When I start a new book, I indulge blindly. Typically, I have only a vague sense of what I am about to begin. My theory is that this approach is intuitive, and that I am meant to read certain books at specific periods of my life. Last month, I finished The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The book follows Esther, a young woman who wins a writing internship in New York but slowly descends into severe depression. The “bell jar” is a metaphor. Imagine being trapped beneath a glass dome where the air feels stale, everything looks distorted, you are visible but unreachable, and you are sealed off from the world. This is how Esther experiences her mental state. The novel explores depression and suicidal ideation, the pressure of being “exceptional,” gender roles in the 1950s, fear of adulthood, identity fragmentation, and sexual double standards.

I finished this book and felt validated in my theory. A lot of it resonated with me. Esther imagines her life as a fig tree. Each fig represents a different possible future: a brilliant poet, a professor, a world traveler, a wife, and so on. She sits in the tree starving because she cannot choose one fig. As she hesitates, the figs begin to wrinkle and fall to the ground. To Esther, choosing one life means losing the others. The pressure is not simply “What do I want?” It becomes:

If I choose marriage, do I lose intellectual ambition?
If I choose career, do I lose love?
If I choose sexuality, do I lose respectability?

In the 1950s context, women were expected to narrow themselves. You could not easily have all the figs. The metaphor captures paralysis caused by possibility. Depression amplifies that paralysis. Instead of imperfectly choosing one fig, Esther chooses none. So she starves.

It feels like a modern anxiety too. Being talented. Being capable. Seeing multiple versions of yourself and not wanting to betray any of them. Across more than fifty years, I see so many parallels between Esther’s struggles and what modern women continue to experience. Women are still treated as inferior, as objects of possession. They are abused, underpaid, murdered, and the list continues. The intensity of visibility without protection, the performance of femininity, public access to women’s bodies online, the expectation to monetize identity, and the pressure to remain exceptional and consumable simultaneously all continue to rise.

I am an oil painter. An erotic artist. A public-facing creator. A community builder. A woman navigating softness and ambition. These are multiple figs. A large part of me has always struggled with the compatibility of being an artist, lover, sex worker, muse, daughter, leader, and more. Some parts of me feel that if I lean too heavily into one identity, the others might dry up. This book sent me into a deeper reflection. Women are often punished for multiplicity.

When I mention men in this essay, it is not an expression of hatred toward men, but rather a critique of the structures built through patriarchal frameworks. When I speak about women, my perspective is not limited to women alone, but extends to marginalized people navigating similar systems of expectation and control.

I feel like I am living inside my own bell jar, except I am standing beside countless other women and marginalized people who are also inside theirs, each carrying an assorted cocktail of struggles shaped by dominant systems and inherited social conditioning.

In the book, Esther’s “sanity” results in shock therapy. When I read this, I could not fathom the idea of undergoing electroshock treatment due to severe depression and attempted suicide. My question shifted from “Was Esther mentally ill?” to “What happens when a woman cannot adapt to oppressive expectations?”

Within many inherited frameworks, women are expected to perform emotional labor while remaining desirable, productive, accommodating, digestible, and mentally stable under impossible contradictions. When they fail under those pressures, the system often individualizes the problem. Hysterical. Unstable. Dramatic. Difficult. Too emotional. Mentally ill. What happens when survival itself is misread as dysfunction?

In the book, Esther has sex for the first time and begins hemorrhaging afterward. She loses a large amount of blood and panics. Her friend Joan tries to call doctors and gynecologists for help, but people repeatedly dismiss or avoid the situation entirely, including hanging up when she mentions it involves a period. For centuries, the male body has been treated as the medical default, leaving women’s pain understudied, dismissed, and misunderstood. Black women especially experience disproportionately high rates of medical neglect and maternal mortality. Visibility without protection.

My life intersects with eroticism, online visibility, femininity, public consumption, and the monetization of selfhood. The same cultural structures that demand women remain visible also punish them for that visibility, profit from their bodies, and devalue their autonomy. That contradiction feels central, especially in an age where women are encouraged to brand themselves into consumable identities.

Women are so often positioned as the default caretakers of the world. Mothers, daughters, emotional containers, mediators, nurturers. I love that women are mothers. I love the softness, strength, and life force within that. What unsettles me is not motherhood itself, but the unequal expectation of sacrifice attached to it. Men are often granted the choice of how deeply they want to participate in caretaking, while women are expected to build their lives around it entirely. A father can still be perceived as ambitious, independent, desirable, successful. Motherhood, however, has historically consumed women whole. It feels strange that the people capable of bringing life into the world are still treated as inferior within so many systems governing it. The labor most essential to human survival continues to be undervalued. Sometimes I wonder how many of us have mistaken endurance for freedom. How many harmful structures persist simply because they have been made to feel inevitable.

The stripper locker room always felt like one of the most endearing spaces I have ever been in. It felt like the epitome of girlhood and womanhood. Makeup wipes, heels scattered across the floor, women helping tie bras, conversations about children between dances, exhaustion mixed with tenderness. Here were all of these women balancing multiple identities at once: hustler, mother, sex object, wife, girlfriend, student. As a sex worker, I continue trying to understand what it means to feel simultaneously desired and flattened. Maybe tenderness is absent from systems built around dominance, hierarchy, productivity, and possession.

I have learned that visibility can feel both empowering and violating. Erotic expression can liberate and consume at the same time. Self-branding creates opportunity while slowly fragmenting the self. There are moments where being desired feels affirming, and others where it feels like flattening into projection.

Why was I taught I could only become one thing at all?

A poet, a lover, a daughter, a body, a mind. I keep returning to Esther in the tree, starving not from lack of choice, but from the violence of having to choose. I used to think paralysis came from indecision, but now I wonder if it comes from the demand itself: that a life must be singular to be legible.

Maybe wholeness was never meant to be a single shape. Maybe it was always multiplicity held without punishment. A self that does not have to justify its contradictions in order to exist.

And still, I return to the same question, quieter now, less like theory and more like something lived: what parts of us disappear while we are waiting to be allowed to exist fully?

Eventually, questions stop feeling like questions and start feeling like refusal.

Fck Censorship
Protect Kids
Stop Violence Against Women and the queer community
Fck ICE
Free Palestine, Congo, and Iran
Dismantle The Patriarchy
With Love

The End.

These past couple of weeks have been some of the hardest weeks of my life. After Eros & Mythos: Part 8, I didn’t know how to continue. I don’t want to talk about Rome. I barely want to finish the story of how bad things got. Just the thought of completing this puts my heart in my stomach. But I realize that writing Eros & Mythos is a major part of my healing journey. So the show must proceed. This part will include my ex, but it will not revolve around him.

My mom warned me about the psychological effects an abortion could have on women. Since I desperately needed and wanted this, her words fell on deaf ears. But parenting with Rome would not have worked. I found out I was pregnant in April 2022 and immediately got sick. I was working one of the only jobs that felt acceptable in my relationship, which was with Rome’s mother.

We found a small loft in the city where I spent most of my pregnancy. Between bills and being the only one bringing in consistent income, it was hard to afford the abortion, especially as I grew too sick to work. I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum, severe morning sickness. I could not hold anything down except one thing: burgers. I loved burgers. I only wanted burgers. My craving for them surpassed my obsession with Tabasco sauce. I had never experienced anything so intense. The smell of sizzling beef, the greasy warmth in my hands, the soft give of the bun against my lips felt like the only thing my body would accept when everything else rejected me.

As an avid smoker and runner, the changes pregnancy brought to my body in such a short time fascinated me. Even simple tasks like walking became exhausting. The fatigue was real. Breathing was harder. These experiences deepened my appreciation for motherhood and the capabilities of a woman. Women are the strongest people I know.

I got the pill from a cheap local clinic, and it did not work. I continued to feel worse and noticed there was not as much bleeding as expected. Eventually, I took myself to the ER, where I learned my body had not fully expelled the fetus. I needed a D&C, which required more money. I raised the funds for one of the most gut-wrenching experiences of my life.

I lay on a cold table, alone and terrified. The metal pressed through my thin hospital gown. The room smelled like antiseptic. During the procedure, I released blood-curdling screams. The nurses and doctor tried to keep me quiet, but I could not be contained. When it was over, I could not get up. My body shook from the pain I had endured. I will never forget how dismissed I felt. Every ten minutes, a new nurse came in asking if I was ready to leave. I was not. How could I be? This experience broke my heart.

It was not that I wanted a child. It was how objectified I felt in every sense. It was the feeling that I had no choice. I would have loved to have the space to choose, even if the outcome was the same. Looking back, Rome mirrored my low standards, the way I treated myself, and what I allowed into my life. Soon after, we were evicted from our loft. This began the nomadic life I described in Part 8.

I loved Rome, but I was exhausted by the instability between us. I accepted the name-calling, the oppression, the cheating. Eventually, all we had left was great sex and codependence. I often wondered why I felt so alone. We were always together, yet he was constantly leaving me. Each time, I felt more guilty for falling for it and losing myself in the process.

As things worsened, I isolated myself from my loved ones. 2024 was one of our final runs. My credit improved, and I qualified for a nice apartment. The artist commune where we met had just finished renovations. We started there and unofficially ended there.

Rome wanted me to apply, but I was afraid of how we would support it. We agreed he would cover the first couple of months, and we would split the rest. It felt like a head start. He insisted on getting the place because he wanted something nice for his sons. I agreed they deserved that.

We moved in, and the problems started immediately. The first month’s rent was paid, then bounced. This was not the first time Rome made a financial commitment and failed to follow through, but this time it mattered more because everything was in my name. Months passed, and he spent more on himself than on our home. Then he got arrested. The warrant he promised to handle finally caught up with him. He spent three days in jail.

Shortly after, he got his passport and planned another trip overseas. It felt selfish. “We” became “me,” and I was left at the apartment, scared and close to eviction. I suspected he was cheating.

On Father’s Day 2024, things escalated. We were arguing, and like always, it became a monologue where I had no space to speak. He began degrading me, and I finally said something back: “I bet your mom is proud of the man you are right now.” That set him off.

We ended up on the floor, punching each other. Later that day, he had a gig. I sat there bruised and crying while he begged me to come. I could not pull myself together in time, but I still went.

Another time, he left the country again. What started as “we” became “me.” This time, I stayed back working on a commission and a large painting that would later become pivotal to my career. He never came back, and we were evicted.

I panicked. He was not answering my calls, and I had one day to move everything. September 19, 2024. Eviction notice. With no help and a kind Uber driver, I made it work. After that, I hated him.

I moved in with my sister and her girlfriend. Rome still reached out, asking me to meet him overseas. I was exhausted by the instability. Why did I always have to meet him where he was?

So I focused on myself. I painted seriously, started modeling, and built a routine. I made myself the priority.

But he kept coming back. And every time, I let him.

I got pregnant again. A one-night stand, protection, Plan B. It did not make sense. I found out in March 2025 and had the abortion on the 24th.

This time was different. The man who got me pregnant showed up for me in ways I was not used to. He drove me, stayed with me, got me food, and checked on me after. It was the bare minimum, but it felt like everything.

I chose the pill again. I was 5 weeks and 6 days pregnant, just under the cutoff. I was afraid after my previous experience, but this time my body responded. I bled for a full month. I still do not know which experience was more frightening.

Then Rome came back.

We met while I was still bleeding. I told him what was going on. I thought maybe we could just be friends. He seemed fine with it, but the first thing he mentioned was my weight. Then came questions about the pregnancy. I lied about who I had been with.

No one in my life liked him anymore. I hid his presence from everyone. That upset him, and he gave me the silent treatment. Like always, I had to initiate the conversation.

While driving to his studio, everything escalated. He called me out of my name, and the one that stuck was “pregnant bitch.” This time, I reacted.

I punched him. He hit me back.

I pulled over and begged him to get out. My palms were slick with sweat. My chest felt tight, like I could not breathe. I threatened to call the police. He said, “Take me to the studio, bitch.” His voice cut through me, sharp and relentless.

Then he grabbed my face and forced a kiss. I tasted the bitterness of him. Control, disgust, fear. My skin crawled. My nails dug into my hands as panic rose through my body. I wanted to escape myself.

And still, we went to the studio.

He talked. I listened. The pain from my abortion worsened as the evening set in. He said he would get therapy, but never apologized. He called himself crazy as if that explained everything.

I do not even remember how it ended.

Eventually, he disappeared again. I returned to myself. Dating, running, modeling, creating. This time felt different. I was not waiting for him anymore. What I felt turned into hate.

Months passed. In October 2025, I ran into a mutual friend who told me Rome’s mother had brain cancer. I reached out.

He called me from Thailand. He admitted everything. His jealousy, his attempts to hold me back. He apologized. It was the most honest I had ever heard him.

I saw him again. And the cycle repeated.

Eventually, I left. Intentionally. I went to Tulum to clear my head and finally choose myself. The sun warmed my shoulders. The air smelled like salt and earth. Each breath felt like reclaiming space in my body. My hands steadied. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was carrying only myself.

Then he called and asked if I was coming to his wedding. “With who?” I asked. “With you,” he said.

It felt like manipulation.

Later, he moved to the Dominican Republic with his mother. He kept asking me to come. I said no until he threatened suicide. Eventually, I gave in. I regretted it immediately. Everything fell through. I became depressed again. After his mother passed, he left me there.

But this time, I felt relief.

I told him to stop contacting me. I blocked him. That was the end.

These past weeks, I have sat with myself. Rome was a mirror of my self-worth. Someone who truly loved themselves would not have accepted even a fraction of what I allowed. I kept abandoning myself.

And I can feel exactly where I left myself.

In the moments I went quiet to keep the peace.
When I chose confusion over clarity.
When I stayed longer than my body wanted to.
When I kept giving love to someone who was taking from me.

I was not just being hurt.
I was participating in my own disappearance.

That is the heaviest truth.

Because it means I have to face myself. The version of me who tolerated it, justified it, romanticized it. The version of me who believed love had to feel like survival.

And I grieve her.

I grieve how far I had to go to choose myself. How much pain I normalized before I recognized it as pain. How many times I needed proof that it would not change.

But I also see her.

I see how deeply she wanted to be loved. How she kept trying, even as it broke her. How she still created, still showed up, still found ways to keep going.

That matters.

It feels like unlocking a version of myself that finally feels real. Not because everything is healed, but because I am no longer hiding.

This is the first time I am choosing myself.

I feel the weight lifting from my chest. My shoulders relax. My heartbeat steadies. The quiet hum of my apartment, the smell of paint and turpentine, the scratch of my brush against canvas, the taste of cold water on my tongue remind me that I exist beyond anyone else’s control.

I am not defined by what I survived. I am not diminished by what I allowed. I am here. Fully present. Fully mine.

And in that presence, I feel something I have not felt in a long time. Freedom. Soft, steady, undeniable. Like morning light through blinds.

Freedom to create.
Freedom to love myself.
Freedom to live on my own terms.

I see her, the version of me who stayed and endured. I hold her gently. I tell her she is seen. That her pain was not for nothing.

And then I let her go.

Because I am choosing me.

I stayed with my sister, who was rooming with our cousin, and I found a job at the local grocery store. We eventually upgraded from a two-bedroom to a three-bedroom, but then family drama entered the chat.

When I was living in San Antonio, I received a message from someone named “Rome Fortune.” I wasn’t aware of who he was, but he seemed official. He wanted me to be in his music video, then he just disappeared. Up until I moved to Atlanta, I kept thinking, “What ever happened to that guy?” I would occasionally Google him, and he had a Wikipedia page with very few photos of himself but all his music links. A rapper. I love music so how hadn’t I heard of him? Was this the same person who messaged me on OnlyFans?

When I wasn’t working, I was painting. One day, I posted one of my works on Instagram, geotagged in Atlanta. Rome immediately messaged me, asking if I was in the city. He said he had some opportunities he wanted to connect me with. I was extremely excited but also wary. Was this guy just trying to hook up? The next day, I would meet him at his studio.

Rome was uniquely handsome. Tall, with a good amount of tattoos, a funky style, and a slender physique. His studio looked like an indoor playground, something out of iCarly. He was exactly the person from OnlyFans. If I had to describe my type, it would be “young Dennis Rodman,” and Rome checked some of those boxes (more than most, anyway). Our “meeting” transformed into something much more, very quickly.

He was transparent, initially telling me he had two sons and had just gotten out of another relationship. These were red flags I blatantly ignored. I was already too deep; this was one of the most unique-looking people I had ever seen. I was enamored. I even stopped going home or to work to be with him… though we would sleep in his studio. A typical job felt beneath Rome’s caliber, and he suggested I pursue my dream.

After about day four in the studio, I asked, “So where is your home at?” I assumed his home was 30 minutes to an hour outside the city, hence why he wanted to stay and work in the studio. His studio was part of an artist commune, so lodging there wasn’t completely unusual. A lot of other artists lived and worked there, which added to the appeal. I can’t even remember exactly how he phrased his question about the house, but it was definitely some nonsense.

I’m not a kid person and hardly know how to socialize with them. But when Rome told me he had been his kids’ primary caretaker until recently, I accepted that as okay. They would come to the studio frequently, so to me, he was present, and they had a relationship.

I loved being there. My only job was to paint. Pure bliss. Eventually, we got word that the artist commune would be shutting down for renovations and gentrification. Rome’s building would be one of the first to be demolished. Meanwhile, my absence stirred the pot back at the three-bedroom apartment we’d just upgraded to, which I still feel terrible about. Rome and I moved into another building that had a proper shower, bedrooms, and a kitchen. I loved it. My head was in the clouds. My cousin and sister weren’t getting along, so everyone broke the lease, and my sister got her own apartment in the same complex.

Rome and I were probably the last people to leave the commune, and then we had nowhere to go. Luckily, my sister found a relationship and moved in with her girlfriend. She offered us her apartment until the lease was up. So we went on our merry way. Rome got into NFTs and actually made decent money. Once the lease ended, we lived nomadically. He had a couple of performances in New York and Miami during the “NFT weeks.”

These travels revealed some problems. In New York, we received a lot of money, and Rome just blew it. This caused one of our first big arguments. In Miami, we were out having a great night. On the way back to our hotel, we were having a lighthearted conversation until I mentioned how attractive I thought Playboi Carti was. This sparked a fire in Rome so intense that once we got upstairs, he avoided me until it finally erupted in an outburst. I didn’t understand. Like, I wasn’t saying I was going to go get Playboi Carti. Rome began screaming, throwing the hotel phone at me, slamming doors, and suddenly I was in the same position as Kitty when I watched her and her partner fight. I was spineless, explaining myself away.

This was the first display of aggression I’d seen from Rome. I woke up the next morning crying from all the drama. Rome acknowledged my pain for about two minutes, then essentially told me to suck it up. So I did. After Miami, we had nowhere to go again, so we started living with his mom until we got tired of that.

Where could we afford to live? Outside the country. We planned for Brazil. Rome just needed to renew his passport. That’s when we found out he had a warrant out for his arrest. How did I end up with a baby daddy, a high school dropout with anger issues, and a search warrant? It all happened so fast, and I accepted it all.

So Puerto Rico? We spent a month there, then Miami, New York, back to Atlanta, his mom’s house, Philly, Puerto Rico again, Philly again. I still managed to make art somehow. By early 2024, Rome’s behavior had become more toxic. He was breaking up with me every week for no real reason, and our puppy love transformed into sticky dependence. I felt disabled by Rome. Working was unsexy, but we needed money. The only money I was making was from OnlyFans, but my activity came to a halt once we got together. He shamed me for selling sex on the very platform he met me on.

I’d love to say it stops here, but the cycle kept going. With every cycle, the abuse worsened. Things were starting to change, and my rose-tinted glasses slowly faded. This wasn’t a loving relationship. It was a codependent trauma bond.

So I open my hands to the secret I’ve kept closest,
the one I’ve carried like a quiet weight beneath my ribs.

Maybe, if I let it breathe outside of me,
I won’t feel this slow descent
into something bottomless and unnamed.

I am starting to understand
that healing asks for release,
not in whispers, but in truth
in the courage of letting go
what was never meant to be held alone.

I studied photography at Pratt Institute in 2016 and flunked out in 2017. I usually say that I dropped out, but in reality, I failed out. That year, my grandmother was battling breast cancer. The thought lingered in the back of my mind as a growing ache until she eventually passed away. I avoided her because I didn’t want to see her that way. I was afraid to face the reality of her fate.

I was raised in a strict household where my creativity was often discouraged. I don’t feel that my home provided a space for me to thrive as a creative. I masked around my family, presenting myself as the best possible version of what they expected. Within our dynamic, I became the black sheep and the problem child. Growing up, I faced bullying both inside and outside my home. I was naturally reclusive, but my environment reinforced it. I only wanted to be a fly on the wall. I didn’t want to be perceived, because every perspective I received about myself felt painful. I wanted to be invisible.

As I entered a newfound sense of womanhood and independence, I went wild. I was a woman now, and people desired intimacy with me. My new friends wanted to take acid, shrooms, and smoke. There was no one there to witness or guide my decisions. I could be whoever I wanted. I wasn’t attentive to my studies, as I was indulging in this new freedom. So I failed out.

Shortly after the school year ended, I moved back to my family home in San Antonio. Things felt the same, except now my family was also disappointed in me. I had no idea how to move forward. I enrolled in community college and began working at JCPenney.

Note: I attended Pratt MWP, a private upstate campus that houses and educates freshmen and sophomores. After sophomore year, it is customary to complete matriculation in Brooklyn, New York City.

In 2018, I began doing photography gigs all over the city. At the same time, I stayed in touch with friends who eventually invited me to live with them. I missed them deeply, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. With the money I had saved, I took a bus from San Antonio to Brooklyn. Shortly after arriving, I found a job at a thrift store. I also met a romantic interest.

Then, unexpectedly, my job ghosted me. No paycheck came, and rent was due. I searched Craigslist, but the only opportunities I found were escort ads. I needed money quickly and didn’t have time for interviews. I found a service that presented itself as escorting but functioned as pimping. He took 50% of my earnings until I finally walked away. He wasn’t the one standing outside in the cold, putting himself at risk. I was.

I told my romantic interest everything that had happened since I arrived in the city. His name is Boye.

I was making money, but not enough to cover rent. Whenever I could avoid my roommates and the apartment I could no longer afford, I did.

One night, Boye called me while I was on my way home at the subway station. Our relationship was casual. He was venting and asked me to come over. I agreed, partly because I didn’t want to go home. I believed telling him about the escorting was the responsible thing to do, but in hindsight, I think it changed how he saw me.

It had been a long day. All I wanted to do was smoke, talk, and play video games. I told him I was on my period and wasn’t interested in having sex. It was the first day, and my flow was heavy. We talked, smoked, played games, and eventually fell asleep.

It’s hard to know what you would do in a “fight or flight” situation. Most of us like to believe we would run. But there I was, frozen in a pool of my own blood. No one really talks about the third response: freeze.

Freeze: becoming immobile, numb, or stuck when fighting or fleeing feels impossible.

As I slowly came to, I couldn’t believe what was happening. I had been sleeping on my stomach, and Boye was on top of me. Pushing didn’t stop it. Saying “stop” didn’t stop it. The blood didn’t stop it.

The night was cold and pitch black. Leaving at that hour felt terrifying in my vulnerability, so I froze longer, waiting for daylight. When morning came, I rushed to the nearest subway station. I was in shock. Did that happen? Was that rape?

I texted my group chat: “I think I got raped.” Everyone told me to go to the hospital and get a rape kit. They said it needed to be reported.

I went home instead. I just wanted to feel clean. I was still frozen. I lay in bed for hours as tears ran down my face. I felt guilty. If I report this, I’d be putting a Black man in jail, I thought.

Was that rape?

Hours later, my roommate and closest friend came into my room, concerned. “You need to get a rape kit, and I’m going with you,” she said. So we went.

I had to tell the story over and over that day, until I didn’t want to speak about it at all. Especially when the responses were: “What did you do to deserve this?” “What were you wearing?” “Were you under the influence?” The rape kit itself was uncomfortable and felt like another violation.

Afterward, my roommate took me to Urban Outfitters and bought me a pair of sparkling yellow and blue socks. I love socks, and that small gesture meant everything. From that point on, I wore them until I couldn’t anymore.

But rent was still due. I had no energy left. I wrote a letter about how much of a failure I felt, what I had experienced, and why I didn’t want to exist anymore. My parents found out, immediately flew me home, and put me in therapy. It felt like they were treating me as someone spiraling out of control, rather than someone trying to process trauma. We never really talked about what happened. I was disappointed in myself for being back home again, and I knew they were disappointed too.

The memories lingered. The questions circled endlessly. Why did people ask what I did, as if I had asked for it? Why didn’t they ask where he lived, or what he looked like? Why did Boye think it was okay? Was it because I told him I was a sex worker? Maybe he didn’t know. But how could he not, when I told him? I was on my period.

The one time I contacted Boye was to tell him I had reported him. Eventually, I dropped the case. It required my physical presence, and it felt like the system made it nearly impossible to pursue justice. I also couldn’t bear retelling the story again.

Boye said he didn’t know.

That response stayed with me. Whether it was genuine or not, it made one thing clear: there is a profound lack of sexual education, especially around consent. Photography began to feel dull and uninspiring. I needed something more tangible, so I turned to drawing. It became more therapeutic than the sessions I was attending.

This is why I created The Kamasutra Series. It is a collection of erotic drawings paired with facts about sex and intimacy. My goal was to spread knowledge so that the last thing anyone could say is, “I didn’t know.”

There are people who have experienced more challenging times, and that’s true. But my efforts to express my ideas aren’t about who had the hardest life. It’s about sharing perspective in an effort to shed light on an underrepresented experience.

Writing Eros & Mythos has felt like I’ve been constipated for the past ten years, and I’m finally letting it loose.

The truth is, I have no one to share these stories with. I don’t remember the last time someone genuinely asked me, “how do you feel?” My biggest supporters of my art aren’t my friends or family, they are strangers. And I don’t mean monetary support. I mean words. Long paragraphs about how my work has impacted them. Those words are worth more than any dollar. But I noticed they would go in one ear and out the other. I didn’t feel worthy of any praise, and I couldn’t figure out why. This is my first time sharing my story, yet somehow my supporters have already seen it, long before I ever said a word.

Did you know one of the most popularly searched words is “love”? We’ve all seen “the people yearn for community” in the comments of a heartfelt TikTok or Reel. That yearning is increasing every day. I know you feel it too. The internet connects us, but it also separates us. It creates the illusion of intimacy while starving us of the real thing.

My name is Najai Janique Johnson. I’m a queer Black woman who loves all the intricacies of sex. And yet, my existence feels censored.

Yes, my art is sexual. But it is really about human connection and unity. The very thing people are yearning for.

When I started OnlyFans, I hated how “porny” it felt and looked. Why couldn’t sex be expressed as beautifully as it feels? Why did everyone feel like just another body to each other? It felt dehumanizing. I wanted to create from what people call the “female gaze” (a term I don’t even like). It should not be a niche perspective. It should be human.

I’m not saying you need to be in love with every intimate interaction. But what happened to valuing the person you’ve allowed to be that close to you? That, too, is a form of love.

Sex is how we all got here. I can’t fathom why the topic is so taboo. Is it because of the patriarchal tendency to reduce people to objects? Or because we have so little space to truly study, understand, and honor the bodies that birthed the world?

“Any body shame or unhealthy sexual beliefs will end up affecting your self-esteem, relationships, and career.”
— Zora Voyce

My art isn’t only about sex, but it is about how deeply rooted sex is in our makeup. The idea of patriarchy shapes how we are taught to view sex and relationships in ways that feel natural, but are actually learned.

We are taught that desire belongs to men, and restraint belongs to women. That men pursue, and women are chosen. That a man with experience is admired, while a woman with the same experience is judged. That sex is something performed, something achieved, rather than something felt.

Over time, intimacy becomes less about connection and more about roles. The dominant man. The desirable woman. The “good” partner. We start performing instead of experiencing.

Porn and media don’t just reflect these ideas. They reinforce them.

For many people, porn is their first form of sexual education. It teaches what sex is supposed to look like, who it is centered around, and what pleasure should be. Too often, it presents sex as something driven by male desire, where performance matters more than presence, and where bodies are consumed rather than understood.

This creates a kind of distance from ourselves. A subtle awareness of being watched, even in private moments. A pressure to perform instead of feel.

And when you add race into that, especially for Black women, the experience becomes even more specific.

Black women exist in a space where sexuality is both hyper-visible and misunderstood. In porn and media, we are often portrayed as more sexual, more aggressive, more experienced. As if desire lives in us more naturally than it does in others. As if we are always ready, always knowing.

But that perception leaves very little room for softness. Very little room for discovery. Very little room to not know.

It creates a world where Black women are not always seen as people exploring intimacy, but as people expected to already embody it.

There is also the question of desire itself. Am I being desired for who I am, or for what I represent? Am I being seen, or am I being imagined?

That line can become very thin.

Even beauty becomes complicated. The same media that hypersexualizes Black women also narrows what is considered desirable. Certain bodies are highlighted, exaggerated, repeated. And anything outside of that can feel invisible. So you are either expected to match a fantasy or disappear from it.

All of this shapes how we move. How we love. How we allow ourselves to be seen.

It can create a disconnect between how much we give and how much we receive. Between how we are perceived and who we actually are.

This is where Eros & Mythos exists.

Between performance and truth. Between being watched and being felt. Between the body as spectacle and the body as home.

My work is not about sex for the sake of sex. It is about reclaiming intimacy. Reclaiming softness. Reclaiming complexity.

It is about asking what desire looks like when it is not shaped by expectation, but by truth.

And maybe, in that space, we can find each other again.

This was the day that over half of the “Friends With Benefits” girls would be arriving at the house. Kitty rented an Airbnb in New Orleans for FWB to host our first meetup. We had three days to shoot each other’s nude photos and videos.

I loved this concept. Although our friendship had taken a hit, FWB still had money to make. Our special guest was Kitty’s boyfriend. I had a feeling the girls weren’t too fond of his presence, although we never discussed it outright. If his presence was anything like the last time, I knew we were going to be in for quite a time. I didn’t let that distract me, because there was so much to look forward to. The three days felt like we were on “Bad Girls Club,” except the only fighting happened between Kitty and her boyfriend. Shocking.

The house was beautiful, and finally getting to meet some of the girls was nice. We game planned how the three days were going to go. When I say we utilized every part of this house for content, I mean it. Here was our to-do list:

1. Solo nudes: There were plenty of girls to recruit to take your photos, just ask.

2. Halloween photos: FWB dressed up in costumes.

3. Champagne striptease video: We poured champagne all over each other and danced.

4. Group nudes: Pair up. Whoever wanted to be in, got in.

5. Go live every day: We allocated time to go live with each other. The more, the merrier.

6. Christmas photos: Very similar to the Halloween photos.

7. Nudes around the city: Self-explanatory, public nudes.

8. Shower orgy.

I hated the shower orgy. This was one of the only times Kitty allowed her boyfriend to participate with us. Sometimes he would get on our lives, which also annoyed me. Him being in our content made it seem like he was our pimp or something. Before the shower scene, I told Kitty that I wanted no part in intimacy with her boyfriend. I didn’t mind being there and doing anything with the girls, but he disgusted me. “Don’t you have your own business to tend to?” I thought.

So the scene starts with each girl coming in one by one, in an “oop, I didn’t know you were in here, but since we’re here…” kind of way. Then Kitty’s boyfriend is the last to enter. He expected us all to perform on him. This wasn’t the first time he expected that. When we were on tour, we did an “Uber Driver” video. It was actually really funny. Kitty’s boyfriend was our driver, who got upset with us for being so rambunctious during the ride. It ended with a “happy ending,” but I wanted no part of that, so I stepped out for that portion. The same applied to the shower scene.

“I’m not doing anything with your boyfriend,” I whispered to Kitty during the shower scene. I think that made her feel weird. He was pushy, and his efforts to get everyone involved were obvious. Of course, they argued, but that was expected given our prior experience. What wasn’t expected was that the other girls had to witness the fallout after their fights. Not the best first impression, but definitely a lasting one.

Otherwise, our meetup served its purpose. Everyone left the house with at least a year’s worth of content. Not only that, but we were still doing outcalls and going live, so money was being made on site. Unfortunately, but also fortunately, this would be the first and last FWB meetup. I was one of the first people to fade out of the group. If a man was going to be part of it, I wanted out.

The rest of the girls gradually drifted away until FWB was no more. Kitty and I hardly communicated after the meetup. Then she just disappeared. Kitty was my last real girlfriend. I think she changed my approach to friendships. I felt a lot of pain behind our relationship. Kitty taught me how to hustle independently, showed me my first pole trick, and her presence changed my life. I’m forever grateful for the friend she was, both the good and the bad.

Today, Kitty is a straight-edged girly, a working woman who loves God. If you knew her before this transformation, it would surprise you. But I always thought to myself, “hoes have the biggest hearts.” Prove me wrong. It’s either nursing, God, or both. Just jokes. I still think of Kitty. I’m sending her so much love, and I hope she is alright most of all.

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I enjoyed the pandemic. It was constant news monitoring in the beginning, until it wasn’t. I turned my extra bedroom into a pole and art studio. It was bliss. Kitty and I decided to start working out and creating content together. We would go to the local nature reserve, run a couple of miles, then take each other’s nudes.

Kitty and I had similar backgrounds. We were both oldest siblings and military brats. I always found Kitty to be far more confident and secure than me. She was a personality and hustler, for sure. Kitty helped me sell my art at vending events. Selling my art always felt weird for me. I never felt deserving of the attention and didn’t know how to lean into it. Even without me saying anything, I felt like Kitty picked up on that.

I was spending more time with Kitty than with my boyfriend, and that felt nice. I long for connections with women that feel stronger and more unbreakable than my intimate relationships.

Kitty was really popular, with over half a million followers, so getting my numbers up was easy once we started creating content together. A lot of our time was spent on Camsoda, a webcam platform. We would get paid to do things like flashing, kissing, dancing, and having sex.

A couple of months into working together, Kitty came up with a fantastic idea: “Friends With Benefits,” a woman-owned sex worker collective. Very quickly, we accumulated a handful of girls to work with us. Here were some of the services we offered:

1. Video calls: Fans could video call the girls of their choice.

2. Dick rates: Available girls would submit ratings. Depending on the customer, they could receive a simple 1 to 10 rating, a paragraph rating, a voice rating, or a video rating.

3. Outcalls: Fans were able to book girls through FWB. Not every girl participated.

4. Camsoda or OnlyFans Live: Since we were scattered across the world, we went live virtually. It was the same premise as what Kitty and I did, but with limits. Obviously, we couldn’t have sex.

5. Custom videos and photos: Self-explanatory.

Contracts were made, and I handled all of our promotional and visual assets. The girls were given weekly deadlines to submit content, and everything ran smoothly. In retrospect, it felt like we were running a virtual brothel. But I’ve always said, “I’d rather have a madam than a pimp,” so it sat right with me. Plus, every member kept all of their money. Friends With Benefits became good side income for everyone, especially since OnlyFans was at its peak during the pandemic.

Kitty had another idea. She wanted to go on tour. This meant advertising outcalls along the East Coast and lining up bookings from the South to the North. The tour had another purpose as well. One of our stops was Tennessee, where she needed to retrieve her belongings from her toxic boyfriend’s house.

I was initially reluctant to go. She said the only way she could get her things was to physically retrieve them. That raised red flags, because we needed to be discreet. He didn’t know he was being broken up with, and we would be staying at his house for part of the trip. I went anyway.

If we weren’t working, Kitty and her boyfriend argued often. When things escalated too far, she would shut down completely. No FWB, no content, nothing. The trip frustrated me because I saw Kitty as such a strong person, yet in front of him she was completely different. It was like she lost her backbone. I had seen her confidently command men at work, so watching her become passive in that relationship was jarring.

Then things got worse. Kitty’s boyfriend became a part of FWB. His presence felt unnecessary. He was mostly in the chat, “assisting” with admin work, but it felt wrong. The whole concept was women-owned, for women, by women. Having him involved disrupted that.

Our relationship became strained. I felt like she was prioritizing a man over the community of women we built. I addressed it, but after the tour, we slowly drifted apart.

During this time, I was working on a painting called “You Live in My Lap,” inspired by the song “She Lives in My Lap” by Outkast. Kitty ended up purchasing the painting while we were on tour.

She had a regular client we’ll call Shaun. Sometimes he requested that I join their video calls. When he heard about the tour, he booked us along with another FWB member. Shaun had terminal cancer, and one of his bucket list items was to have a foursome. The agreement was that Kitty’s portion would go toward purchasing the painting.

Shaun was very kind. Kitty and I met him first, and the third girl joined later. Group sex is straightforward work. Men are easy to please, so there isn’t much to say about it. It was essentially three women performing and one man.

As the tour came to an end, Kitty decided she wanted to stay with her boyfriend. We had traveled in her car, so I flew back home. I felt betrayed. I felt like I had pushed myself out of my comfort zone in an effort to be a “girls’ girl,” only for her to return to someone who was holding her back.

We were still in each other’s lives, but something had changed. I couldn’t look at her the same way anymore.

But I love the attention.
I love the stories of women.
I love expressing my sensuality and sexuality.
I loved the instant gratification of fast money.
I loved that getting dressed for work felt like a form of self-care.

Dancing didn’t feel like I was going up there for the sole purpose of appealing to these men. Yes, that was a part of the job, but dancing felt more personal. I was in my body, in full control of what I was exuding. It was the perfect way to feel yourself and the music, especially when you’re blessed with a great DJ like I was.

I loved my DJ, Kirk. He had a snappy Brooklyn personality in a dad kind of way. He wasn’t my type, but he was a handsome older gentleman with a good sense of humor. He was friends with the dancers I liked the most and was a great person to vent to. Kirk didn’t think I would last in the club. It was clear that I didn’t come from a background similar to the other girls, and my beginning was quite rusty.

I made a friend named “Blaze.” Blaze was a beautiful Mexican woman, the epitome of a pin-up chola. She had incredible artwork all over her body. A mother of three in her late 20s, with huge fake boobs and perfectly winged eyeliner. Blaze had a gentle spirit and a really hard life.

I met Blaze through her regular, “Jamie.” Jamie was great. He invited me to hang out with him and Blaze after one of my stage sets. He was extremely friendly and loved his two dogs. He didn’t really get dances, but he tipped on stage in amounts comparable to private dances. I felt like Jamie was one of the few people who could see through Blaze’s hardness and insecurities. If I could describe him in one word, it would be “goober.” I don’t mean that in a negative way. He was just a cool, jolly dude who was there for a good time.

Sometimes I would give Blaze rides to and from work. The motel she lived in was only five minutes away from my apartment. She was paying night-to-night, so Jamie was really her lifesaver. Blaze had a boyfriend who was a meth dealer. He was both her abuser and her enabler. Blaze would go missing for weeks, and our club mutuals would all quietly hope that the worst hadn’t happened to her, myself included. Then she would randomly text me from a new number or a brand-new Instagram or Facebook account.

One day, Blaze got kicked out of her motel and moved to another one across the highway. This is how the story goes:

Blaze and her boyfriend were having kinky sex, and they both enjoyed consensual non-consent (CNC), where scenarios that simulate lack of consent are actually pre-agreed upon and controlled. They were also into thanatophilia, an attraction to death or the idea of it, which often overlaps with fantasies involving danger or intensity.

They were roleplaying a theft scenario, but it escalated. With meth involved, everything became more intense. The situation ended with Blaze duct-taped in the motel bathtub. Her boyfriend was completely tweaked out and beat her. The motel noticed and kicked them out.

A couple of weeks later, I received an alarming call from Blaze. She needed help moving her things from her new motel to her parents’ house. I met her a couple of blocks away. In my rearview mirror, I watched her approach with a black trash bag. Halfway to my car, her boyfriend appeared, running after her.

She managed to get her bag into my car while he repeatedly asked where she was going. It turned into a game of me circling the block until she could make a quick escape into the car. We sped off to her parents’ house, where her kids lived.

The house was full. Her mother, father, sisters, nieces, nephews, and drawings all over the walls. Her family was sweet, but it was clear things weren’t great there either. I continued to see Blaze for a while, but her situation became increasingly dangerous. It was a lot to handle, so our relationship faded, and so did her presence at the club.

The occurrence of casual sex lessened after I started dancing. Of course, having a partner contributed to that too. But when we were off, the idea of casual sex didn’t make sense to me if I could be getting paid for it. Free sex only made sense when feelings were involved, and even then, it started to feel like a waste if it wasn’t going anywhere.

It felt strange to have those thoughts, but I still stand by them as long as the patriarchy exists. Patronizing sex perpetuates a patriarchal narrative. When the modern man complains about sex work in any capacity, they only have themselves to blame. This is a system built by and around men, so making the same people who complain about it pay for it feels like a power move.

But sex work is more than just sex. A lot of the time, it isn’t about sex at all. What I observed most was loneliness. A cocktail of companionship, love, and intimacy seemed to be increasingly lacking for so many people, both inside and outside of the club. Catering to that cocktail is a job in itself. It’s emotionally and mentally taxing.

Shame shows up in so many ways. And when it’s expressed through sexuality, it can be intense.

Blaze was one of the few noteworthy people I had the pleasure of working alongside and learning from. It was very insightful to gain the perspectives of these women. It was also lovely to witness just how strong and capable women are.

Imagine raising three kids, taking care of your abusive partner, going to nursing school, tolerating a plethora of personalities at work, and dodging sexual abuse both inside and outside of it.

When Kitty came back to San Antonio, we resumed working together consistently. One day, I asked her why she had been coming to work in spurts, and she explained that this website called OnlyFans was working well for her. There wasn’t much need for her to come into the club anymore.

Kitty suggested that I should hop on it too. I wasn’t too impressed. I made three posts and then forgot about it.

In the meantime, I continued working at the club consistently. Kitty and I would also go on dates around the city on the side. There was this doctor who loved to be wrapped in Saran Wrap from head to toe. One of us would sit on his face while the other would jerk him off, and we’d both degrade him and tell him not to finish.

Kitty also taught me about “freestyling.” Freestyling refers to meeting potential clients or partners in person, rather than through apps, websites, or agencies. Once you learn how to do it, you can do it almost anywhere.

Kitty once told me, “A trick can always spot a hoe, and vice versa,” and I’ll never forget it. My “trick detector” became stronger. I could always tell when someone was willing to pay, but I could also tell when someone was trying to figure me out.

Eventually, COVID hit. Luckily, Texas didn’t care too much at first, so I was working pretty normally until the lockdown really set in. By that time, I hadn’t seen Kitty at work for about a month. Her OnlyFans was doing really well. She suggested that we start working together so I could get myself up. By then, the world was changing, and so was I. The club had taught me how to be seen, how to read people, how to hold power in my body. But this felt different. Quieter. More controlled. I didn’t know it yet, but I was stepping into a version of the same work on my own terms.

Typically, he would come in on Saturdays around lunchtime, when we’d share a club sandwich and kettle chips. Jeff was a great conversationalist. He was extremely knowledgeable about music, which was the most stimulating topic of conversation for me. He would write me poems, and he once described my body as Rubenesque. He was my favorite because he made my job easy. He came to the club only for me, and he was always a generous spender.

Dancing in San Antonio, I was not among the popular demographic. I was a heavier-set Black woman with limited social skills. Because of that, I feel like I attracted a niche clientele that I grew fond of. Every interaction felt like an episode of The Office… but sexy.

My next favorite was a pervert, and I liked it. He was a small Asian man with a long braid, glasses, and worked as a carpenter. I actually don’t know what nickname to give him, so let’s just call him “Carpenter.” I’ll literally never forget him because I hate how much he turned me on. Just the thought of him does something to me.

Here’s how our relationship went:

Carpenter always sat in the same spot. The same spot that I later learned was a strategic blind spot below his waist. In the beginning, we didn’t interact, except for the one time he denied my company, which was embarrassing. He never tipped on stage, at first. He just sat there and watched intently.

One normal day, Carpenter was there as usual. Kirk called me up to do my set. While I was on stage, I noticed Carpenter steadily shaking. He was jerking off. I think a typical dancer would have told a manager, but I didn’t. We made eye contact while I finished my set. I exited the stage and passed his table. I assumed he didn’t want company, as usual.

Another time he came in, he finally tipped me on stage. So I went to his table and chatted him up. Once again, the conversation was dry and awkward, but still nice, funny, and slightly seductive. He didn’t want a dance, just to tip on stage and a little grope. It went like that for about a month.

Then we finally graduated to dances.

This is why I liked him: I didn’t have to dance for him. He just wanted to bury his face in my body. I’d stand in front of him, and he’d jiggle every part of me and bury his face in it. It felt empowering and a little humorous. I learned about his personal life, and he became one of mine.

One day, he came in and asked for more. I was doing extras in the club if the price was right and if my financial situation called for it. Luckily, it was a weekend when the manager was more lenient. There were specific girls who worked those days for that exact reason, so I knew I was in the clear. Just don’t be obviously illegal.

So we went to the private rooms, and I was shocked. His dick was huge. I was almost disappointed that we were in the club. We needed space. For it to only last about five minutes, with limited access and a condom, I was left wanting more.

Unfortunately, that was one of the few times I saw him in that way. Normally, I approached those situations with reluctance, with a “whatever, I just need to pay bills” attitude. But those times were completely different. I enjoyed the weirdness of it, and I definitely reminisce with a smirk on my face.

My most annoying regular bought me a bed and paid my rent. His name was “Leo.”

Leo disgusted me. He was the worst husband, and that made me feel like the worst person for being with him. Yes, that was the reality in many situations, but he italicized, bolded, and highlighted it. Still, he was contributing so much to my life at the time. I felt like his relationship with me was predatory, especially in terms of age.

Leo brought out such icky feelings. He was the epitome of a certain personality type that the club was riddled with. A form of loneliness, maybe.

When I first started at the club, Kitty and I worked together frequently. Eventually, I built my own regulars, and Kitty’s presence at the club faded. My financial flow improved, but I was still putting in more work than I was getting in return.

I ended up getting a sugar daddy named Dave, who gave me some financial and physical space to create. He was annoying too. The only positive thing about him was that he was childless and single.

By this point, I was no longer practicing photography, which had been my focus in college. My art had always been erotic in nature, embracing natural forms. I wanted to find a way to translate that sensual language into something more tangible.

So I started drawing. My Kamasutra series came first, and then it progressed into painting. At that point, I was working with acrylics. Dave’s presence in my life gave me the space to hone my painting skills and let my bruises from the club heal.

Eventually, I got an apartment with my boyfriend. Yes, boyfriend. Someone was brave enough to be with me during that time. It was my first relationship, and it was inconsistent. Sometimes we were together, other times we weren’t. We went on like that for about two years before moving in together.

It was simply complicated. Nothing more, nothing less.

At that point, I felt like I was doing what I needed to do so we could all eat. Eventually, Kitty came back, and somehow, nothing had changed and everything had. Months had passed, and we had so much to say, so much to fill in between us

Only four call centers and three retail jobs later, I found myself at my first strip club. I was living in San Antonio, a 21-year-old art school dropout. There were a couple of things I knew before making this decision:

1. I was lacking in social skills and charisma, skills I wanted to strengthen.

2. I had exhausted every entry-level role around the city.

3. Although confidence was a personal work in progress, I was always comfortable in my body. Exposing myself physically felt less vulnerable than exposing and articulating my thoughts.

4. I get to dance and look pretty. I would be learning something completely foreign to me, and that was exciting.

5. I needed the money ASAP.

I found the only club willing to let me dance with no prior experience, Blush Gentleman’s Club. This club was right off the highway, bringing in a high volume of truckers passing through the city. I should note that in San Antonio, strip clubs were not permitted to expose a certain amount of ass and no nipple. So a lot of clubs would paint over your nipples and require you to wear panties reminiscent of boy shorts. Blush was more of a strip club than a gentleman’s club.

I always started work as soon as Blush opened at 11 AM. That was when the lowest house fee, or stripper rent, was in effect. I never worked too late unless I had to. I tried working one night, and the pace was fast. A certain level of charisma and pole skill was needed for me to succeed in that environment. The mornings were slow and felt more like a “gentleman’s club” vibe. Usually it was guys coming in on lunch with a spare $40 for a couple of dances, or whatever $40 could get.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no pole skills, a bad wig, and I was shy. But I was there every day. I refrained from making friends with anyone because I knew the club could be a controversial space, putting me at risk for altercations. So I avoided it altogether.

Every day I was in the club, Kitty was there too. We didn’t speak, but we acknowledged each other. That changed when she asked if I wanted to say mantras together in the locker room. This was new to me, and I was hopeful it would help.

I was there every day, bruised everywhere, only making enough to cover the house fee and maybe some gas. After our mantra moment, I asked Kitty to show me a pole trick. I would have been so grateful just to get something down. And she did.

From that point on, I worked alongside Kitty any time we were both in the club. Whenever she texted me, I wouldn’t respond. I didn’t feel like it was safe to become more than work friends with Kitty, or anyone from the club for that matter. That changed after the third time I randomly ran into her outside of work. I took it as a sign that maybe we were meant to be more than just work friends.

I’m generally terrible at texting, but I was especially bad at texting her as a friend. The thing is, I wasn’t making much money at that club. It got to a point where I was taking extras outside of the club. I started owing the house. If a dancer does not make enough in tips to cover the house fee, she is considered to be “in the hole,” meaning she owes the house money. Blush allowed this three times, and then I had to go.

I reached out to Kitty, who gave me a list of clubs to try next. I found one not too far from Blush, just outside the city limits. This club allowed nipple and some butt. But it was also “extras central.” And yes, if you’re wondering, I worked there reluctantly until I found my home club: AllStars Gentleman’s Club.

This is where Kitty was. Definitely a gentleman’s club. I loved it. A $15 house fee, plus breakfast and a comped drink? I was in.

My DJ was a Brooklyn man named Kirk, and he played whatever I liked. Not only that, but he would mix in his own selections, and it felt like he could read my energy. Kirk could play any song for me, and I knew it would match.

The club was perfect. I was building regulars. My managers and the bartenders were cool. I wasn’t the best dancer, and I wasn’t the most fit, but I found myself deeply dedicated to dancing. It became less about the money and more about the joy the environment brought me.

I was learning about different walks of life, the game, womanhood, addiction, motherhood, abuse, and more. I looked forward to going to AllStars and seeing everyone there. It also felt good to be desired in multiple ways.

I started dancing in 2018 and wrapped it up around the pandemic in 2020. However, I’ve only set the scene for the experiences that shape my art.

Smegma is the thick, white, cheesy substance that collects under the foreskin of the penis. It's more common in uncircumcised men who don't clean that area well enough. Women can also get smegma in their vaginal area.

It's normal to have some smegma. And it usually isn't a health problem, but bacteria can grow in it and smell bad. Those bacteria can also make the head of the penis swell up and hurt.

Kamasutra: Wall

The oldest-reported dildo is 30,000 years old and was unearthed in a German cave. It’s illegal to own more than 6 dildos in Texas. Vibrators were initially used by doctors to cure hysteria in women.

The Kamasutra: Clapper

The claim that Eskimo is offensive is often supported by citing a popular etymology tracing its origin to an Abenaki word meaning “eaters of raw meat.” “Eskimo sisters" is a racist term that refers to any two women who have slept with the same man. It may have originated as a reference to Intuit pre-colonial plural marriages. The proper term for “Eskimo” is “Intuit” or “Aleut” depending on the tribe.

An alternative term for “Eskimo Sisters” is “Lumberjack Sisters”

The Kamasutra: Snake

They are sexual interests in objects, situations, or individuals that are atypical. Autagonistophilia is a paraphilia in which sexual arousal and orgasm are contingent upon displaying one's self in a live show, i.e., being observed performing on stage or on camera. Capnolagnia is a sexual fetish based on the pulmonary consumption (smoking) of tobacco, most often via cigarettes, cigars, and also, pipes and hookahs to some extent. As a fetish, its mechanisms regard sexual arousal from the observation or imagination of a person smoking, sometimes including oneself.

The Kamasutra: Leo ♌️

For starters, it’s a real thing! It was the first thing that came to mind when I was drawing this, THOUGH this drawing clearly displays non-platonic relations. Anyhow, the goal of Professional Cuddling is to provide people a safe space to feel respected, accepted, and worthy for exactly who they are. This form of touch therapy is completely platonic. Who are the people paying for cuddles? Maybe you're just busy but find that when you are free none of your friends are. Maybe you're in a hospital bed. Maybe you’re simply a touchy person. The list goes on. There is no professional licensing, but some companies offer training and even certification.

“Two-spirit” refers to a person who identifies as having both a masculine and a feminine spirit, and is used by some Indigenous people to describe their sexual, gender and/or spiritual identity. Rather than emphasising the homosexuality of these persons, however, many Native Americans focused on their spiritual gifts. American Indian traditionalists, even today, tend to see a person's basic character as a reflection of their spirit. Since everything that exists is thought to come from the spirit world, androgynous or transgender persons are seen as doubly blessed, having both the spirit of a man and the spirit of a woman. Thus, they are honoured for having two spirits, and are seen as more spiritually gifted than the typical masculine male or feminine female.

From Ancient Greek (klúsma, “enema”)

Klismaphilia is a sexual disorder under the group of paraphilias where sexual gratification is obtained by the use of enemas. Most klismaphiles are heterosexuals, with the female being the one receiving the enema, and the male administering it to her. Klismaphilia is often connected to a fetish for spanking, anal play, and, rarely, diapers (infantilism).

There are a lot of nerves in that area and penetration can feel really good if you are wired that way. Sensations involved included the feeling of fullness that comes from large volume enemas or the urge to evacuate. There are other potential reasons beyond the physical sensations, for example some people have a medical fetish while others need to feel humiliated and view enemas as a humiliating experience.

The Kamasutra: Nice Talk

Pegging is when a woman wears a strap-on dildo and penetrates her partner anally. The word pegging was created to unlink anal sex for men from gay sex. The male “g-spot” is located in their prostate, so anal stimulation can feel particularly good for people with prostates. Pegging can be a fun way to exchange power roles in a sexual relationship.

But why?

Men can experience a prostate orgasm with rhythmic stimulation, an action commonly referred to as prostate milking.

Men don’t typically pursue submissive roles. Getting pegged can be exciting being dominated by a female partner.

Kamasutra: Bridge

The only thing that was sad was the constant morning sickness and the inability to do anything. Prior to that June experience, I had undergone 2 medical abortions that were unsuccessful. My body was unable to pass the fetus, causing an infection. I was 9 going on 10 weeks pregnant and I was extremely close to the recent decision that was made: The Abolishment of Roe V. Wade. I’m so grateful that I was able to make that decision and just as equally disappointed that so many lives are affected by this abolishment. I think that one of the biggest driving forces in this decision being made is ignorance, the lack of knowledge.

With that being said, let’s get into some abortion facts! 1 in 4 pregnancies end in abortion. 25 million unsafe abortion take place each year. Criminalising abortion does not stop abortions, it just makes abortion less safe. In the U.S black women are at least 5 times more likely than white women to have an abortion. Approximately 1,876 black babies are aborted every day. For years, if someone asked Siri to find an abortion clinic nearby, the program would direct the user to crisis pregnancy centers instead.

There is way more to learn about the women’s body revolving around our reproductive system. I’m afraid that there is not enough education on the topic. Please educate yourselves on women and just sex in general. Also, remember that your personal morals/values should never apply to or be imposed on anyone but yourself. LASTLY, wrap it before you tap it.

The Kamasutra: Rider

What if I said I’m not sure yet? I know the facts about myself but “who I am” feels like an unplayable character.

I’m Najai Johnson, an oil painter, model, and erotic artist born in New Orleans. My work lives in the soft space between desire and becoming. I paint to understand myself, to trace the places where pleasure, vulnerability, and truth meet. Everything I create feels like a conversation with the body. Its memory, its instinct, its ache to be seen gently.

Art became my refuge long before I had the language for healing. There were moments in my life that pulled me away from myself, and I learned to return through imagery that felt tender, powerful, and unapologetically feminine. What started as survival grew into a way of telling the stories I once kept quiet. My worlds are lush, surreal, and intimate, shaped by distortion, symbolism, and intuition rather than logic.

I am drawn to transformation. The slow kind. The messy kind. The kind that unfolds in the dark before anyone notices. My paintings try to hold that process and show the beauty of shedding old versions of ourselves while stepping into something more honest. Erotic imagery appears often in my work, not for shock but for truth. Pleasure is sacred to me. It is reclamation. It is a way of saying that I am here and I am allowed to feel.

Plants, feminine forms, and mythic shapes move through my art like quiet witnesses. They reflect the cycles I know best. Growth, decay, rebirth, and the tension between what blooms naturally and what the world expects. I blend these elements because they feel like pieces of the same story. A story of unity, connection, and the strength found inside softness.

Modeling and soft erotica are extensions of this same language. Through writing and imagery, I share the parts of myself that live beneath the surface. It feels like opening a window and letting light touch the places I once hid. It feels like reclaiming my own narrative.

At the heart of my work is an invitation. Stand inside the in-between. Honor complexity. Let the surreal and the sensual speak in ways that everyday life rarely allows. My art is where I return to myself. I hope others can recognize pieces of their own becoming there too.