandoning it. To linger long enough to hear what your body is actually saying underneath the noise.

It brings you back to your own erotic intelligence — not as an idea, but as something you can feel in your body, right now, in this moment.

That’s where presence lives. And presence is the very place you need to be in order to have your whole world rock.

So here’s your invitation:

I’ve created a free eBook called Write Yourself Turned On. It’s filled with erotic writing prompts that take you deeper into your desires, your memory, and your imagination — and back into your body while you write.

If you’re ready to stop following scripts and start listening to yourself, you can download it here.

You know what turns me on?
Making the world blink, 
speechless.

I’ve always been a thrill-seeker.
And the biggest thrill 
has always been listening 
to what the world tells me to do —
and doing the opposite.

Not stomping my feet,
dissolving into a mess of
tears on the floor,
but straightening my spine,
looking the world dead in the eye,
my lip curling, 
and saying,
you dare me?

The world wants me 
to be small.
Be a good girl, it says.
Cross your legs, 
smile and nod.
Do what you’re told
and like it.
Cover up, 
but don’t be a prude.
Bite your tongue, 
protect the peace.

But what about 
my own peace of mind
that needs me to live 
boldly,
loudly,
without apology?

Say sorry, the world says.
But it’s not in my vocabulary.

Fall in love,
get married,
have babies.
Be a good wife.
But the person I fall 
more deeply in love with 
each passing day 
is myself,
and why would I choose 
the straight linear path 
from point A to B 
when I can skip 
in zig-zags and curly-Q’s 
and moonwalk backwards 
while picking wildflowers? 
When I can make pit stops 
to splash like a mermaid in the sea, 
cook curry over campfires, 
and shake my naked ass 
under starlight?

Get a job, the world says.
Work 9-5 until you’re 65.
So I quit mine, 
bought a one-way ticket 
across the world, 
let languages I’d never heard 
become my lullaby, 
and never looked back.

Rise and grind, it says.
But my biggest kink 
is to ditch routine 
and listen to my own body, 
my cycle, 
the seasons, 
and the big beautiful moon 
waxing and waning 
and reminding me 
of what it means 
to live in a body 
with a womb 
that constantly 
births and dies 
and births and dies.

Be normal, blend in, it warns.
So I dress myself 
in head-to-toe tie-dye, 
make my life into a work of art 
that screams with colour, 
and sing songs about it — 
off-key, 
at the top of my lungs.

Be quiet, it says.
So I cackle loudly 
on the floor 
and let the world call me crazy 
until my laughter morphs to moans, 
and I wrap my arms around myself, 
kissing my own skin, 
feeling my own heartbeat.

Because this is the path 
the world always told me not to take, 
but it’s the one 
that makes my whole being 
pulse to life.

The slow-burn romances for the Energetic.

The prose that pulls at heart strings for the Sensual.

The stories of spicy, undeniable attraction for the Sexual.

The endless layers of taboo for the Kinky.

You can read it here.

Since sharing it, it made me think — if different types of stories, character dynamics, and relationship tropes have the ability to resonate more deeply with individuals based on their unique desires and how they communicate in bed, then why would it be any different in the stories we desire to tell?

This post is the sequel to last week’s.

Part one was for the readers.

Part two is for the writers. For the women in my world who are devoted to the pulse of Eros, pleasure, and the power of language and storytelling. For the ones who not only consume erotica, but desire to let erotica pour from their souls.

This post is to feed your ache to tell the stories that live within. To use writing to process the sexual experiences that have stayed with you. To excavate your deepest-rooted desires. And to write because it’s a source of turn-on for your own beautiful body.

Writing Prompts for every Erotic Blueprint

Energetic Blueprint

1. Write about the moment before. Before the kiss, before the touch, before you had sex for the first time. Describe the tension. What created it? What made the heat build? Describe where you felt the anticipation in your body — in the obvious parts and the not-so-obvious parts. What made the sensation stick with you longer than the sex itself?

2. Write a letter of seduction. To yourself, to a lover. Let your words cast spells. Let your voice tease. Say exactly what you want to do to them or to yourself. Describe the longing you feel in your gut and let the waiting be the juiciest part.

Sensual Blueprint

3. Close your eyes and choose one of your senses that isn’t physical sight — taste, touch, smell, sound. Bring to mind one of your most memorable sexual or romantic experiences, and write purely from the one sensation. Let your words be vivid. Let yourself feel it as you remember.

4. Paint a picture of an environment that immediately drops you fully into your body. A room, a place in nature, the energy of the space, the person who makes you feel safe. What details matter? What allows your breath to deepen, your body to soften, and your erotic pulse to come online?

Sexual Blueprint

5. Write about a moment when you felt instant chemistry. Describe the initial moments of attraction. How did your body respond? Did you give into the ache? Let yourself spill every delicious detail.

6. Write about a moment when you had sex that felt primal. Raw, messy, chaotic, not-so-sexy sex. The kind where instinct takes over. Where you don’t follow a linear start-to-finish arc. How did it feel in your body and what made it amazing?

Kinky Blueprint

7. Write about a time you desired something you weren’t “supposed to” have. A person who was off limits. A turn-on you were told wasn’t normal. A fantasy that breaks every rule.

8. Write about an erotic experience — real life or imagined — where you were utterly in control, or utterly at someone’s mercy.

Shapeshifter Blueprint

9. Write a list of ten things that have turned you on throughout your erotic life. Let your list be descriptive. Let it be poetic. Let it be raw and uncensored. Look for contradictions. Let it reveal the multitude of layers of who you are as an erotic being.

10. Write a how-to guide – to turning you on, to licking your pussy, to making you feel safe to open. Let it reflect your changing needs and desires throughout your cycle, seasons, or shifting moods. When do you crave tenderness? When do you crave intensity? What influences the shifts? Be specific.

Happy writing, my dear. Share your words on Substack and tag me if you dare. Comment one line that felt like it poured from your soul.

And if you want more, I have a free eBook you might love.

Write Yourself Turned On — full of erotic writing tips and more delicious prompts to make writing about sex a ritual, a devotion, and a prayer to your erotic psyche.

Download for free here. No strings attached.

Subscribe now

It doesn’t just make our hearts race and our pussies pulse, but it makes us feel seen. It reaches into our guts and touches something deep beneath the surface. It speaks to the desires we haven’t said out loud…

The desire to be wanted beyond reason.

The desire for safety, security, the one who will stay.

The desire to take risks, to do the thing the world tells you not to do.

Someone said to me the other day that men love porn because they’re more visually stimulated, and women love smut because it feeds the feminine need for sensual anticipation.

And it made me think — yes, porn and smut satisfy different needs for different people, but it’s not about gender. It’s less about “what men like” vs. “what women like,” and more about what makes each individual come alive.

What makes our hearts race and our muscles melt at the same time.

What brings heat to our skin and creates a sense of yearning in our cores.

We’re all designed differently.

We all desire differently.

It’s not about gender.

It’s about the language you speak in intimacy.

The Erotic Blueprints and Smut

The Erotic Blueprints framework, created by Somatic Sexologist Jaiya, is all about finding your unique erotic language. Like Love Languages that demonstrate how we give, receive, and perceive love, the Erotic Blueprints give us insight into what turns us on and off in the bedroom — and how to play into our superpowers (the things that create sexy contexts) and work through our shadows (the things that can totally take us out of the mood) to have more delicious sex.

But let’s look at it through the lens of what we’re reading…

Because there’s smut out there for every Erotic Blueprint, and if you find the trope, genre, and storylines that speak your language, it won’t just turn you on — it will reveal you to yourself a little more clearly. What you crave, how you soften, what pulls you in and makes your whole body come alive.

You’ll feel met. And when you feel met, you feel differently inside intimacy itself.

Energetic Blueprint

Energetic Blueprints are turned on by the build up. Anticipation. Tease. The kind of sex you crave starts 12 hours before you’re even touched when they send you a naughty text in the middle of the day that makes you bite your lower lip. You melt at lingering touches — the way your lover reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear, lets their hand rest at the small of your back while they play with the waistband of your jeans, reaches out to trace circles up your inner thigh under the table while you’re out to dinner.

You love foreplay. Kissing for hours until your body is writhing against theirs. You open to soft, slow, barely-there strokes that raise goosebumps on your skin. Your biggest turn-off is too much, too fast. And when it comes to books — the hottest chapter is the one before they finally get together.

What you’ll love to read… Slow-burn romances that make you ache. Friends-to-lovers and will-they-won’t-they tropes. Forbidden attraction. Tension so thick you can barely stand it.

What to avoid… Instant attraction without emotional connection. Stories where sex happens in the first chapter.

Suggested smut… Call Me By Your Name by Andre Aciman, The Ex Talk by Rachel Lynn Solomon, Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating by Christina Lauren

Sensual Blueprint

Sensual Blueprints are turned on through their senses. Not just through lush visuals or languid touch, but through taste, sound, smell. Your environment is everything, your attention to detail is your superpower. You crave the perfect sultry playlist depending on your mood — Cigarettes After Sex when you want slow love-making, or Two Feet when you want to channel your inner seductress.

Your body responds to candlelight, fairy light, and the ylang ylang oil applied to your wrists. Your whole being softens from a full-body massage, heat builds between your thighs when you taste the tingle of their toothpaste or lick salted caramel lube from their nipples. Your foreplay is atmosphere. Your nightmare is a cold room, bad breath, sterile lighting, and dirty socks in the corner of the room.

What you’ll love to read… Lush writing that awakens your senses — you can taste the wine, smell the cologne, feel the silk sheets against your skin. Stories with rich scene setting and beautiful prose. Characters you fall in love with and worlds you can disappear into.

What to avoid… Writing that relies on cliches, generic sex scenes, and repetitive descriptions. Books that feel rushed or purely plot-driven.

Suggested reading… Honey and Spice by Bolu Babalola, ACOTAR series by Sara J Maas, The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller, Baptized By Her Touch by Christopher Sexton

Sexual Blueprint

Sexual Blueprints are turned on by visuals. Penetration. Naked bodies. Good, hard fucking. Anything our culture associates with sex. Your turn-on is the most easily accessible of all blueprints — it’s always within reach, and you can be ready to go most times, most places, as long as there’s chemistry and attraction.

For you, sex is a healing balm. It’s the medicine you need to relieve stress and pain. You don’t need to be relaxed or to create the perfect context to get in the mood because the act of sex itself is the very thing that eases the tension in your muscles and makes you melt.

What you’ll love to read… NSFW smut. High spice. Strong physical attraction. Confident, sexually expressive characters. Stories where desire is obvious, chemistry is immediate, and sex is woven throughout the plot rather than saved as a reward at the end.

What to avoid… Ultra slow-burn romances. Hundreds of pages that circle attraction without action.

Suggested reading… Salacious Players’ Club series by Sara Cate, Beautiful Bastard series by Christina Lauren, Steel Brothers Saga series by Helen Hardt

Kinky Blueprint

Kinky Blueprints are turned on by sex that isn’t considered “normal” to you. You might love to sink into subspace, experiment with pain, whip out the latex, leather, handcuffs, and blindfolds — but you don’t have to be into BDSM to be kinky.

At your core, you’re a rule-breaker. A rebel. You’re turned on by doing the thing you’re not supposed to do — whether that’s playing with power dynamics, exploring sex outside the confines of monogamy, or fucking in the woods. And the best part? Sex is your portal for endless avenues to play — with expression, testing your limits, and noticing how you respond both physically and psychologically to new taboo contexts.

What you’ll love to read… Stories that play with power, taboo, and rule-breaking. Age gaps. Forbidden attraction. Enemies-to-lovers. Queer romances. Power dynamics. Voyeurism. Praise. Restraint. Non-monogamy. Secret affairs. Characters who push boundaries and discover something about themselves in the process.

What to avoid… Sweet, predictable meet-cutes. Stories that follow a familiar script of falling in love, making love, getting married, and having babies.

Suggested reading… For the Fans by Nyla K, Priest series by Sierra Simone, Morning Glory Milking Farm by CM Nascosta, Wild Seasons series by Christina Lauren

Shapeshifter Blueprint

Shapeshifter Blueprints are turned on by it all. You want the tease and the perfectly curated space for lovemaking. You want it slow and fast and hard and tender. You want missionary — and maybe you also want to role play that your lover is your cousin. You love giving head just as much as you love receiving it.

You’re fluent in every language, anticipating the needs of everyone you’re intimate with, claiming the title as the Ultimate Lover. But you’re also cyclical, your own desires changing day-to-day depending on the season, your mood, and what’s happening in your internal world. Your desire is fluid. Your reading is, too.

What you’ll love to read… Everything. Choose books that shift gears. Move between the slow-burns and instant chemistry depending on your mood. Some days you’ll want tenderness and emotional depth, other days you’ll want filth, heat, and zero restraint — depending on your state, your cycle, and your energy that day.

What to avoid… Anything one-note. Stories that are only slow-burn without payoff, or only spice with no emotional grounding. Predictability in tone or pacing.

Suggested reading… All of the above. Follow your desire. Let your mood choose for you.

What’s on your nightstand?

Smut isn’t just for women. Porn isn’t just for men. It’s more about the story you’re drawn to.

And the ones that pull you in? They aren’t random.

They’re a map — of what wakes you up, what softens you, and what you desire at your core when you want to feel a little more alive in your skin.

Same Time Stories is just that — writers from all over the world dropping in at the same time on the same day to share spicy stories. Not the same story, but stories inspired by the hour.

Readers dropping in to devour them together.

This month, the time is 5:23pm.

It’s somewhere between happy hour and rush hour. Not quite veiled by the darkness of night. Not yet time to climb into bed and turn out the lights, but ready for down time. Play time.

This story is inspired by that.

Hey baby whatcha up to?

I swipe open the text from my husband and tap out a reply. Just at work, I’m closing tonight. How’s your day going?

On my way home. I just cancelled the rest of tonight’s lessons.

I walk from the front desk of the spa and open the frosted sliding glass door. The sky is dark already despite it only being late afternoon. Storm clouds gather overhead and the first fat wet raindrops fall lazily on the hot pavement in the parking lot. It’s the one downside to his job as a tennis coach — work is always weather-dependent.

It’s been unusually quiet during my shift today, but I suppose it’s not too unusual when there’s a storm looming. No one wants to come in for a sauna when it’s 40 degrees Celsius and they have to drive in torrential rain. The massage therapists have left for the day. I check my phone and it’s just after 5pm. Four more hours of my shift, and I’m working solo.

Wanna stop in on your way home? I hit send.

What for?

You know what for. The wink is implied.

I’ll be there soon.

I pour myself a cup of cinnamon hibiscus tea from the relaxation space and circle back to my seat at the front desk. As I take the first sip, wiggling the mouse to wake up my desktop screen, the front door slides open and one of our regular clients walks in.

‘Any chance you have a free sauna? I haven’t booked.’

‘No worries,’ I smile at him. ‘I can get you in now if you’d like.’

I walk him to the back of the spa, grab him a pitcher of ice water and two towels, and set the 30 minute timer on his sauna.

‘Enjoy!’ I say as I close the door to his private room.

When I walk back down the hall to reception, my husband is there, dark patches sprinkled over the shoulders of his maroon t-shirt from the rain now pattering heavily outside. He combs his fingers through wet hair and smiles at me.

‘Hey, baby,’ I say as I walk over to him, standing on my tip toes to kiss him. His salt and pepper beard brushes my lips as he wraps his arms around me and whispers, ‘Is anyone here?’

‘Just one guy in the sauna. He just went in.’

I walk to the desktop and refresh the booking calendar again. It’s 5:23pm.

‘We have about 20 minutes before he comes out, and no one else is booked in until 7pm.’

He grins at me. ‘What did you have in mind?’

I wrap his warm hand in mine and pull him down the hallway to the vault. When they renovated this building and opened a spa three years ago, the owners kept the old bank vault as a storage room. It’s filled with shelves of towels, herbal teas, and massage oils, along with two plush grey armchairs in the corner for the staff to chill out during their breaks.

I close the door behind us, leaving it cracked just enough to hear movement outside, and lead him to the corner of the vault. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet my lips, and kiss him exactly the way I know he likes it — softly at first, before sucking on his bottom lip and coaxing his mouth open. Not too much tongue, just enough to dip out and lick before nibbling enough to elicit a moan.

I trail down his neck, scraping my nails against his chest, feeling his pecks through his drying t-shirt. When my hands drift down to rest on his hips, I lower myself into the armchair behind me. I look up at him sweetly, even though the last thing on my mind is anything but sweet. His pupils dilate.

‘Take off your pants,’ I tell him.

And without words, he does. He pulls his athletic shorts down to below his butt cheeks and his already-hard cock springs out.

‘You want me to lick it, baby?’ I ask, but I’m already reaching for it, cupping the weight of his balls in one hand, wrapping my fingers around the base of him with the other as he nods quickly.

Just like the kiss, I stroke him softly at first. Fingers teasing his balls, my hot breath landing on his skin, the sensation causing him to grow harder, a bead of pre-cum forming on his tip.

My tongue dips out of my mouth to taste it, and he groans.

‘Shhhh,’ I tell him as I giggle quietly.

‘Please suck it, baby,’ he begs.

I lick him — from the base up to the head — in one long stroke, but instead of sucking him, I lick it again. And again. And again. My mouth waters. I look up at him and his mouth forms a silent O, his eyebrows crease, and he watches me intently.

I lick up the length of him once more before wrapping my lips around his head, wetting him, taking him deeper into my mouth. I let my tongue tease, flicking his tip, circling his head, licking and lapping like I’m devouring a chocolate ice cream cone.

‘That feels so good, baby,’ his words scrape out like gravel.

And at the praise, my pussy pulses. I take him all the way in, moaning quietly as I do, letting the vibrations in my throat unravel him. He gasps and thrusts into my mouth, shoving against the back of my throat until I gag.

But the gag turns into a laugh. I love it. I take in more of him, gagging again, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. He thrusts into my throat, my nose runs. Saliva pours from my lips onto the linoleum floor between us.

‘Fuckkkkk that’s so hot,’ he drags out.

I come up for air, stroking my hand up and down the length of him, circling my palm over his head, massaging his balls. Kissing, licking, nipping him. He starts to thrust into me faster, his hips jerking involuntarily. And I ease off.

I move between long, slow strokes and taking him all the way back into my throat until I’m gagging and drooling again — the puddle between us growing bigger and wetter. I speed up, and then slow down. His eyes roll backward. His lashes flutter. I speed up once more, my hand wrapped around him, slippery and slapping and pulling him over the edge.

‘I’m gonna come, baby,’ he groans.

So I wrap my lips around him again and suck his orgasm out of him, moaning as it slides, warm, down my throat.

One pulse. Two. Three. I swallow again. Kiss the tip of him. Lick my lips.

‘Yum.’

He chuckles.

I stand and press my lips to his, letting him taste himself, before grabbing a spare towel to dry him and the floor.

And then — the click of the sauna door.

‘Stay here,’ I tell my husband, leaving him in the vault as I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, drying my own lips, and hurry back to reception.

Our regular walks down the hall to the front desk, his face flushed and hair slick with sweat.

‘How was it?’ I ask.

He looks up at me, meets my eyes, and smiles. ‘Yea, it was hot.’

Writing erotica often feels like therapy.

Yes, it can make our pussies and skin tingle with aliveness, but more than that, it’s a way to remember.

To remember who we are, what we want, the moments that have made us come alive.

It’s a way to process our erotic experiences, make sense of the ones that have shaped us, bring language to our desires.

If you’re turned on by words and want to explore erotic writing, I invite you to download my free eBook — Write Yourself Turned On.

It’s filled with writing tips and prompts to dip your toes into writing erotica as a ritual and a practice of integrating your Eros. No catch, just a little gift from me to you.

Slowly, it has morphed into something so much bigger. As a Sex Educator, I desired to create a platform for musings of every flavour on female pleasure and desire, and that is exactly what you’ll find here.

But some days, it is absolutely vital to come back to source. To the erotic art at the heart of it all.

During the first week of each month, erotic writers all over the world have been sharing their art for Smut Stroll. Pouring their hearts out, sharing their stories, celebrating one another.

This is what’s alive for me today. Grab your morning cuppa, find a spot in a sunbeam, and sink in.

When did we decide sex 
had to happen in the dark?
Lights off, 
under the covers, 
hushed as the world falls asleep. 
Draped in shadows, 
as if the act itself doesn’t deserve 
to be seen in the light.

I don’t want to make love in the shadows. 
I want it as the sun kisses the horizon.

I want to feel him wrap his arms around me 
when I’m still in a half-dream state, 
his cock pressed to me 
as warm sunshine engulfs me 
and my eyes flutter open. 
I want to feel his breath on my neck, 
his chest pressed to my back, 
his lips softly grazing my earlobe. 

I want it to be the first thing I feel, 
his need for me – 
right here, right now – 
I want the first thing I hear to be 
the ‘good morning’ laced with gravel 
before he rumbles a groan 
into my unbrushed hair.

Why wait until the day is done 
and we’re dragging our feet, 
bone aching tired, 
when you can wrap me in your warmth 
and slide into me 
lavishly, languidly, 
sending little sparks of electric pulses 
to every crevice of our beings 
before we’ve wiped sleep from our eyes 
or brushed our teeth?

I want to make love in the morning, 
before my thinking-brain has switched on 
and my only way to be is through 
feeling. 

I want to feel him, 
his fingers taking their time, 
teasing circles up my inner thighs, 
landing between my legs, 
strumming my clit 
like the strings of his guitar, 
as his cock slips between my legs,
and we bathe in the golden glow of sunrise.

I want to make love in the morning – 
messy, raw, unhurried. 
With wild hair, 
morning breath, 
and a softness to how I hold myself, 
not yet bracing. 
Without makeup, 
every imperfection 
visible in the morning light. 
Not yet conscious of 
sucking it in, covering it up. 
Where performance doesn’t exist 
and I’m wanted beyond all else.

I want to feel him 
moving inside me, 
my pulse racing, 
waves of ecstasy 
rolling through my entire being 
before I roll out of bed. 

I want skin slapping skin, 
sweat squelching, 
and uncensored pleasure 
rumbling up through our throats 
to be the music that lulls us into the day. 

I want to come 
once, 
twice,
three times 
before I look at myself in the mirror.

Because when I do, 
I want to see 
a well-fucked woman. 

The wild hair, 
the sleep still in my eyes, 
the naked face, 
the flushed skin. 
The glow. 
Not just from the rising sun, 
but from being felt, 
being seen, 
being wanted, 
and being ravished 
before the day has begun.

It felt too raw, too vulnerable.

Earlier this year, I facilitated an erotic writing workshop. It was the end of March on the Autumn Equinox when we shift into darker days and feel the urge to harvest the last seeds of summer and cut away what weighs heavy on us. In the spirit of the season, I invited the women in the room to…

And what poured out of me to my very own prompt surprised me.

I used to get off on being looked at. At 20 years old, every weekend I’d stand in front of my bathroom mirror, looking myself up and down before throwing back seven shots. I’d squeeze myself into a sequinned mini skirt that barely covered the curves where my bum reached my legs. A hot pink pushup bra with cheetah print straps peeking through a sheer top. Forest green eyeliner brushed over the top lid of my blue-grey eyes, making them appear more grey than blue. My bleach blonde hair straightened to perfection, even though it was naturally pin-straight. Black booty heels that brought me to eye-level with the boys.

But they were never looking at my eyes. Their gazes always drifted down to my hot pink bra that was blatantly visible through the sheer fabric of my top. And I liked it.

I used to brag that I never went home alone. I also never went home sober.

I wanted all eyes on me, but only with a blanket of whiskey sours. Liquid courage, they called it. But it was insecurity — feeling not-good-enough — dressed up like confidence. It was me feeling like I had nothing to give if I wasn’t pretty — but more than pretty — sexy, seductive. I wanted to surprise them, let them bite into my sweet exterior and taste fire. I wanted them hooked on me like a drug. I wanted to be wanted.

Here’s the thing about free writing — raw, uncensored, following your stream of consciousness to wherever it wants to take you: it very often takes you to places within your psyche that you didn’t mean to go. Perhaps to places you didn’t even know existed.

When I shared what I’d written with the women in the room, I heard my own words echoed back at me.

I always knew I drank a lot in my uni days. I never thought I had a problem. When I touched pen to paper, I knew my body had long outgrown the need to fit into an aesthetic of beauty to be wanted. What I didn’t realize until my words revealed it to me is that there were layers of insecurity and sorrow held deeply for using alcohol as a crutch to connect.

If I continued writing to this prompt, I would probably say…

Being wanted isn’t the same thing as being desired. It isn’t the same thing as being seen.

Being wanted looked like too many sloppy, drunken kisses in bars, stumbling home with strangers who’d gaze at me with lustful eyes when I sank to my knees, but never asked me what I wanted. It was a blur of crossed boundaries that I didn’t know were crossed boundaries. It was walking home in last night’s clothes with my shoulders back, brushing off judgmental looks and plastering a smile on my face as I wiped smudged eyeliner from the swollen bags under my eyes, telling myself this wasn’t a Walk of Shame.

I liked that I’d spent another night tangled in someone else’s bed sheets, that I had another number to add to my list. It felt like an accomplishment. But my pussy chafed, and when I sank into my shower to wash off a stranger’s sweat and the alcohol seeping out of my pores, my fingers drifted between my legs and I finally found satisfaction.

The women in the room asked me, when did it change? Where was the turning point?

When did I no longer feel the need to dull my senses with alcohol?

When did I outgrow the need to be lusted after?

It was when I was finally seen.

I didn’t drink until I was 18, so my first first kiss at 16 years old was the only one I’d had sober. My first fucks with new lovers were always a blur. Some were good, some were mediocre, some I regretted, but I didn’t know what I was really missing. Not until I met him.

I don’t remember the first time we fell into bed together. Only that I woke up the next morning, warm in his cotton t-shirt and last night’s makeup. That I asked him if we’d ‘done it,’ and he kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Of course not. I want you to remember the first time.’

It should have been a non-negotiable. But at the time, I didn’t know it needed to be.

He was the first guy I ever said ‘no’ to. Not because I didn’t want him, not to reject, but because my body wasn’t ready.

We were back in his room, in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. Studying moved from the desk to the bed, from vertical to horizontal, and then books were forgotten as clothes peeled away. When he rolled on top of me and I asked him to get a condom, he paused. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I told him before actually listening to myself. And yet when he nudged himself against me, my body tensed, pleasure dissipated, and my ‘yes’ turned to a ‘no.’

‘We don’t have to rush,’ he told me. And it was the first time any guy had said it to me. The first time I hadn’t pushed through the discomfort to please. The first time I actually had another person acknowledge what my body wanted and put that above what he wanted.

It should have been a non-negotiable. But at the time, I didn’t know it needed to be.

The first time we had sex, I didn’t need a mini skirt or a face painted with makeup because he made me feel more beautiful with a messy bun and maroon sweatpants with our university logo scrawled down the leg. I didn’t need to plaster on a fake smile or sink to my knees just to please him — I only sank to my knees after he sank to his and worshiped my body like the queen he believed me to be. I didn’t need a drink because I was high on the sensation of his skin hot against mine.

My relationship with him was two years of rewiring my nervous system to feel safe — not only to a man’s touch, but to his gaze. Yes, he looked at me with lust, but it was more than that. He was seeing me, beneath the insecurities, beneath the masks, demanding they be peeled away and burned in the fire.

I recently saw someone share a Note on Substack that said something like, ‘If what turned you on at 20 doesn’t embarrass you at 40, then you’re doing it wrong.’

And while I believe wholly, completely in the evolution of our sexuality — as our bodies change, as we learn more about our desires, as we grow older and wiser and discover what we want and what we no longer will settle for — I also believe every single sexual experience we have is valuable.

Every sexual experience we have — even the ones that make us cringe, the ones that make us blush, the ones we want to forget — shapes who we are as sexual beings. They don’t define us, but they are part of our story, part of our evolution, teaching us what we want and need and crave and desire, as well as what we’ve outgrown.

And telling those stories are the key to integrating every layer of our erotic psyches, including the ones we’ve outgrown.

I almost didn’t post this.

A part of me didn’t want to admit that I spent so many years cut off from sensation, cut off from my own needs, buried in insecurities. But it taught me something crucial:

Being wanted is not the same thing as being seen. And being seen is everything.

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There is power in telling your story.

In scribbling it down on lined paper tucked into your nightstand, for only you to see.

But also in sharing it — with a friend, a lover, a group of other women who will ask you the questions you haven’t yet asked yourself, encouraging you to go deeper, revealing to you where you’ve grown.

If you want to go deeper into your own erotic writing practice, not just solo but in a group of like-minded women, I have two ways we can do that together.

• Hop on the waitlist for next term of Sultry Storytellers, my signature program where we use erotic stories as a portal to excavate our most deeply held desires — we’ll read erotica, write our own, and explore the somatic stories within us.

• If you’re in Brisbane, join me at the next Soma & Smut erotic writing workshop where I’ll take you through this very process. Saturday 6th of June. Tickets available here.

Last week, I wrote an article about pleasure trends that are all over the internet that could actually be creating unconscious shame narratives — and offered an alternative perspective: encouraging every woman to question what someone tells you is “good” or “bad” when it comes to sex, and to let your body’s desires trump any pleasure advice out there.

And this landed in the comments —

“The real question your article is circling but not landing on: why does a woman need permission from anyone - spiritual or secular - to know what she likes? The fact that this article needs to exist is the problem. Not the yoni egg. Not the vibrator. The fact that women are still reading articles to find out if their own arousal is acceptable.”

But there are two pieces this perspective misses.

The first — permission is often exactly what women need when they’re in the early stages of discovering what turns them on. Especially if what turns them on is outside of the prescribed script of PIV intercourse in a monogamous relationship.

Female sexuality has been demonized for centuries. Most of us didn’t grow up learning how to listen to our desires. We grew up learning how to question it, to second-guess the things that turn us on. To wonder if what makes our bodies come alive is too much, too weird, too slutty, too “wrong.”

And most women don’t move from shame, confusion, or years of conditioning straight into full self-trust in their bodies. If you’ve managed to do that overnight? Show us your ways.

Instead, most women need a bridge.

We need to hear someone name exactly what we feel — that I actually love my vibrator and it didn’t de-sensitize my clit or ruin my sex life.

We need our own desires normalized — whether it’s the ache for more slow, drawn-out sex where you lose track of time, a fantasy about your partner’s best friend watching from the corner of the room, or the moment your body goes soft and electric at the thought of being pinned down and completely taken over.

Sometimes the permission slip is exactly what we seek because it allows the body to soften around something it was braced against, something it was taught to shut down.

What happens when we receive that?

We start to trust ourselves.

The chest softens. The mind quiets — no longer second-guessing and asking is this okay? Our bodies begin to lean toward what feels good without hesitation. Our hands drift to where they want to go. We start to hear our inner yes more clearly, letting that be enough without negotiation.

And at the beginning, that self-trust is everything.

The second thing this commenter missed — when women are encouraged to question what is true for them, rather than looking for external validation about what turns them on, that is no longer permission granting. That is empowerment.

And this is where I sit in the pleasure realm.

Rather than handing out permission slips, I’m walking with women who are unwinding years of conditioning around desire to pave their own path, reminding each of you to ask yourself…

• Does this turn me on?

• Does my body want this, or do I feel like I’m performing a version of sexual liberation?

• Would I even want the yoni egg, the eye gazing, or the cervical orgasms if no one ever told me it was what the Sexually Liberated Woman was “supposed to” want?

• If I hadn’t seen it on Instagram, would I even be questioning it?

You still get to learn. To be inspired. To open your mind to new edges of pleasure. But nothing gets to override your own body’s wisdom and desires.

There’s nothing wrong with needing or wanting a permission slip, but it’s not the destination either. If you ever find yourself relying on someone else’s perspective to validate what your pussy craves, pause. Breathe. And remember — you already know what is true for you.

You don’t need permission to want what you want, or to be turned on in ways that make your body tingle with aliveness.

You don’t need permission to have sex that stops time, shatters the walls you’ve built around your heart, and makes you melt into a puddle of sticky honey at your lover’s touch.

You just need to back yourself — and own the fuck out of your desires.

It wasn’t fancy. It was long and straight and wide enough to fill me, but not big enough to overwhelm. It didn’t have a variety of settings that could mimic sucking my clit or vibrations in waves. It was on or off, in or out.

And honestly? I loved it.

There was nothing wrong with my sex life before the debut of my vibrator. Hands had always been enough. Orgasms made a regular appearance. I was sexually explorative in my relationships.

But the first time I placed the Barbie pink silicone between my legs and switched it on, fireworks crackled under my skin at the intense sensation I’d never felt before.

It wasn’t an everyday thing, but she made an appearance on the days when I wanted a quick release, when I wanted to be filled by more than just my fingers.

She came out to play when I was living ten thousand miles away from my partner and sex only happened on Skype or through late night phone calls whispered under the covers. And when we moved in together, I always felt my pussy flutter when he’d quirk an eyebrow at me in bed and tell me to grab her, when those delicious vibrations came from his hand — over my nipples, teasing my ticklish spot of my lower abdomen, and finally landing between my legs. Sometimes I’d tease his skin, too, and watch him squirm as we played with sensation that just felt different.

One day, I came home from a wellness expo with a shiny new rose quartz yoni egg. I took it out of the bag, opened up my nightstand drawer, nestled her in a safe spot – and I grabbed my Barbie pink vibrator and threw it in the trash.

The sexual wellness space claims to empower women in their bodies. And yet, something I witness on a daily basis are pleasure trends that actually create a shame narrative and strip women of their autonomy to choose what works for them.

I’ve worked as a Sex Educator for five years with the mission to normalize every desire, turn-on, relationship dynamic — from those society deems “normal” to the most taboo. And one thing I want every woman to know is that when it comes to sex, there is never a script you need to follow. There isn’t a secret formula that will up-level your sex life.

I wish someone had told me my vibrator and my yoni egg could have spooned in my bedside drawer.

And if you’ve ever felt yourself wanting something the pleasure industry tells you you shouldn’t, this is what I want you to know instead…

You don’t have to ditch your vibrators for crystals.

The pleasure industry warns against vibrator use. It’s all ‘ditch your vibrator for slow sex only.’ And while a huge part of my work focuses on the importance of slowing down pleasure and exploring hands-on touch, vibrators can also be an important tool for accessing turn-on in our bodies.

They can give us quick access to pleasure and orgasm, and sometimes that’s a good thing — if you’re short on time, if you’re stressed and have difficulty dropping in but want the release of an orgasm (the best stress reliever!), if you have period pain (also the best pain reliever!), or simply if you want to explore a different type of sensation in your body. You can play with them in solo or partnered sex — not as a way to avoid hands-on touch, but as a way to bring a sense of play into sensation. Afterall, they’re called ‘toys’ for a reason.

Of course, if you rely too heavily on vibrators, they can become a crutch. They can lead to desensitization if used too frequently, and we can become reliant on them for pleasure and orgasm. But if you’re using them in a balanced way? They can actually enhance your experience of pleasure.

Not all porn is bad.

Porn gets a bad rap in the sexual wellness world. And honestly, there is a lot of porn out there that focuses on picture-perfect bodies and unrealistic sex — the kind that makes penetration and orgasm the whole point, the kind that is performative over pleasure-centred. This is problematic, especially if this is the main source of how we learn about sex.

But no one is talking about good porn. The porn that shows real bodies, real sex. The porn that is created by women, for women. Porn with a storyline, relationship development, voiced boundaries, mutual respect. It can still be hot. It can still be kinky. But rather than distorting our views on sex, it can be a tool to turn us on and expand our knowledge of our desires. And anything that does that is never inherently bad. You just need to find the right porn and use it in a balanced way.

If you want a recommendation, I love Erika Lust.

Your body can be a temple and you can have casual sex.

You don’t need to be celibate to call in the perfect lover. You don’t need to save yourself for one person to have sex that feels transcendent. You don’t need to stop having casual sex to be empowered. Of course, if you want to — like, really want to, not just want to because someone told you you should — then go for it. The beauty of sexual autonomy is that you get to choose. You don’t have to be a ‘yes’ to everything to be sexually liberated, you just need to know what is true for your body and your desires.

But for the women out there who love having sex — lots of it, with lots of different people — just know that you can still do that while also treating your body as a temple. You get to choose who you let in.

Your kinkiest fantasies — including the ones that blur boundaries — should always be explored.

Have you ever found yourself lost in a smutty book, your pulse racing, your panties wet, and thought, why is this turning me on? Perhaps it was a relationship dynamic that would make you uncomfortable in real life — the priest and his parishioner, the step-siblings, the young girl dating her professor who has 30 years on her. Perhaps there are blurred boundaries — sex that seems forced, infidelity, power dynamics that just don’t sit right — and yet, your body responds in a way you don’t expect. Perhaps your fingers drift between your legs.

Here’s the thing: what you explore in your imagination never has to mean you would enjoy it in real life, and it doesn’t have to match your real-life values. Often, fantasy is the best place to explore the kinkiest taboos, especially the ones with ethical question marks, because stories are symbolic. They’re less about literal wanting and more about a deeper emotional texture. Allowing your body to respond in any way it wants can actually create a sense of physiological safety, reaffirming that it’s okay to feel rather than suppress.

Wanting to be desired isn’t anti-feminist.

Women have been objectified for centuries, taught that our bodies are for men — to look at, to use, to satisfy their own pleasure. We’re often told that to stand in our power, we need validation only from within ourselves. That self-love is the most important kind of love, and if we have that, nothing else matters. And it’s true — the most powerful women don’t need external validation.

But needing and wanting are two separate things. You are allowed to want to be desired, craved, admired, devoured. You are allowed to want to be consensually objectified — because sometimes consciously enjoying being seen in this way can spark your Eros. It doesn’t mean you lack self-worth or that you’re insecure. It doesn’t strip you of your autonomy. There’s a difference between outsourcing your worth to external attention and enjoying the feeling of being seen.

Pleasure trends are never black and white. And if you ever find yourself being told to ditch something that genuinely turns you on, take a breath and question it.

If it turns you on and expands your experience of pleasure, that trumps any pleasure trend out there. So nestle it somewhere safe in your nightstand drawer, or parade it around for the world to see. Whatever feels truest for you.

He has this thing where he acts like balance is an alien concept. He’s 1,000% in or he’s 1,000% out. There’s no middle ground. Sometimes I look at him with Sponge Bob heart eyes in admiration of his dedication to every single thing he says he’s going to do — whether it’s licking my pussy or running a successful multi-six-figure business. Other times, he drives me absolutely insane.

His latest obsession: the gym.

Two months ago, I made the mistake of triggering a health kick. This is a man who plays and coaches sport for a living, but the only way I’ve ever gotten him to eat a salad is by drowning greens in truffle balsamic vinaigrette that he wants to drink straight from the bottle. When I suggested joining a gym together, I had visions of getting healthy, getting strong, and getting high on endorphins that would naturally ripple into the bedroom.

I wanted to feel my best. I wanted him to feel his best, too. The goal was never to lose the jiggle of my ass. It was to sweat, to regain my energy and stamina.

But for him… it was to lose X kilos and have a six-pack by Easter.

He gave himself ten weeks to cut, shred, throw around metal, or whatever Gym Guys do. From the moment he signed his six-month World Gym contract, Gym became his whole personality.

For two months, I’ve received daily lunchtime updates about his workouts.

I’ve felt my eyes glaze over too many times when he excitedly explains the Excel spreadsheet he’s made to track every calorie, carb, and whatever else Gym Guys like to track.

I’m lulled to sleep at night by ramblings about protein.

One day, I caught myself scrolling absentmindedly while he droned on about the health benefits of creatine, and a post caught my eye.

A new study found that nearly 75% of single women say they’d rather date a guy with a softer, approachable physique than a chiseled, rock-hard gym body. Why?

Because while six-pack abs might look good in a mirror, they also scream “high maintenance,” too much time at the gym, too little time for pizza, naps, or spontaneous adventures.

My eyes peeled up from the glow of my phone screen and met his.

“Creatine,” he nodded with enthusiasm. “You really gotta try it.”

And I laughed. Because I totally got it.

I’ve never been one to go for the Gym Guy. Not because I don’t appreciate a strong man who can toss me around, but because there are a few things I love a lot more than protein and chest presses.

I love being wined and dined. If you want into my pants, book a table at the best Italian restaurant. Order us amaretto sours to quench our appetites. Split the extra appetizer with me. I want the beef carpaccio that melts in your mouth and the creamy burrata with homemade focaccia. Fill me with homemade pesto tortellini and Chianti that reminds me of the semester I studied in Italy. Then tiramisu, with two spoons. Kiss me with cocoa, cream, and coffee still lingering on your tongue.

I love Sundays spent in bed, wrapped in your arms until 10am — dozing in and out of sleep, your lips tasting every inch of my skin before we’ve brushed our teeth. We can still sweat, but perhaps we can do it without the blaring alarm, stuffing ourselves into spandex, and the aroma of antibacterial spray wafting around us. Perhaps you ditch the gym after and take me to the ocean instead — to swim and bake and melt and get a second dose of vitamin D.

I love when you lick salted caramel lube off my nipples without counting calories. I love the moments when you look at me like you’re obsessed with me the way you’re obsessed with that spreadsheet, but with a lot less structure and a lot more tongue. I love being the thing that pulls you out of the routine, not something you try to fit inside it.

It’s no secret that women are told from the moment they’re old enough to comprehend language that importance is placed on beauty. But I think men feel it, too — the societal pressure to look good. To have the muscles, the chiseled jaw, the 6% body fat.

Yet when I hit the gym and let my eyes wander, the men I’m attracted to most aren’t the ones with the biggest biceps. They’re the ones who walk with their shoulders back, their chins up. The ones with a smile on their faces in between sets. The ones who ooze confidence.

Because attraction has never been about how hot you are — it’s always been about how comfortable you are in your own skin.

It’s about feeling your best.

It’s about enjoying your life while you’re actually living it.

It’s about rebelling against the system that tells you everything is about the aesthetic, and doing it your way instead.

And yes, it’s about that alien concept of balance — holding the duality of being strong and soft at the same time.

I’ve always told my husband I’m most attracted to him in winter — and even now, in the middle of his gym obsession, I still stand by it. Not because he’s covered up, but because he’s soft, warm, unhurried — the kind of man I can lose myself in without a second thought. The safest place I ever feel is curled up against him on a cozy night, feeling my whole body settle into his, nestling into every one of his soft spots.

And maybe that’s it.

The biggest flex isn’t the six-pack. It’s a man whose hands are strong enough to toss me around, who still has soft spots for me to collapse into, and who knows himself well enough to give me both.

The 20-something dating her ex-boyfriend’s dad.

The priest who’s tempted out of celibacy.

The monster bait minotaur love affair.

The MM stepbrother romance with the hottest anal sex scenes.

Words have always been my love language, and I will always be the biggest advocate for smut. Even if the writing quality is mediocre, smut can be a powerful tool for turn-on. Here’s why →

Smut as a portal to desire

Reading erotic stories activates our imaginations. The funny thing is, our brains don’t always separate imagination from reality.

As our eyes scan a page, the words are translated within the somatosensory cortex — the part of the brain that maps physical feeling in the body. To put it simply, it taps into our past sensory memories, simulates what that sensation might feel like on a somatic level, and the body responds as if it’s happening to you rather than in your head.

So when you read about the protagonist finally locking lips with her forbidden love, when the tension grows so heavy it breaks, clothes are peeled away, skin is kissed raw, and he sinks his fingers into her arousal… well, you might feel your breath catch, your heart rate increase, and your thighs clench, too.

It’s why it’s so easy to get in the mood when we read smut.

Because it’s foreplay — and not the kind we’ve had a million times before. It gives us access to every sexual experience that could ever exist — the threesome we’ve only dreamed of, the love affair with a Fae Prince, the front row seat in the voyeur room at an elite sex club.

Every new story we read creates a sense of novelty.

Not only does the human body respond to new stimuli (aka new stories make us horny), but it also broadens our awareness of what turns us on, gives insight into desires we may not have touched before, and inspires creativity in the real life bedroom — whether you’re realizing your pussy tingles at the idea of surrendering your control to a lover or you’re rushing off to your local sex shop to buy your first butt plug after reading a scene that made you sweat.

And of course, if we’re word-sluts, it makes our dirty talk 20x hotter.

The difference between smut and porn

Unlike traditional porn where it’s mostly visuals of bodies fucking, smut creates intimacy and connection through the art of storytelling. We feel the emotions attached to the characters, which deepens our immersion in the experience. Sex becomes meaningful, rather than purely physical.

And yet, like porn, it requires a critical lens when we consume it because the thing is — not every slutty story is created equal.

If you’re going to guzzle smut, go for it (I do!), but here’s what to look for so you can use it as a tool to turn you on, and not as the Bible for what sex and relationships are supposed to look like.

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10 things I don’t love about smut (and what to watch out for when choosing your next sexy read)

1. The girls are always 22 and super hot.

Even if the male protagonist is a 45-year-old silver fox, the female protagonists are usually young, barely adults, with pretty faces and perfect bodies.

I want real bodies. I want to read about the cellulite on she doesn’t care about because she’s so consumed by her arousal, or the lover turned on by curves so he can grab onto her as he takes her from behind.

I want the 32-year-old who knows herself. The 52-year-old who just left an unfulfilling marriage. The 62-year-old crone with a 22-year-old pool boy.

2. Sex that happens in the first chapter.

We may read smut for the sex scenes, but the thing that turns us on the most? It’s the build up, anticipation, tease. If I wanted nothing more than bodies fucking, I’d watch porn. But I don’t. I want a story.

Sex in the first chapter isn’t hotter — it just means we’ve skipped the foreplay.

3. They rarely use condoms.

How many MM romances have you read where they have hot anal sex without any mention of a condom? How about all those sex scenes where the guy reaches for a rubber, and she says, ‘No need, I’m on the pill / I have an IUD.’ Sex scenes like these lack basic sex ed.

Condoms aren’t just used to prevent pregnancy.

STI’s still exist.

A conversation is always required before you decide to go raw.

4. Also… where are all the cycle-tracking heroines?

I want an empowered woman who knows her fertile windows.

5. Painful penetration.

Too many stories describe penetrative sex with words that make me want to close my legs. If his cock is ever described as ‘piercing,’ ‘stabbing,’ or ‘impaling’ someone, I’m out. The same goes for every time the person being penetrated describes the sensation as ‘burning’ or ‘sharp.’

If someone is fully aroused and ready to be fucked, there shouldn’t be any pain.

6. ‘You’re so tight.’

Needing to be tight to be sexy is a myth we need to stop promoting. The goal isn’t to be tight. It’s to be soft, open, receptive.

If she’s so tight her lover can barely fit, she’s probably not aroused enough for it.

7. Communication conflicts.

I get it, there would be no story without tension, conflict, and a resolution. But when the story wouldn’t have existed if the characters had communicated about how they felt instead of holding it in and letting it fester for 300 pages, I have a hard time staying in it.

8. Happily ever-afters.

I love a happy ending, but a happy ending isn’t the same as a happily ever after. A happy ending means conflict resolved, closure, a story coming to a natural end.

But a happily ever after — especially when the protagonist is 22 and decides to settle down with one partner for the rest of eternity (typically a man who claims her as his) — well, that’s just encouraging women to limit their sexual explorations and to settle before they’ve freely explored what it is they really want.

9. Marriage and babies epilogues.

As if this is the only next step to great sex.

10. ‘Bad’ writing.

Too many cliches, not enough build up, or too much ‘telling’ instead of ‘showing’ can completely take us out of the story and kill the mood.

Maybe I’m a smut connoisseur, but I want a story that I can get lost in.

I want words that wrap me in sensation and paint visceral visuals.

I want character development with complexity.

I want nuance.

I want well-written smut.

Keep reading the slutty stories

Smut can open you up sexually — or it can pull you out of your body, distort your expectations, and keep you chasing a feeling instead of being with sensation.

The difference lies in the stories we choose to devour and in the way we meet them.

With awareness and presence, it becomes a tool — a portal into our desires.

So read the slutty stories.

Let them turn you on.

Or better yet… write your own.

P.S. An invitation for those who love smut, writing, storytelling, and all things sex and pleasure — Sultry Storytellers waitlist is now open.

It’s Sunday morning and the first rays of sunlight begin to peek through the plantation shutters of my bedroom window. I feel my husband stir next to me, rolling over to wrap me in warm, strong arms. My back is pressed to his chest, my ass nestled next to his morning wood, and he nibbles my ear lobe as he whispers, ‘Morning baby.’ His voice is still raspy with sleep.

My favourite time to fuck is first thing in the morning, still half in a dream-state, before my mind starts to wander, before I begin to mull over all the other things that need doing — the laundry that needs folding, the dishes leftover from dinner that now lay in the kitchen sink, ‘soaking,’ the fitting together of three jobs in the midst of just wanting to write and play and make love.

So I grind my hips into his erection because I’m not thinking about any of these things just yet.

He moans and grinds right back, subtly, just enough to elicit a flutter in my pussy. His hands begin to tease my bare skin, tracing circles over my belly and down my outer thigh. They move up to cup my breasts, softly at first, and then kneading. He tilts my chin toward him, sucks my bottom lip between his, and our mouths melt into one another, the taste of morning breath dissolving with our arousal.

My hips twitch, heat growing between my legs. All I want is to be touched.

His lips trail along my jawline, down my neck, across my breasts, and then he sucks my left nipple into his mouth. Warm, soft, and then sharp as he bites down, and I gasp. He rolls me over to face him, his lips now devouring mine like he’s starving. I can feel myself growing wetter, my legs spreading to wrap around his.

And then he lifts his hand and smacks me on the ass.

I love a good booty slap. In fact, there’s nothing I love more than having my ass spanked, massaged, jiggled, and wiggled. But this one misses the flesh and lands right on the bone.

‘Ow,’ I chuckle, while in my head I’m rolling my eyes and thinking, the target isn’t small, so how did he miss?

Instead, I kiss him harder.

‘Touch me, baby,’ I plead. And he does.

His hand moves between my thighs and he strokes me. My clit swells and aches for more. But my pussy is like a cat — I want slow, soft strokes in the right direction, but don’t stay too long in one place because what feels good one minute can make me want to slap you the next. I want you to switch it up. Stroke my clit, then tease my entrance. As soon as I start to beg, move. Make me want more.

But he doesn’t. He stays on my clit, and even though it feels good, I can feel his movements speeding up, his pressure growing to be too intense for what I’m ready for. And just like that, the mood breaks. My eyes wander around the room and land on the dirty laundry piled on his side of the bed. I sigh.

‘What’s wrong?’ he pauses, brow furrowing. He feels the shift. His fingers are still between my legs, but now it feels mechanical, like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.

Picture this: the Sunday morning romp turns into a teary mess.

Fat tears roll down my cheeks. I’m frustrated that I have to give him direction when all I want is to surrender my control. I’m frustrated that I’m in my head, again. I’m frustrated that now I can’t stop thinking about laundry, dishes, and the pile of work waiting for me tomorrow. I’m frustrated that every time I flinch, he acts like he’s been scolded.

We fight.

I cry.

He holds me.

We talk.

I tell him what I want.

He tells me what he needs.

My heart rate slows.

He holds me tighter.

But the spell is broken.

We get up to make breakfast.

He cooks scrambled eggs with feta cheese and a side of the most perfectly ripe avocado while I shower, hot water rushing over my skin, rinsing away my salty tears and his dried pre-cum that dots my belly.

We eat. He plays guitar while I nestle into my book. He gets up to clean the dishes, and when the last one is rinsed and placed in the drying rack, I look at him and say, ‘Come here.’

He ambles over, sits on the faded gray couch next to me, and I surprise him by climbing into his lap, straddling him, cupping his cheeks in my hand. Our eyes search each other’s, saying a million things in just a look — I’m sorry, I love you, I just want to make you feel good.

I lean down to kiss him, and when our lips touch, it isn’t soft and explorative. It’s hungry, fierce, taking what we didn’t get this morning. My hips grind into his, and his erection is already there, friction hitting in all the right places.

Cotton t-shirts are pulled over our heads and thrown to the floor. My hand reaches into his mesh athletic shorts and wraps around his cock, stroking once, twice, until his eyes roll backwards.

‘Take off your pants,’ he growls and I stand, letting them drop to the floor. He grabs my hips, pulls me to him, and kisses my clit, breathing in my scent.

He lays me down next to him, stroking me — not hesitantly like before, but in a way that says, ‘I know what you like, I know what you need, I know exactly what I’m doing to make you lose your mind.’

And I do.

My legs open to him.

My clit swells again.

My arousal drips with need until I’m climbing back on top of him and sinking onto his cock, letting it fill me as we both groan with relief.

We move together, skin slapping skin, sweat dripping down our backs and between our chests. Time dissolves and my body melts, moulding to his. My muscles feel like honey and fire. We moan in sync — not in performance, but from our guts — raw, primal, loud enough to wake the neighbours.

And as we roll toward orgasm together, laughter bubbles out from my chest.

Because this isn’t what they told me sex was supposed to look like.

They didn’t tell me there could be tears.

They didn’t tell me there could be frustration.

They didn’t tell me it could stop and start.

They didn’t tell me that my turn-on could grow and dip and grow again.

They didn’t tell me you could fight mid-romp and still come back together for an orgasm that has you seeing stars.

But I do.

I see stars.

Because the best sex is never linear.

The best sex is the kind where you let yourself feel everything. Where you say exactly what you think, exactly what you want. Where you let emotion pour straight from your soul because that is what creates intimacy with your lover. Where you let your erotic pulse guide you, not by following a script or a formula that takes you from A to B to C. Where arousal builds over time, through trust.

And so I climb and I climb, and I feel myself fall over the edge, dissolving into a puddle of sensation in his arms.

When fire meets fire, 
it burns everything touched.
For heat without destruction, 
we need containment.
We need wood to feed it, 
air to fuel the burn, 
water to douse when it threatens to wreak havoc — 
not to diminish its wildness, 
but to create safety rather than chaos.

Tantra preaches polarity — 
yin and yang creates the spark. 

If you ask me, 
it’s not about being 
feminine or masculine.
It’s about complementing one another. 
Contrast. 
Difference. 
Balance. 
Meeting softness with sharpness. 
The yang holding the yin 
so it can melt and flow. 

I’m a strong woman 
with a sharp tongue. 
I say what I think 
without coating it in sugar. 
I hold boundaries 
more fiercely than a lioness. 
I take up space 
in every room I enter 
and speak boldly 
the things everyone else keeps to themselves. 

I am Wildfire. 
And my man is 
my wood, 
my air, 
my water.

Too often I see women 
sag their shoulders, 
drop their eyes, 
shake their heads, 
and proclaim, 
my man is too soft.

She wants to be 
shoved against walls, 
his fingers twisting in her hair, 
tugging hard to angle her face up to his, 
teeth nipping her lips 
before he swallows her moans. 
She want him to command the room, 
bend her over, 
whisper nasty words in her ear. 

But what I see is Wildfire. 
And her man may be soft, 
but he’s also the container, 
the safety, 
her source of grounding 
when she’s soaring 
too close to the sun. 

I’ve met fire before. 
The one who can’t be contained. 
It’s heat and passion, 
and on the surface it feels good — 
until I get burned. 

What I need isn’t more flame 
to meet my Wildfire. 
What I always needed 
to truly open all the way up
was safety.

The longest lasting, 
most nourishing relationships 
are the ones that feel 
grounded, 
steady, 
safe. 

What if instead of seeing only his softness, 
you saw this —
the man who made you feel 
safer than you’ve ever felt.
The man who feeds your passion 
through holding steady.
The man who fuels your fire 
by providing.
The man who meets you in your chaos 
so you can burn your brightest 
and return back to earth.

He may be soft, 
but he’s also your yang.
He doesn’t command loudly, 
but he is the riverbank that allows 
your rapids to flow fiercely 
with direction and ease.

And when we see
the edge in his softness,
that’s when the spark ignites,
that’s when the heat grows hottest,
melting your muscles,
sinking you into safety, 
allowing you to open deeply
without the fear of being burned.

She’d read the question in a book and had been asking everyone around her, noticing how each person’s answer spoke into how they move through the world.

Her husband’s response was that the world was a ‘hard place.’ A place where you struggle.

She saw it as a place full of magic. Beauty. Wonder.

I smiled. ‘I see it as a playground,’ I told her.

I’ve always looked at the world in this way. It’s why I’ve always loved traveling — I want to take up space on the playground, see how others play. I want to sit in every corner of the sandbox. I want to make new friends who will swing with me from monkey bars. I want to lap up every sensation, tap into every imagination, play every game, make my own rules.

And I also recognize that not every day is fun. Some days you don’t feel like playing. Some days you find bullies who ruin it for everyone else. But if you don’t let the bullies shove your down, more nights than not, you’ll go home with dirty hands and wild hair and stories to tell, and you’ll sleep soundly.

People tend to think I’m younger than I am. Not because I lack maturity or life experience, but because I have a twinkle in my eye that rarely fades and a smile often dancing at the corner of my lips. I like to wear head-to-toe tie dye, laugh a lot, and sprinkle little bits of magic into everything I do. I’m a fairy, some say.

And this is my medicine: weaving in an element of play into everything I touch. Not to avoid feeling the heavy stuff, but with a desire to bring in a lens of curiosity.

Within the world of sexual healing, embodiment, and liberation, there’s often a density felt when it comes time to examine yourself and your erotic psyche.

And I get it. Sex is still taboo.

Especially for women. Even if you’re a cycle-breaker and a rebel, we still live in a world where female sexuality is condemned. The bullies have slut shamed us for millennia. Stripped away our knowledge and bodily autonomy. Burned us at the stakes — both literally and metaphorically.

Exploring sexual expression and identity can be edgy. It often involves facing shadows, triggers, and wading through crossed boundaries and a swallowed voice.

But what if sexual liberation was infused with a dusting of light?

Here’s the thing — sex begins in innocence.

It’s part of who we are the moment we take our first breaths.

Babies’ hands gravitate to their genitals because it brings them comfort.

When we’re young, before we even know what sex is, we chase what feels good in the body, often discovering turn-on before we have words for it.

Some of the best sex we have is before we think we’ve had it — before we realize that sex itself isn’t about putting a penis in a vagina or having an orgasm, but about bodies touching one another in a way that makes time dissolve and euphoria wash in waves over our skin.

Often, the heaviness, edginess, and lurking shadows of sexuality drift in like storm clouds when we forget our innocence. When we think too much, spend too much time in our heads instead of actually feeling and getting curious about sensation. Too often, we get stuck in stories — of shame, disconnection, frustration. We carry the scarlet letter of our ancestors.

But… what if we let all of that go?

What if we peeled back every layer until only innocence remained?

What if instead of labelling thought, emotion, or sensation as ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ we simply explored it, tuned into their nuances, and got curious?

What if we let laughter transmute and alchemize the shadows so they were easier to face?

What if, rather than tucking away the messy parts of our Eros, we just followed what feels good? As long as what feeds our pleasure is safe and consensual.

When we let go of all preconceived notions about sex, and instead shift our perspectives and look at our bodies through a lens of wonder, that’s when we start to play.

And when we play, it becomes exciting to excavate every desire, to use our voices, to find new ways to express our sensual sides, to make our own rules.

On the outside I may look like your Fairy God Sister, but really, I’m the medicine woman, whispering the truth you’ve been aching to hear: sexual liberation doesn’t have to be heavy to be profound.

Laughter softens the body.

Play quiets that nasty inner critic.

And curiosity heals faster than sitting in the shadows.

I’m not here to drag you into catharsis or make you relive every storm cloud.

I’m here to remind you that your body was always a place of wonder.

That you are allowed to explore yourself with the same wide-eyed fascination you had before anyone told you it was wrong.

And that Eros and innocence were always meant to dance wildly, hand in hand.

P.S. If you want a little taste of my medicine, I’d love to gift you a free Body Attunement & Breast Massage Ritual — a daily practice to tune into your body with a sense of wonder, listen without judgment, and infuse laughter into self-touch.

Somehow, it’s become the norm to spill about the three orgasms he gave you over wine with your girlfriends when it was the first time, or the second — and yet, it’s not so common to share this fact when you’re in a decade-long relationship.

And it’s not just the stories of good sex that disappear. It’s not just because we got “used to” the three orgasms and so it was no longer story-worthy. We used to talk about bad sex, too.

Remember?

Rolling your eyes as you recount your night with One-Thrust Joe.

Giggling as you remember the nose bleed that poured all over his face mid-fuck, and how your bed looked like a horror scene rather than a post-coital nest.

The fart he let loose while you went down on him.

If you ask me, the stories we share about our sex lives aren’t really about what happened at the end. They’re about the story itself. The build up. The anticipation. The moments that led up to the climax — or lack thereof. It’s rarely about the climax itself.

It’s why we read spicy romance novels. Not just for the sex scenes, but for the moments before. The tension. The will-they-won’t-they. The uncertainty of what happens next. The expectation of what might.

Let me ask you — in all those smutty books tucked away on your book shelf, did the spice drop for you after the protagonists hooked up a few times? For me, it always did. Even if the scenes were hot, my pussy was quiet in response. The tension was gone.

The whole fucking point

I wish there was a better word for foreplay.

Before play. As if it’s not the whole fucking point.

They say all of it is foreplay. I remind my husband of this often when he gets tunnel vision and forgets to slow down enough to kiss me with tongue. It’s not just what happens inside the bedroom. It’s what happens in every interaction.

It’s the way you pause to look into each other’s eyes and really listen, with your whole body.

It’s the way they place a hand on the small of your back in a crowded room, or tuck you under their arm as you cozy up on the couch with your favourite show.

It’s a text throughout the day, just to say I’m thinking of you — thinking of that sweet little pussy of yours, thinking of this morning and what I want to do to you later, or just thinking of how proud I am of how hard you work.

In the beginning, foreplay is the story. Sex isn’t guaranteed just yet, so you both live in a state of anticipation. The flirtatious texts are more frequent. The soft, lingering touches feel more visceral. And the eye contact makes your belly — and your pussy — flutter. Your mouth salivates with want.

As we settle into a relationship, we also tend to settle for less foreplay.

We don’t need to try so hard. We don’t need to impress. Sometimes the sex is still great, sometimes the spark fizzles and you start to wonder, where did my horniness go? You stop telling your friends about it either way because they’ve heard the story before.

What ‘slow sex’ really means

In the sexual wellness world, slow sex is all the hype.

And while slowing things down in the bedroom can definitely heighten sensation, increase pleasure, and make for some pretty epic orgasms, I believe slow sex isn’t just about what happens in bed.

It’s also about slowing down outside of the bedroom. Bringing back foreplay. Not as before play, but as part of the main event. Reminding yourself and your partner that it is the whole fucking point.

Bringing back the tease. Knowing that sex — although likely — still isn’t guaranteed. Making each other work for it — not as gameplay, but because it’s what makes it a whole body experience rather than an act you do mechanically and forget about an hour later.

If you want to bring back the tease, try this…

Next date night, “get ready” like you used to when you lived apart. Put on some pump-up music, pour yourself a glass of wine, and take your time doing your makeup. Reach to the back of your closet for the sexy dress you haven’t worn in years. Put on the lacy underwear, just in case.

Send a text throughout the day. Make it flirtatious, or make it dirty. Tell them what you want to do to them later when you get them alone. Tell them what you want them to do to you. Be descriptive. Take a photo if you dare.

Kiss like it’s the first time. Lean in and feel their warm breath brush your lips. Nudge their nose with yours as you close your eyes. Let lips touch, but only barely. Proceed slowly. Taste, and let yourself be tasted. Suck their bottom lip before dipping your tongue out tentatively, searching for theirs. Stay there. Let it be the main event. Let it leave you aching for more. Do it every day.

Dry hump. Like the early days. Keep your clothes on, grind into one another, feel the friction against your clit. Let your hands roam. Let theirs roam. Cum, or not. But again, leave it there. Let it build the anticipation for when you peel back the layers of fabric later.

Touch each other. All the time. For no reason at all, other than it feels good and creates intimacy.

You don’t need to do it for the story.

But it will make sex more noteworthy, and isn’t that the sex we all want, always?

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And yet, nine years ago today, we eloped.

We hired an Airbnb for a night. Sipped on champagne with a view of the Brisbane City skyline while I slipped on the short, flowy white dress with a deep-plunge neckline and bell sleeves that made me feel like a fairy princess — and he rocked the one and only suit he ever owned — before driving to a stranger’s house in Ipswich to say our vows.

And over time, I’ve learned — relationships are challenging.

Marriage is hard work.

And monogamy is not for the faint of heart.

In twelve years, I’ve had moments of madness, boredom, doubt, frustration, and grief.

But I’ve also crumbled every single wall that was built around my heart, felt safer than I’ve ever felt in a partnership, and loved more deeply than I ever thought possible.

I’m a Sex and Relationship Expert in my work, but the biggest lessons I’ve ever learned about sex and love haven’t been from a textbook or a course — they lie in my own lived experiences.

In celebration of twelve years with my man today, here are twelve of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned about sex, love, and relationships.

Let them sink it. Let them resonate in your core. And choose one to embody today.

1. Relationship maintenance is a full-time job. Think five days of work, two days to play. But if you really love each other, the work will challenge you and it will fuel your passion — and the play will only feel more delicious.

2. You need three legs. My dad always used to compare a stable relationship to a table with three legs. One leg is you, one leg is your partner, and the third is what you have in common. A Venn diagram. For stability, you need your individuality just as much as your togetherness.

3. Let yourself miss each other. Get a hobby you can do without your partner. Travel solo or with your friends. Create a space in your house that’s just for you. Time away will make coming together sweeter and give you something to talk about besides whose turn it is to cook dinner.

4. Loving each other is a choice. You get to wake up every day and decide to love — and if you don’t actively make that decision every day, more often than not, it will fade.

5. I-need-you-right-now-or-I’ll-die sex doesn’t last forever (and that’s okay). That spontaneous craving you feel at the beginning of a relationship is sparked by uncertainty. What replaces it over time is a deep sense of safety and the ability to slow down the way you make love to each other. Plus, if the I-need-you-right-now-or-I’ll-die sex lasted forever, when would we ever get shit done?

6. Desire grows when you lean into pleasure. You don’t need to crave sex all the time to have great sex. You simply need to show up, let naked skin touch naked skin, let pleasure lead, and your desire will spark from there — and often, the sex that evolves from pleasure-led sensation over spontaneous desire is a whole lot more soul-rocking because it means your body gets exactly what it needs in that moment.

7. The urge to run / quit / break up doesn’t always mean you should. The person closest to you is always a mirror into your shadows, your triggers, and the places you still need to “do the work.” Leaving won’t dissolve them — and typically, they’ll just follow you into your next relationship until you integrate them. Staying (as long as the relationship is based on love and mutual respect) can be the greatest healing balm.

8. When communication breaks down, hug them tight. Often, the biggest enemy in your relationship isn’t the conflict itself, but the way you each respond to conflict. Communication break-downs often happen because you both share the same desire — to be seen, to feel loved and supported. Sometimes, the healthiest thing to do is to let it go, wrap your arms around each other, and say, “I’m here.”

9. Scheduling sex can be hot. Having it in the calendar doesn’t have to kill the mood. Instead, let it act as foreplay — take your time getting “ready” the way you did when you first started dating, send each other a dirty little text in anticipation, and take turns bringing new toys, new dynamics, or new energies to your booty calls to keep the spice level high.

10. All the strongest couples have gone to therapy. Why wouldn’t you want to invest in something that brings you closer, helps you resolve conflict, understand each other better, and communicate on a deeper level?

11. You get to write your own relationship rules. Choosing a partner doesn’t mean you have to be with one person for the rest of your life. You can love someone and have multiple lovers. You can commit to one and still find attraction around you. You can open your relationship, play with other people together, share fantasies, or not. There are no limits, as long as you respect each other’s boundaries.

12. Boredom is the biggest libido killer — so try something new. Go salsa dancing or ice skating for date night instead of hitting the same restaurant for the fourth weekend in a row. Book a weekend getaway somewhere you’ve never been before. Ask a question you don’t know the answer to just yet. Try a new sex position just because. Infusing novelty — both in and out of the bedroom — keeps the spark alive.

Not because I live in a city with (almost) perpetual summer — I still feel a shift into cooler weather and shorter days that make me want to curl up with a fluffy blanket and steamy cacao as we reach mid-year — but because the modern holidays we celebrate feel backwards and disconnected from nature as we move through the seasons in the Southern Hemisphere.

It’s all baby chicks and Easter eggs as the air grows cooler and we inch toward mid-autumn.

Skulls, darkness, and dressing up as our shadows while the sunlight stretches, and all we want to do is strip off our clothes and swim naked in the warming Spring sea.

Evergreen trees, slow tunes about roasting chestnuts on open fire, and eggnog lining the supermarket shelves while it’s too hot to not sit in the air conditioning with a glass of iced tea.

I’m not one for consumerism, but I am one for celebration. And the magic of most of our modern-day holidays is that the roots aren’t in consumerism. The roots are in ancient traditions that brought us into harmony with nature.

Before Easter egg hunts, we had Ostara — a day that marked an awakening after the dead of winter, celebrating growth, new beginnings, birth, and fertility (hello, eggs).

Before trick-or-treating and zombie costumes, we had Samhain — a festival that marked the transition into the darker half of the year with traditions rooted in honouring our deceased ancestors and the belief in a thinning veil between the physical and spiritual world.

Before Christmas, we had Yule — a 12-day winter festival where a log was burned to warm our bones and honour the return of the sun after the shortest day of the year.

But these are just the most-known traditions. Every six weeks, people would gather to celebrate the shift in season. They’d eat locally-sourced food and honour the hours the sun hovered above the horizon — not through materialism, but through connecting to the earth and the elements. And each one of these celebrations originated in the Northern Hemisphere. As we shifted away from pagan, earth-based rituals into modern-day holidays, we lost the connection to source and our eternal life force.

This weekend another modern day holiday falls upon us —Valentine’s Day. A day that claims to be about love, romance, and partner connection, but in reality, it’s typically a day where one of two things happens:

1. You plan a date night with your lover and have to make a booking weeks in advance just to have dinner at a mediocre restaurant. The prices are jacked up. Roses suddenly cost as much as your grocery bill for the week, and your favourite dark chocolate is sold out at every shop. Instead of being present with your love, you feel a knot in your stomach because of how much money you flushed only to feel flat.

2. You’re single and spend the day either feeling lonely with a load of societal pressure to find a partner, fall in love, and have a happily-ever-after, even if you’re perfectly happy on a normal day — or saying ‘fuck it’ and spending the day with the gals and swearing off men.

But what if — instead of buying into consumerism, materialism, and the idea that your expression of love and romance has to look a certain way — we came back to the roots?

You know what else falls this weekend?

Lupercalia — an ancient Roman festival held from February 13-15 that celebrates cleansing, sexual vitality, and fertility.

Some say Valentine’s Day replaced Lupercalia — that the Christian church tried to erase pagan rituals, that they swapped earthly celebration for religious devotion to St. Valentine, and that eventually, the holiday morphed from religious to secular with the rise of courtly love.

Perhaps there is truth to this story. Or perhaps — like our other modern-day holidays — due to their close proximity, one was simply remembered, while the other was forgotten.

Perhaps we slowly began to water-down our Eros, giving importance to aesthetic love over our raw, primal, sexual, fertile life force.

Perhaps when we moved away from the celebrations that were rooted in nature, we also lost the body-based meaning behind this weekend.

But don’t you know?

The body always remembers what culture forgets.

We can have both. We can romanticize our lives, our relationship to ourselves and others, even the world around us by bearing witness to the beauty and magic in the world — by slowing down, breathing deeply, and dropping into sensation.

And we can have the messy, unconfined, embodied Eros — the kind that has us bare-foot, wild-haired, dancing in the rain and making love on the wet grass.

So instead of sanitizing your Eros this weekend, I invite you to let your body remember.

Go outside and look up at the sky. Feel the sunlight kiss your skin.

Skip the mediocre restaurant and indulge in food from your garden or your local market. Let mango juice drip down your chin. Eat ooey, gooey honey straight from the jar. Pour yourself a glass of wine from your favourite vineyard and eat a perfectly cooked steak with your hands.

Remember the animal in you.

Place your hands on your body. Breathe and lean into sensation. Feel your erotic pulse beneath your skin, and let that guide how you touch yourself.

Let yourself laugh, cry, scream, or moan — loudly. Let it rise from your belly, not your throat. Let your fingers slip between your legs and lap your own salty-sweet nectar off your fingers, or rub it on your neck like the most delectable perfume.

Fuck — yourself, your lover — hard and slow and fast and soft and anyway you want it.

Or simply pause. Place a hand on your belly. Feel the weight and the warmth of your palm pressed against your skin, and ask yourself — if my raw, primal, fertile Eros were to lead today, what would it ask of me?

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I’ll leave you with some Lupercalia gifts to drop deeply into your body this weekend. There’s one for every mood. Play with them, or let them play with you.

• A playlist to romanticize your relationship to self (or make love to)

• A playlist to dance like a wild thing under the moon — sexy, playful, gritty, sweaty vibes

• A free Body Attunement and Breast Massage Ritual — for the woman who simply wants to deepen her relationship to listening to the body through slow, sensual touch

• An invitation to join Sultry Storytellers — for the woman who is ready to invest in her Eros, her creative self-expression, and her relationship to body and desire