Pleasure Hotline: Vol. 2

Maybe you thought you didn’t come. Then you looked down and there was a pool of wetness beneath you, and suddenly you weren’t so sure. Did I finish? Did I squirt? Did I climax? Is that the same thing?

If you’ve ever had that exact moment of confusion, you’re not alone, and it’s actually way more common than you’d think.

In this week’s submission, someone wrote in and asked:

“This has ALWAYS seemed to confuse me. Is there a difference between cumming, climaxing, and an orgasm for women? Or are they all the same? I don’t seem to ‘finish’ during sex but I manage to squirt. I’m assuming that doesn’t mean I’ve finished though?”

Okay, so let’s get into it.

First things first, let’s clear this up, because you are not alone in this confusion. Most of us, especially women, were handed zero vocabulary for our own bodies and pleasure, so no wonder the terms feel like a jumbled mess.

Cumming, climaxing, orgasm. Different words, same event. One’s casual, one’s a little clinical, one’s just the plain term. All three point to the same thing happening in your body - a peak of pleasure.

Squirting is where the actual confusion lives, and here’s the myth I want to bust first. Squirting does not equal an orgasm. You can squirt without orgasming. You can orgasm without squirting. You can do both at the same time. All of these combinations are normal.

The fluid is usually clear or slightly milky and doesn’t have the same composition as pee” and “science is still catching up to what ancient pleasure practices have known for centuries, squirting isn’t a party trick, it’s a real physiological response to deep pleasure and release.

Moving on to fluids released during sex. Here’s a fun fact you might not know..

There are actually four distinct fluids the female body can release, not just one. Yup, there are four different types of female ejaculate.

Urinary bladder emission, aka squirting. Not pee, though it can mix with urine if the bladder wasn’t emptied first.

Prostatic fluid, a viscous, whitish liquid, usually just a teaspoon or two, from the paraurethral glands (yes, you have a version of a prostate).

Clear, water-like fluid, sometimes called gushing, different source and consistency than squirting fluid.

Elixir, thick, white, cream-like.

Here’s the truth about orgasms.. There is no single orgasm. There’s no one correct way for a body to finish, no script your pleasure is supposed to follow to count as “real.” A lot of women already carry the pressure just to have one at all, let alone what it’s supposed to look like, what it’s supposed to feel like, how loud, how fast, how obvious. That’s a lot to carry into a moment that’s supposed to be about your own pleasure, not a performance review of it.

Here’s the good news. There are over twelve different ways orgasm can move through your body. Yes, twelve 👀 (I’ll be doing a deeper dive into this.)

The clitoral orgasm is treat it as the end all be all, its sharp and quick. But there’s also the G-spot, that ridged, almost textured place just inside the front wall. The A-spot, further in still. The cervix, which can hold a kind of emotional depth that surprises people the first time it opens. The uterus, when a cervical wave keeps spreading past where you expected it to stop. There’s a whole landscape near the back wall, the P-spot, the perineal sponge tucked between vagina and anus. Nipples and breasts count too, releasing their own rush of oxytocin. Some orgasms blend two of these places at once. Some come with fluid, some don’t. Some move through your entire body like a wave with no single center at all. And some need no touch whatsoever, just your breath and the right kind of attention and time.

Remember, nothing about you is broken. Your pleasure and expression is your own. Own it.

With love,
Tugce

A quick note before I go. This is the last free Pleasure Hotline answer here. Starting next week, Hotline answers move to paid subscribers only, it’s what lets me create an actual safe space for people to ask me anything, no matter how vulnerable, embarrassing, or specific, without it living somewhere fully public. It’s also just the most sustainable way for me to keep doing this work in the depth it deserves.

If you want to keep getting these, and go deeper with me in general, this is a good moment to become a paid subscriber. Got your own question for the hotline? Submit it anonymously at tugcebalik.com/hotline, I read every single one, and yours might be the next one I answer.

Should relationships be “hard work”?

I genuinely want to know, what are your thoughts?

For the longest time, I flip-flopped on this, saying yes one minute and no the next. And I think it’s because I had such a black-and-white view of “healthy relationships.” I feel like we broad-stroke love stories into two easy categories.

Love takes work, constant work, all the time. Or it shouldn’t feel hard at all, it should just “flow.”

So, which one is it?

I’ve come to the conclusion, based on my lived experience with my own relationships, and years of working with couples, that relationships shouldn’t be hard work. They should be heart work.

Here’s what I mean by that.

There’s a kind of hard that isn’t devotion at all. It’s a slow abandonment of yourself, dressed up as keeping the peace and not rocking the beat. Overfunctioning for love that should’ve already been freely given. Softening your voice, your needs, your whole presence, the moment someone else’s mood shifts. Rehearsing a conversation for days because bringing things up has never gone well before. None of it builds anything. It just costs you, quietly, until you notice one day that you’ve become smaller than you used to be.

A test I keep returning to. If the version of you inside a relationship is more careful, more contained, more agreeable than the version your closest friends actually know, that isn’t love asking something sacred of you. That’s fear, wearing love’s clothing.

So here is what I mean when I say a relationship should be heart work (and a heads up, it rarely feels graceful while it’s happening). It’s staying present when your partner is upset instead of performing composure you don’t feel. It’s saying the honest thing, even when your voice shakes and you feel that clenching around your throat. It’s catching yourself mid-blame and asking yourself what’s actually yours in that moment. It doesn’t feel “easy”. But something real gets built there, instead of quietly taken.

Your body already knows the difference between these two kinds of hard, long before your mind catches up to explain it. A relationship, even in its imperfection, exists to help your nervous system come home to itself so you can fully express all of you.

A healthy relationship doesn’t mean the triggers disappear and the arguments end. If anything, they surface because your system has finally found a place safe enough to let them rise.

Your partner says something, an offhand comment, a certain tone, nothing cruel or ill intended, and your whole body responds as if it’s under threat. Your chest tightens, your throat clenches, maybe your breath quickens. Some old, unnamed part of you wants to get into it and fight or disappear completely and shut down. This isn’t a sign your relationship is failing you. Often it’s the first time that particular wound has felt safe enough to finally speak.

The real question was never whether you’d get triggered. It’s whether the container that you co-created with your partner can actually hold what rises when you do. A secure relationship doesn’t silence the alarm. It means that when the alarm sounds, there’s enough safety in the room, physically, emotionally, energetically, that you can remain inside your body instead of fleeing it. Your chest might be tight, but your shoulders soften anyway. Your voice is still shaking, but you can still be present. You can be activated and held in the very same breath. That isn’t a contradiction. That’s the entire art of heart work.

There is something almost sacred in this kind of friction, if you let yourself see it that way. Two nervous systems, two histories, two people with their imperfections, coming close enough to actually meet each other’s edges. That closeness will always generate some heat, some charge, some polarity between what’s yours and what’s theirs (and that’s a good thing). The goal was never to smooth that friction away entirely. It’s to build enough trust between two people that the friction becomes fuel for closeness, instead of a reason to retreat from it, though to be clear, I’m not talking here about toxic or abusive dynamics.

None of this is passive, whichever direction it moves in. It asks something of your ego, your patience, your willingness to repair instead of disappearing. It takes something to bring a truth forward instead of letting it calcify in silence. To remain curious and open about your partner instead of deciding you already know exactly who they are and exactly what they’ll do and say next.

Maybe that’s the real distinction. Not whether a relationship is hard, nearly every honest one is, at some point. But whether the hard is asking you to keep growing, or quietly asking you to keep shrinking.

A practice, if you want one. The next time you feel triggered by someone you actually trust, pause before you speak, before you explain anything away. Notice where it landed in you, your chest, your stomach, your throat. Ask yourself, quietly, is this about right now, or is this older than this moment. Don’t over-intellectualize it. Just asking the question tends to soften whatever’s moving through your body enough to let you stay in the room.

Your body has probably already told you which kind of hard you’re living inside of. It’s more a matter of being honest with ourselves, no matter how painful the answer might be.

So, back to my original question. Do you think relationships should be hard work, or heart work? I’d love to hear where you land with this.

With love,
Tugce

I’m opening something new here, a pleasure hotline for anonymous questions.

Questions you’d never post under your own name. Questions you’ve sat with for months, maybe years, never quite finding the right person to ask.

I’ll be answering one here, twice a week.

This one’s come in more than any other question so far. Not by a little. By a lot.

Which tells me a lot of you are carrying this quietly. Wondering if it’s normal. A little embarrassed to even type it out.

So let’s start here :)

On today’s submission, many of you wrote: Dear Tugce, I sometimes feel like I want to cry after I orgasm, is that normal?? Help!

Good news: Yes it’s normal. AND it’s more common than you think, which says more about our silence around the topic than it does about how rare it actually is.

First things first. When you’re in a loving, safe container with your partner where you’re engaging in consensual sex, crying doesn’t always mean sadness. Sometimes it just means your body is releasing something you didn’t even know you were holding. Whether that’s a tightness in your chest, a breath you’d been keeping shallow without noticing, a numbness in your genitals or any armouring around your heart. It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you, your partner or with the sex you’re having. Most of the time it means the opposite happened, you relaxed into your pleasure, and your body released a stored emotion/trauma/event (something you did not process fully.)

Orgasm is a full nervous system event, not just a body or mind one. Oxytocin, the bonding hormone, melts walls and deepens trust, it’s part of why intimacy hits different than almost anything else. Endorphins do their own work too, they’re one of the ways your body processes big emotion, whatever that emotion happens to be. And underneath both of those is a bigger shift, your whole system moving from guarded to open, from bracing to soft. You can feel it happen - that drop in your shoulders, your jaw unclenching, your breath finally reaching all the way down, your tummy letting go and your heart opening up. When your nervous system opens to full expression through safety and pleasure, tears are just one of the shapes the movement takes. Not sadness necessarily. Just release, finding its way out through whatever door is closest.

There’s something so intimate and sacred about being that open, that held, that surrendered to safety and being witnessed through it.

If you’re with a partner when it happens, how they hold that moment matters. Someone who can stay present instead of pulling away, who softens their touch, slows their breath to match yours, deepens eye contact instead of looking for an exit because they feel uncomfortable - that’s the difference between the moment landing somewhere safe and the moment feeling exposed. A simple “I’ve got you” or “you’re safe” can go a long way here.

And if it’s you crying or feeling like tears are accumulating, let it happen. You don’t need to explain it or apologize for it or perform your way through it. Please do not hold back. Feel where it’s sitting, your throat, your chest, the backs of your eyes, your genitals, your shoulders etc. and just let it move instead of holding it still. Deep breathing helps, filling your lungs all the way, it calms the mind and brings you back into your body instead of your head. Stay with the sensation instead of the thoughts trying to narrate it. If you can, say something, even just “I’m feeling a lot right now, can we pause and breathe together” is enough to let a partner know to stay close instead of stepping back.

Now, many people skip aftercare. Do not, I repeat, do not skip this! The intensity doesn’t end the second the moment does, it lingers in your skin, your breath, your system. Treat that lingering like sacred space, not something to rush past. A check-in, a gentle touch, maybe holding each other in silence and breathing together until your bodies settle back into themselves. Reaffirm that it’s safe to have felt everything you just felt. That’s what actually lets the vulnerability land somewhere soft instead of you feeling alone.

A quick, warm note before I go: starting in September, full Hotline answers like this one move to a small paid space, for the price of a coffee a month. It’s what supports me as an independent writer and lets me keep answering these as honestly and in-depth as I do, for the people who want to go deeper.

With love,
Tugce

P.S. If you’ve cried during or after sex before, I’d love to know what the experience was like for you. Or if you’ve got your own question for the hotline, submit away: tugcebalik.com/hotline

I feel like most of us are getting fucked when we’re yearning to be devoured. Having mediocre sex when we want our souls to be penetrated by our person. There is a deep yearning for divine intimacy yet so much withholding.

So how do we tell the difference??

I know most of us have felt desired and lusted after. Fewer of us have felt seen and known. But more common than not, we can’t always tell the difference in our heads. We’re extremely good at over-intellectualizing another person’s actions (and ours), explaining away red flags or thinking we might be “too sensitive”.

The thing is, your body doesn’t lie the way your mind does. When someone wants your body but not you, something in you contracts and tightens, even if you can’t pinpoint the why. Something feels just off. The energy they’re coming at you with doesn’t feel heart opening or expansive. But when someone wants all of us, something in our system releases. That release is not subtle. It’s the whole reason performing stops. It’s the whole reason you stop holding your stomach in, stop managing your face, stop editing your sounds.

There’s a kind of safety that comes from being handled carefully, held at arm’s length, managed, kept from your own edges. It’s not nothing, but it keeps a piece of you on guard the whole time, waiting to be corrected if you’re too much. It keeps you hooked. Then there’s the safety that comes from being fully welcomed, your messy parts included. That’s the one where your nervous system actually relaxes into the other person and the present moment. Where your breath drops without you telling it to “take a deep breath and calm the fuck down”. You can still have stressful moments but can regulate or co-regulate back to baseline.

Somewhere along the way, most of us learned to offer up a curated version of ourselves to be loved, especially as women. Be easy, feminine, agreeable, live up to the beauty standards 24/7. What almost nobody taught us is that the parts we edited out are usually the ones a real lover actually wants. Not despite the mess, because of it. When someone wants the part of you that you were taught to hide, something in your body puts down a weight it’s been carrying for way longer than this relationship, sometimes since you were a kid, long before any lover showed up to blame it on. To me, this is the definition of loving someone holistically, not despite these parts, but because of them.

One finishes. The other arrives.

This is the line I keep coming back to. Sit with me on this for a minute. Finishing is a body thing. It happens whether anyone’s really there or not. Arriving is different, it’s someone actually staying, choosing to keep witnessing you after they’ve already gotten their share of pleasure. A man who only wants your body will finish and be gone, even if he’s technically still lying next to you. His presence will flee. This emotional tending will disappear. A man who wants you keeps arriving, way past the point he needed to for his own pleasure.

That’s erotic af. And we all deserve to experience it.

A practice (if you’re craving one) Next time you’re with someone, or even by yourself, try naming a part of you (physical or emotional) that you usually hide. Don’t perform it, don’t explain it, just acknowledge it. Then stay with whatever happens in your body after (yes even if it’s just silence, that counts too). That’s the whole practice. The letting go tends to happen on its own, you don’t have to force it. I know it sounds abstract, but try it and just notice with a goal.

With love,
Tugce

P.S. I’m working on something for paid subscribers soon, more of this, plus some things I’m not ready to say yet. For now: what’s one part of yourself you were taught to hide from a lover? Comment below, I actually want to know.

There’s a conversation happening in dating culture right now that I keep seeing everywhere on my feed these days.

It goes something like this:

“A man needs his own place, his own car, and a career before he’s even worth considering. If you’re still figuring it out, you’re not ready to date.”

“Paying for a nice dinner isn’t a flex, it’s the bare minimum. If he can’t do that consistently, what exactly is he offering?”

“I’ve done the struggling thing. I’m not doing it again. A man needs to be established before he’s in my consideration set.”

And I understand the impulse. Truly. Women have spent generations being financially dependent on men who didn’t deserve that kind of power. Building your own life, your own wealth, your own standards — I’m not arguing against any of that. That’s necessary.

But something has quietly shifted underneath all of it. And I think we need to talk about it.

Because somewhere between “I will not be financially dependent on a man” and “I know my worth,” we landed somewhere else entirely. We landed in a culture that has replaced discernment with vetting. That has confused standards with scorecards. That has decided a person’s worth is legible in their car, their apartment, where they take you on a first date — long before you’ve ever had the chance to actually know them.

The Thing Nobody Is Saying

Unless you come from generational wealth, for many of us, our parents built together. This is only one generation ago (if you’re a millennial reading this, which you probably are.)

They moved into small apartments. They drove secondhand cars. They ate at home more than they ate out. They struggled, and then they didn’t, and then they did again. And through all of it, they were building something that couldn’t be Googled or screened for on a dating profile.

They chose direction over destination. Who someone was moving toward, not where they had already arrived.

What’s happened to us is subtle, and it happened fast. The optimisation culture of apps — swipe, filter, next — bled into how we evaluate people before we’ve barely met them. We started treating dating like a job interview, and like any good recruiter, we built our filters tighter and tighter.

The problem is that you can screen for almost everything except the things that actually determine whether love survives.

You cannot screen for how someone responds when everything falls apart. You cannot filter for whether they will show up for you in a way that costs them something. You cannot pre-qualify someone’s character in a restaurant they chose to impress you or what car they drive.

What Krishnamurti Understood That We’ve Forgotten

Jiddu Krishnamurti (my favorite philosopher to date), said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since I read his work years ago:

“If I love you because you love me, that is mere trade, a thing to be bought in the market; it is not love.”

And also this: “Relationship based on mutual need brings only conflict. However interdependent we are on each other, we are using each other for a purpose, for an end. With an end in view, relationship is not.”

He wasn’t talking about dating apps. He was talking about something older and more universal — the way humans have always tried to make love into something safe. Something measurable. Something guaranteed.

What he was pointing at is this: the moment we approach another person with an outcome already in mind — what they can give us, what they represent, what security they provide — we have already stopped relating to them as a person and started relating to them as a function.

And a function can be replaced the moment a better one comes along.

This is the quiet violence of transactional dating. Not that it’s calculating — we’re all allowed to have preferences — but that it trains us to see people as means rather than becomings.
Building with someone requires you to believe in their becoming. Even when it’s not fully visible yet.

What Building Actually Looks Like

I want to be really clear. This is not a call to lower your standards. This is not a romanticisation of struggle for its own sake.

It’s a call to ask yourself: what are you actually screening for?

Because there is a version of standards that genuinely protects you — that looks for kindness, consistency, emotional honesty, shared values, the way someone treats the people who can do nothing for them.

And there is a version of standards that is actually just insecurity wearing expensive clothes. That mistakes someone’s current financial chapter for their character. That mistakes where you’re going to dinner for how you’ll feel at 3am when something in your life breaks open.

Building with someone looks like choosing someone whose values travel in the same direction as yours. Noticing how they handle disappointment. Whether they tell the truth when it would be easier not to. Whether they are growing — not arrived, but growing. Whether the way they love you makes you more yourself, not more managed.

It looks like tolerating uncertainty together with some grace, rather than using uncertainty as a reason to disqualify.

The generation before us celebrated success differently — because the success was theirs, earned inside the relationship, alongside each other. That shared history, that shared hardship, becomes a form of intimacy you simply cannot skip to. You cannot buy your way into it. You cannot fast-track it with a better filtered match.

Something to Carry With You

The next time you’re evaluating someone — or thinking about what you want, or deciding whether a person is worth your time — ask yourself one thing:

Am I measuring their current circumstance, or their character in motion?

Because circumstance changes. Jobs change. Income changes. Apartments change. If the whole architecture of your attraction is built on what someone currently has, you will have to keep rebuilding it — because nothing stays the same.

But character in motion — how someone moves through the world, how they show up when it’s not convenient, who they’re genuinely becoming — that’s what you build a life inside of.

That’s what our parents were choosing, even when they couldn’t name it.

And I think we’re allowed to want that again.

Subscribe now

With love, Tugce x

We’ve been seeing the trend of ‘romanticizing life’ a lot lately. And I get it. The beautiful latte art, the golden hour walks, the soft life aesthetic — there’s something genuinely lovely in the impulse to find beauty in the ordinary.

But I’ve been feeling more and more that romanticizing life keeps pleasure at a distance. It almost turns your life into something to observe and curate, to frame beautifully and witness from the outside . You become the director of your own existence. So I’d like to offer something different — eroticizing your life. Less about how it looks, and more about how it feels, in your body, in real time, with no audience or announcement required.

The Thing Nobody Is Saying

The “romanticize-your-life” trend accidentally made us the main character and the audience at the same time. You’re watching yourself drink the tea, walk in the golden light, and exist beautifully. There’s a subtle split happening between you and your own experience, and most people don’t notice it because the aesthetic is so convincing. Kind of like spectatoring (observing from the outside in) your experience. This spectatoring then can also bleed into your sex life - like you’re observing yourself from the outside in. Finding it hard to connect, be present or enjoy the full experience.

The erotic collapses that distance entirely.

When I talk about eroticizing life, I’m not talking about making everything sexual. I’m talking about bringing the same quality of presence, sensation, and aliveness that we associate with our best erotic/sensual experiences into the rest of our lives.

We’ve been taught to move through our bodies rather than live inside them. To look desirable rather than feel desirable. To perform presence rather than actually land in it. Somewhere along the way we learned to leave ourselves, to manage the experience from a slight remove rather than feel it from the inside.

I think feminine wisdom and sensuality has always known something different. Not the performative version of femininity (what we see on curated instagram feeds), the one that exists for an audience, but the embodied kind. The kind that understands sensation as intelligence. That knows the body is not the obstacle to your experience, it is your experience. Your body holds erotic wisdom that heals, transforms, and deepens your connection to yourself, your lover, and your life. When you learn to access it, desire stops being something you chase and starts being something you live in.

Eroticizing your life is the practice of returning to that.

What It Actually Looks Like

Movement

Most of us move through our bodies. We use them to get places, to burn calories, to perform health. Movement becomes a transaction, effort in, results out, and the body becomes a vehicle rather than the experience itself.

Eroticizing movement means moving from your body instead. Feeling the actual weight of your limbs. The heat that builds during exertion. The specific aliveness of muscle doing exactly what it was designed to do. Dancing slowly in your kitchen and actually feeling your hips move. Walking and noticing how your feet meet the ground. Stretching and following sensation rather than form.

It’s not about what kind of movement you do. It’s about the quality of attention you bring to it.

When you stop moving at your body and start moving with it, something shifts. You stop being the observer of your own physicality and become the subject of it. The body stops being something you drag through your life and starts being the place you actually live.

That’s not a small thing.

Breath

Breath is the most intimate thing happening inside you at every moment, and almost nobody feels it.

Twenty thousand times a day, and we are entirely elsewhere for most of them. In our heads, in our plans, in the performance of whatever we’re doing, while the most fundamental act of being alive happens completely unfelt beneath us.

In the Tantric traditions I practice within, breath is the bridge between the conscious mind and the deeper body. Not mysticism, basic physiology. A full, conscious breath, actually felt rather than just taken, drops you out of your head and delivers you directly into yourself. The expansion of the ribcage, the pause at the top, the slow release, the way your belly softens on the exhale.

Breath is erotic in the truest sense because it is purely sensory and entirely present-tense. You cannot feel a breath that already happened. You can only feel this one, right now, moving through you. And if you actually feel it, fully, it is impossible to be anywhere other than here.

That’s what the erotic does. It makes abstraction impossible.

Why This Matters Beyond the Bedroom

Erotic disconnection rarely starts in the bedroom.

It starts long before. The first time you learned to leave your body to get through something hard. The years of moving through life on autopilot, sensation muted, presence rationed. The habit of managing how your life looks rather than feeling how it actually is.

When people tell me they feel disconnected during sex, that pleasure feels distant, that they can’t quite arrive, I believe them completely. And I also know the bedroom is rarely where it began.

Eroticizing your life is a practice of presence everywhere, so that it becomes available to you in the places that matter most. So that your body stops feeling like somewhere you visit occasionally and starts feeling like home. So that desire stops being something you have to locate and starts being something you’re already living inside.

The erotic isn’t a mood you set or a compartment you enter. It’s a current that runs through everything, available in any ordinary Tuesday, in a single conscious breath, in the feeling of your own feet on the ground.

You don’t have to go anywhere to find it. You just have to come back to yourself.

If you want to learn more, sign up for my upcoming course on feminine embodiment & eroticism here: https://www.tugcebalik.com/the-erotic-woman

With love,
Tugce

I almost didn’t write this.

And that hesitation is exactly the problem.

Over the past few months, more than 3.5 million pages of documents related to Jeffrey Epstein have been released to the public. Grand jury transcripts. FBI interview summaries. Flight logs. Emails. The world’s most powerful men — politicians, billionaires, celebrities — documented in proximity to a convicted child sex trafficker, even after his 2008 conviction.

The public is furious. Rightly so.

And the sex-positive wellness space? The industry built entirely on the premise that sexuality deserves open, honest, trauma-informed conversation?

Almost completely silent.

I’ve been sitting with that for weeks now. So here are some unfiltered thoughts…

We Built an Industry on Consent. So Where the Hell Are We?

The sexuality and wellness space loves to talk about consent. It’s foundational to everything we do. Body autonomy. Erotic empowerment. Healing from sexual trauma. We create courses, write newsletters, host retreats... all in service of helping people have healthier, more conscious relationships with their sexuality.

And yet, when one of the most documented cases of organized sexual abuse in modern history lands in the public conversation, when survivors are finally seeing some of their truth acknowledged... we’re nowhere to be found (this includes me, I’m not just shitting on people here).

No posts. No newsletters. No commentary. Just... quiet.

The Epstein files are dark. Deeply uncomfortable. They don’t fit neatly into the “pleasure positive” aesthetic of our feeds. And there’s a very real fear of controversy, of alienating an audience that came to us for tips on better orgasms and connection, not a crash course in predatory power dynamics.

But here’s the thing I keep coming back to. If we only show up for the light parts of human sexuality, the fun, the liberation, the pleasure... what the fuck are we actually doing? Are we educators? Or are we just selling a product or course?

What a Sexologist Actually Sees in These Files

When I look at what’s been revealed, and I’ve been reading carefully, I don’t just see crime. I see a masterclass in how sexual coercion actually operates. And it looks almost nothing like what most people imagine.

People picture abuse as something violent and sudden. A stranger. A dark alley. Force. And because Epstein’s network looked nothing like that, so many people are still struggling to process it.

What the files actually describe is something far more sophisticated. Grooming on a global scale.

Grooming isn’t dramatic. It’s patient. It’s relational. It’s built on trust that is carefully, deliberately manufactured over time. In the FBI interview summaries, you can see exactly how it worked. Young girls were recruited by other young girls, often people they already knew. They were offered money. They were coached on what to say if anyone asked questions. The environment was normalised slowly, step by step, until what was happening didn’t feel like what it actually was.

One woman testified that Epstein hired her at 16, and she went on to recruit girls she knew, receiving $200 per girl she brought in. Another, Haley Robson, recruited eight girls she knew personally .. saying at the time she thought she was just helping them make money. That’s what sophisticated grooming produces. It turns victims into participants, which then becomes the very tool used to silence them.

The Shock About No Charges Tells Us Everything

When the (dumba$$) DOJ announced there was no “client list” and no new charges were coming, the internet erupted. People felt cheated. Lied to. Like accountability had been snatched away at the last second.

I understand that rage completely.

But I also want to offer a different lens here.

The public’s shock at “no charges” reveals something really important. Most people still believe that if something is wrong enough, the system will respond proportionally. That evidence leads to accountability. That power has limits. That institutions ultimately protect people over power.

The Epstein case tells a very different story. From the sweetheart deal engineered in 2008, to the FBI being tipped off about Epstein’s crimes years earlier and doing nothing for a decade, to 3.5 million pages released with huge chunks still fully blacked out... this isn’t a system that failed. This is a system working exactly as it was designed to. To protect the people with the resources to stay protected.

This is what happens when sexual access is treated as currency among the powerful. When the bodies of young, often economically vulnerable minors are leveraged inside networks of wealth and influence, accountability doesn’t disappear by accident. It gets managed out of existence.

As a sexologist, this is where I feel the most urgency. Because one of the most damaging myths we still carry culturally is that abuse is an aberration. A monster. An outlier. A rogue individual who slipped through the cracks.

The Epstein files make it impossible to sustain that myth. This was (and still is) systemic. And the people who enabled it, by looking away, by maintaining friendships, by continuing to fly on the plane, were not cartoon villains. They were, in many cases, the same people we admire, elect, and invite onto podcasts.

That’s the part that should keep us all up at night…

I Couldn’t Sleep. And I Don’t Blame You If You Couldn’t Either.

Honestly… I’ve been struggling to go about “business as usual” lately. And by lately, I mean since 2019… but alas.

I’ll be planning content, or writing something, or thinking about my next article.. and then I’ll open my phone and see another headline about the files. Another detail. Another name. Another survivor. And I just can’t pretend I didn’t see it.

There’s this weird split that happens. One part of me wants to keep things normal, keep showing up, keep the energy light. And another part of me just wants to curl up in bed and bury my head in my pillow. Like, how are we supposed to talk about pleasure, intimacy, connection (or anything for that matter) when this shit is happening in the world?

If you’ve been feeling that too... I just want you to know that makes complete sense.

Because this stuff is heavy. It’s fucked.. and so so so disturbing.

Your reaction to all of this, whatever it is, grief, rage, numbness, disbelief... that’s not dramatic, or “too sensitive”, that’s just you being human.

And in a world that’s trying very hard to move on to the next news cycle, I think holding onto that feeling for a little while longer is actually the right thing to do.

Idk.. how are you feeling about all of this? Leave a comment, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

With love, and honestly a lot of feelings,
Tugce x

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Let’s talk about riding. You know, that moment when you take control, set the pace, and watch your partner melt under you. But if being on top has ever made you feel awkward, tired, or just meh, you’re not alone.

Cowgirl and Reverse Cowgirl can be some of the most empowering positions…. but only if you know how to work them to your advantage. (Note that I personally think reserve cowgirl is super overrated but alas this is a discussion for another time…)

Let’s dive into it…

Cowgirl: Owning the Ride

Cowgirl (aka you straddling your partner, facing them) gives you full control over depth, rhythm, and speed. It’s also prime G-region stimulation territory. But let’s be real…sometimes it feels like leg day gone wrong. So, how do you make it effortless, and comfortable, and hot?

Tips for Effortless Riding:

• It’s All in the Hips. Instead of bouncing up and down (which, let’s be honest, gets exhausting fast), try a slower grinding motion. Forward and back, side to side- whatever feels best for you.

• Use Their Body for Support. Hands on their chest? Check. Resting against their thighs? Even better. This helps with balance and keeps you from burning out in 30 seconds.

• Angle Matters. Leaning forward brings you closer for deep eye contact (and makes clitoral stimulation easier). Leaning back? Hellooo, intense
  G-region pressure.

• Let Them Do Some Work. Just because you’re on top doesn’t mean you have to do everything. Have your partner thrust from below or hold your hips to help with movement.

• Breathe Into It. Deep, intentional breathing helps you stay relaxed, connected, and increases sensation. Try inhaling deeply as you move and exhaling as you grind—it enhances pleasure and keeps your stamina up.

Reverse Cowgirl: The Power Move

Feeling a little more dominant? Reverse Cowgirl (you on top, facing away from your partner) is not just a visual treat…it also offers unique angles for stimulation.

How to Make Reverse Cowgirl Work for You:

• Posture is Everything. Avoid leaning too far back (unless you want a core workout). A slight forward tilt keeps things smooth and prevents awkward wobbles.

• Hand Placement = Control. Place your hands on their legs or the bed for better balance and easier movement.

• Slow it Down. The best way to keep it feeling amazing? Smooth, controlled movements instead of wild bouncing.

• Make It a Tease. Try slowing down, squeezing around them, or shifting your hips just enough to make them beg for more. You’re in control—own it.

• Sync Your Breath. Taking slow, deep breaths not only helps with endurance but also makes your movements more fluid and intentional. Try matching your breath to your pace for a deeper connection.

The Secret to Feeling Confident on Top

Here’s the truth: confidence in these positions isn’t just about technique—it’s about mindset. If you feel awkward, they’re going to feel it too. So, instead of overthinking how you look, focus on how it feels.

A few confidence-boosting tricks:

• Breathe & Connect. Let go of the pressure to perform and focus on sensation. Deep breaths calm your nervous system and help you drop into the moment.

• Use Your Hands. Run them over your body, their body—wherever feels good.

• Talk Dirty (or Just Moan). A little vocal reassurance that you’re loving it? Instant turn-on.

• Own Your Pleasure. The more you enjoy it, the hotter it is for both of you.

Final Thoughts: Make It Yours

The real key to mastering Cowgirl and Reverse Cowgirl? Do what feels good for you. Experiment with angles, movement, and tempo until you find your groove. And above all, have fun with it. Because when you feel amazing, they will too.

Now go on, take the reins. 😏

With love,
Tugce x

Ah, squirting… the ultimate mix of curiosity, excitement, and WTF actually is it? Maybe you’ve experienced it, maybe you’ve tried and wondered if it’s even real, or maybe you’ve had it hyped up so much that it feels like a pressure-filled performance rather than pleasure.

So let’s break it down. What is squirting? Can everyone do it? And how do you get there without making it a goal-oriented stress fest?

First, What Is Squirting?

Squirting is the release of fluid from the paraurethral glands (a.k.a. Skene’s glands) during arousal or orgasm. It’s not urine (though it can contain traces of it—let’s not shame our anatomy here). The fluid is usually clear or slightly milky and doesn’t have the same composition as pee. Honestly, I personally think the “is it pee or not” conversation is so boring… AND…

Science is still catching up to what ancient pleasure practices have known for centuries—squirting isn’t a “party trick”; it’s a real physiological response to deep pleasure and release.

The Biggest Myths About Squirting

“Only some people can do it.”
Nope. There is substantial evidence that shows that everyone with a vulva has the anatomy to squirt—it’s more about stimulation, relaxation, and technique. Some people naturally squirt with ease, while others need a little more exploration (if they are curious and want to explore it).

“It’s the ultimate orgasm.”
Squirting ≠ orgasm. You can squirt without climaxing and orgasm without squirting. They can happen together, but they’re not the same thing.

“It means you’ve unlocked peak pleasure.”
Squirting is amazing, but it’s not a requirement for pleasure. If you’re treating it like a finish line, you’re missing the point. The real flex? Being fully in your pleasure, no matter what your body does.

How to Make Squirting Happen (Without the Pressure)

• G-Region Stimulation is Key
  The G-Region (more accurately, the urethral sponge) is a spongy area on the anterior (front wall) of the vagina. Stimulating this area with firm, rhythmic pressure (think: “come here” motion, side-to-side or even pulsing) can trigger squirting.

• Relax & Release Tension
  Squirting happens when you let go—physically and mentally. If you’re tensing up, holding back, or worrying about the mess, your body won’t fully surrender to the sensation.

• Go Deep with Arousal
  Squirting is more likely when you’re highly aroused. Take your time with foreplay, breathwork, and deep pleasure-building before jumping into stimulation. (Note that it’s best if you go into G-Region stimulation once you’ve already stimulated your body and already feeling high arousal.)

• Experiment with Rhythm & Pressure
  Some people squirt from slow, deep pressure, others from fast, intense stimulation. Try different speeds and motions to see what feels best for you.

• Let It Happen (Even If It Feels Like You Have to Pee)
  That “I need to pee” sensation? That’s your body getting close. Instead of stopping, if you feel comfortable’, breathe through it and see what happens.Try this in the bathtub if that makes you feel more comfortable. Or you can put a towel or blanket under you so you can mentally let go of the idea of “creating a mess”.

Remember: Your Pleasure, Your Rules

Squirting can be hot, messy, exciting, AND not the measure of whether you’re “good” at sex. If it happens, amazing. If not, you’re still having
mind-blowing pleasure. The goal is exploration, not expectation.

With love,
Tugce x