The Joy of Sex with Divine Cocks – Re-framing Premature Ejaculation

As anyone who has worked with me will tell you, I have a lousy memory, so it’s not very surprising that I don’t remember much about my first session with R. Two things have stayed with me. The first is that he arrived highly anxious about security and privacy, needing lots of reassurance that he was safe in my home and with me.  The second is that he absolutely loved my breasts and was slightly overwhelmed that he was allowed to touch them.

 

His love of my boobs was very charming and a bit difficult for him. Starved of boob pleasure in his marriage he used to bury his face in my breasts and shortly afterwards he would come. Sometimes this was within the first 15-20 minutes. The combination of excitement and nerves was too much for his highly sensitive cock and he would go from 0 to an explosive 10 in seconds.

 

He shared with me that his habit of ejaculating “prematurely” irritated his wife, her irritation then fuelled his feelings of shame, failure, disappointment and anxiety around his cock behaving in such a disappointing and non-conformist manner. 

 

I use the term “non-conformist” because I hate the term “sexual dysfunction.” I am frustrated by how many people believe that they are in some way sexually “dysfunctional” simply because their sexuality doesn’t conform to expected norms first laid out by the patriarchs and more recently reinforced by sexologists’ “scientific” studies. 

 

We have obediently followed the patriarchs’ model of sex for about 5,000 years of our 300,000 years of human existence, but that doesn’t change the fundamental fact that it IS only a model, that it’s not the only model and in no way is it “natural.” 

 

I would argue that 20th Century sexologists made sex a lot harder for a lot of people by trying to weave female pleasure into a model that had previously always disregarded female pleasure. (In fact, it was created to shut down female sexual pleasure.)

 

In the patriarchs’ model of sex, men were expected to (i) get an erection in response to sexual stimulus (ii) enter the woman and fuck her until he came, filling her body with seed to breed the next generation. Women were expected to comply – by whatever means necessary. 

 

Sexologists amended this model but that is all it is, an amendment, not a challenge or an alternative to the patriarchal model. 

 

Enlightened modern men are now expected to (i) get an erection in response to sexual stimulus (ii) maintain that erection through “foreplay” required to arouse the woman and make her wet and then (iii) maintain that erection whilst fucking her long enough for her to come before he does, so proving that he is both a proper man and a modern gent. Women are expected to get wet quickly enough for a man to use his erection to penetrate her before he ejaculates or loses his erection. 

 

In the patriarchal model of sex, correct erection function is required to prove your manhood. When your erection fails you in any of the above, patriarchal conditioning tells you that you are less of a man. If your woman fails to arouse step (i) or get wet enough in step (ii) or come before you in step (iii) YOU are also less of a man.

 

That is A LOT of pressure on one man and his sensitive cock. The pressure of this model and the implications it has on masculinity can be summed up thus: 

 

Big, strong erection = masculine. 

 

Hesitant, weak, fleeting erection (for whatever reason) = not masculine. 

 

Sexologists rush in with impressive sounding terms to explain this loss of masculinity. Terms like “erectile dysfunction” and “premature ejaculation” sound like clinical, medical terms but in truth they are another example of a health industry creating labels for so-called “dysfunctions” to make it easier for them to peddle their snake oil.

 

Create a problem, market the hell out of the problem and then sell an expensive solution be it some kind of pill or therapy. 

 

I’m not saying that there are not men who have difficulty sustaining erections or controlling their sexual energy. What I am saying is that both are completely normal responses in a body and that the “dysfunction” approach causes far more harm than it does good.

 

Here’s why – because whatever you give attention to will grow. 

 

As every parent of an upset child knows. 

 

If I have a splinter in my finger and think about it constantly the pain and distress in my finger will grow. If I put a plaster over the finger and kiss it better, not only will the pain decrease, but most often my body will sort out the problem for me.

 

It’s the same with a sexual “dysfunction.” The very worst thing for either ED or PE is to focus on it. If you enter into a sexual situation focussed on what could go wrong, you are pretty much certain to create all the wrong things you are worrying about. 

 

This was R’s sexual experience. He was terrified of irritating his wife further. He was terrified of disappointing her and receiving another eye roll, sigh or ear full. He dreaded the feelings of shame that followed each ejaculation that occurred, according to the rules of patriarchy, “too soon.” 

 

He felt unmanned by his non-conforming cock. I have no doubt that every failed sex session made the problem worse so that by the time he found his way to my door he ejaculated almost immediately.

 

His fears of what could go wrong guaranteed that they did go wrong because whatever you give your attention to will grow. 

 

And this is my issue with the health industry nodding along kindly to your concern that you have either ED or PE, they are feeding your attention and the more you feed a problem with your attention the more the problem will grow (which the health industry, designed to make profit, LOVES).

 

As a trainee teacher I learned that the secret to dealing with challenging behaviour in the classroom is to not give it attention. You ignore what you don’t want and you reward and praise what you DO want. It is a difficult practice and confusing to non-trained observers, but it works and in a classroom of 30 children you do what works, not what pleases untrained observers. 

 

Life as a whore uses the same skillset. I focus on, and reward, what I want (orgasmic pleasure for us both) and ignore any problem that shows up demanding attention and trying to disrupt my sessions. ED and PE are very demanding, they have their own egos. They are used to destroying my clients’ lives. Not with me they don’t. I don’t buy into their nonsense, I ignore them and focus my attention on pleasure and sensation.

 

And you can do more than just ignore the problem. You can regain control of your sex life by re-framing the problem as an opportunity. After all, wherever there is a problem there is always an opportunity (as the health industry who created this problem well knows!) 

 

My reframe takes your power back from the industry that persuaded you that your body is a problem and that in some way by being “deficient” your body proves that you aren’t a man enough man. What BS!!

 

My reframe is offered to anyone who is able to open their minds to an alternative way of understanding their body and of thinking about sex.

 

Ready?!

 

I see both ED and PE as invitations, and the man who has either as a lucky ticket winner – think Charlie’s Golden Ticket in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

 

The ticket, or the invitation, is to escape the narrow confines of a model of sex that is all about performance over pleasure, judgement over experience and programming over connection. 

 

I believe that ED or PE show up in a body that is saying “This does not work for me, I want to connect deeply on my terms, not perform someone else’s script.” ED and PE are the body’s way of saying “I want to experience more. More depth, more connection, more sensation, more pleasure…. MORE.”

 

Sadly, most men, highly conditioned by patriarchy into a narrow performative model of sex, misunderstand their bodies. So instead of hearing the invitation and standing holding their golden ticket with glee, they feel like failures, become dejected and think more and more about their “dysfunction” so that, in time, they become their “dysfunction.” 

 

Whatever you give your attention to will grow. 

 

Patriarchy’s version of masculinity is a very narrow version. It is muscular, it is strong, it is non emotional, it is competitive, it is performative. It is full of rules and “shoulds”. It was designed to separate men from women and men from their own inner divine selves. Patriarchal masculinity is a mask, or a costume, that boys are conditioned into from birth.

 

Beneath the mask lies the essence of the man. This is where you find divine masculine. You can absolutely connect to your divine masculine with a correctly functioning erection, but if you are proudly performing sex to prove (to yourself and others) what an awesome version of patriarchal man you are, then you are not going to connect either with your lover, or with your own inner divine masculine.

 

Macho patriarchal man is like the shell of a nut. It’s just a shell. The real nut is inside. My desire, my job and my joy is connecting to the nut, both for my pleasure, and to reconnect my client to his real nut – his divine masculine.

 

And my theory is that men who are already vulnerable and essentially “unmanned” or de-shelled by their “dysfunction” are offered a portal into their divine by the golden ticket of having non-conforming cocks.

 

But as with Charlie, you have to be willing to use the ticket. You have to say yes to the invitation. You have to be willing to let go of all that you have learnt about male sexuality during your life of patriarchal programming. 

 

The first thing you need to let go of is, of course, the hardest to let go of. You need to let go of your belief that you are some kind of failure or less of a man because you have a non-conformist cock. 

 

You need to update the “big, strong cock = masculine” formula with new information, new ideas and new ways of experiencing your body, mind and soul.This is what R and I have been doing together since his first session with me. 

 

When he first showed up at my door he was very nervous, highly anxious and scared of disappointing another woman and suffering her disapproval. His anxiety (and my boobs) meant he ejaculated quickly and almost without warning. He was already caught in a downward spiral of worrying about how his non-conformist cock was going to behave and so guaranteeing that it would explode “too soon”.

 

My first job was to be completely relaxed about when he ejaculated in the session. It wasn’t hard, I am, genuinely, very relaxed about when a client ejaculates. I can honestly say, as a woman, that I have never cared about when a man ejaculates.  Apart from the brief spell in my life when my first husband and I were making babies, I’ve always found male ejaculate to be a bit of a nuisance. 

 

As a whore I care about my clients experiencing orgasm and I have witnessed so many post ejaculation orgasms that I have deep confidence when I say men can experience much better sex after they come and have stopped worrying about when they are going to explode and “ruin things.”

 

My second job was to help him to relax into a sexual situation. Introducing meditation into our sessions really was a game changer. Just 10 minutes of a guided body meditation focussed on relaxation and connection to sensation in his body made the most enormous difference. 

 

Gone was the pressure to perform, he was too relaxed to care. When anxious thoughts bubbled up in his mind he learned how to breathe them out and allow his awareness to return to sensation in his body.

 

Over the months he received the same message from my words – he is a fragment of the Divine and as such is divine. I guided him to connect to his divine energy, his spark, his sexual energy in his whole body. The room was always filled with the scent of frankincense (scent of divine masculine) and the music helped my words to draw him into the physical sensation in his body 

 

So by the time I placed my hands on his back and began the massage he was deeply, deeply relaxed and floating amongst the stars. When you connect with yourself and your power in the quantum realm it is hard to care about whether you are conforming to some old men’s rules.

He loves, loves, loves feeling my breasts moving across his body. But in his highly relaxed state he is able to enjoy the sensation without climaxing. Climax needs tension, relaxed bodies simply don’t comply! I know when I massage his feet with first my hands and then my breasts that he will enter heaven. So I take an extra long time to get to his feet, to tease and build the anticipation in his body. 

 

Sensation, anticipation, frankincense, candlelight, soft music, touch – an erotic alchemy activating divine masculine in R’s body. Over the months he would ejaculate at various points during the session and it mattered less and less to him. 

 

As he became more connected to sensation in his body and his sense of himself as a diving lover grew he used the time and space he had with me to give himself pleasure by giving me pleasure. And because I don’t have an issue about when he comes, I am the lucky bloody woman who gets to experience the divine lover that R has always been. 

 

With permission to enjoy sex in a non-judgemental environment his confidence grew and the nervous man who seemed to always be apologising for being in my space and taking up my time is now a genuinely exciting and rewarding lover. 

 

Something lights up in him when he receives my touch. The shell cracks open and this beautiful, beautiful man emerges who delights in making my body sing. Most often this is after he has ejaculated and his cock has softened, but as you don’t need an erection to make a woman ride wave after wave of orgasm neither of us care. 

 

In our sex “foreplay” is meditation and massage and Anabelle’s orgasms are the “afterplay.” We have never ended our sex when one of us ejaculates, the idea is just ridiculous. We stay in the space we have created, lost in the pleasure of each other’s bodies and energies, normally until well after the end of the session because we genuinely lose track of time. 

 

Today was extra special because as wonderful as our sex is, we haven’t often managed to fuck. Usually as soon as he clocks me reaching for a condom his cock will over-react and that’s it, no chance of fucking. As you surely know by now, we have amazing sex, but I know how much he loves the idea of coming inside me, so I have long wanted to get it right for him.

 

When I asked him to roll over (about 45 minutes into the session) his cock was hard, not about to explode hard, but strongly erect. This is a huge change from the early days when there is no way he could have experienced so much bodily contact with my boobs and not come. I smiled with gratitude at his cock proving my theory – relax and focus on sensation in your body and the problem just goes away.

 

Whatever you give your attention to will grow and R has learned to give his attention to sensation growing in and moving around his body – so this grows. He has learned to move from his head (the source of worry, judgement and shame) into his body where he experiences his pleasure and his magnificence. 

 

Because I know R and his cock well, I tweaked the order of the massage. Instead of massaging the front of his body with the front of mine (which can get very hot and steamy very quickly) I chose to give him a careful lingam massage before an abandoned hot and steamy finale to the session.

 

I positioned myself, cross legged under his legs and took his lingam in my hands. Over the months R’s cock and I have become good friends and I am very fond of this beautiful part of my divine lover. It was deeply pleasurable and satisfying to give him a full 20 minute lingam massage using a range of different strokes, lovingly massaging his inner thighs, balls, perineum, root, shaft, frenulum and glans moving the energy activated around his whole body with my hands.

 

R was deeply relaxed at the other end of the bed. I could tell he was fully immersed in the experience. So when I reached the end of the 20 minute lingam massage, I planned my next move carefully. 

 

I slowly shifted my position to move up his body quietly reaching for a condom as I did so. The rustle of the condom packet alerted him and he began to stir. I really didn’t want his mind to intervene and spoil my finale, so as quickly as I could I tore open the wrapper, rolled the condom onto his erection and took him inside me. 

 

My nipples found their way into his fingers which he tweaked with just the right amount of pressure (oh the joy of connected bodies!) making the muscles of my cunt squeeze in gratitude around him as I gently rode him.  

 

R fulfilled his wish, he came inside me and it felt unbelievably triumphant. 

 

Between us we had managed the session perfectly. He had followed the instructions of my meditation, he’d relaxed and focussed all of his attention on sensation in his body. This enabled me to activate a huge amount of energy in his body and move it around so that it did not build up in his genitals and explode out of him in an uncontrolled manner. 

 

I bent over him and we kissed passionately as his cock softened inside me. I lifted myself off him to remove the condom without pulling away from his mouth and we lay in each other’s arms kissing, smiling and stroking each other. 

 

The energy remained strong and grew within me as he applied increasing pressure to my nipples and started fingering my cunt. He stroked my vulva, played with my clit and fed me one finger at a time until my cunt greedily pulled in his fist. Then he fucked me again as I exploded around him.

 

When R is in this space he is pure divine masculine. He devotes his sexual energy to giving me orgasmic pleasure. In doing this he has taken the pressure off himself to perform which ironically is what enables him to be the most incredible lover. 

 

I would like R to get himself a soapbox and go teach the men of the world how to make love to a woman. He won’t, he’s far too modest. Maybe my blog post will do the work for the both of us?

 

R is one of my many, many clients who come to me with “non-conformist” cocks. He is one story of many that I could tell of the truly incredible sessions I have with men when they accept the invitation of their golden ticket. 

 

Based on my actual experience (not theories written into books by people who don’t have a lot of sex with a wide variety of real people) I am confident in asserting that the patriarchal model of sex doesn’t work for many of us. Very, very few people have erections that function correctly within this rigid model, especially if you are doing more than paying lip service to female pleasure.

 

But when you change the way you experience sex, removing all pressure to perform, it changes everything. 

 

R and I had everything in our session today. We both orgasmed, we both connected to sensation in our own bodies, we both connected to the other’s sexual energy, we fucked, we relaxed, we laughed, we made love. We freed ourselves from a formulaic approach.

 

When you remove any hierarchy from sex, and free “foreplay” from the inconvenient bit you’re obliged to do before fucking, you experience so much more in your sex. THIS is the golden ticket! And this is why I think men with non-conformist cocks are the lucky ones – if they allow themselves the reframe.   

 

Great sex may include penetration but that is a very small part of what really good sex is – especially for most women. When you step away from the narrow script prescribed by the patriarchs and allow yourself to be playful, creative and devote yourself to pleasure over performance, amazing miracles happen.

 

When you experience the joy of sex as a path to experiencing energy moving in your body leading to full bodied orgasm (with or without ejaculation) it no longer matters what your cock is doing in any given moment. 

 

Erections are great fun, they truly are. And so are the “non-conformist” cocks who choose to do things a bit differently.

 

As a final thought, maybe my term “non-conformist” cock can be improved? 

 

What about “divine cocks”?

 

Divine cocks – portals to reconnecting to The Divine within yourself through which you become a divine lover.

 

Yep, that’s a good place to end this one.

 

Here’s to you R and your simply divine cock! 

 

Further Recommended Reading:

 

“Lingam Massage – Awakening Male Sexual Energy” by Jürgen Becker and Michaela Riedl

 

“The Multi-Orgasmic Man: Sexual Secrets Every Man Should Know” by Mantak Chia and Douglas Abrams Arava

Are Whores “Proper” Feminists?

Sex and feminism seem to have a very uneasy relationship. I’m not a sociologist and I am not writing an academic treatise, I am writing my memories of my experiences and thought processes, so please read this post with the understanding that this is my personal grappling with this thorny issue. I have a jumble of thoughts to try and tease out and make sense of and hopefully by the end of this process you and I will have a stronger sense of my answer to this question and my reasons.

 

My first thought is that you have to define what you mean by the word “feminism.” Arghhh….how unbelievably dreary and pedantic – but words really matter and if your definition of feminism is totally different to mine then of course we can never agree on the answer to the question.

 

Until I was well into my 40s I didn’t consider myself a feminist. Mainly because my brain had wired “feminist” together with “non-sexual woman” and even “man hater.” I’d always found men easier to get on with than women, they’re generally more straightforward with fewer varieties of masks. Plus I went to an all girls’ school, I know what utter bitches females can be. So I wasn’t man hating. 

 

Worse, from the age of 18 when I first felt a cock inside me, I have always loved sex. I wanted to make myself available to as many men as possible, as often as possible, to feel that blissful moment of penetration followed by the explosion of feel good hormones. Other students did drugs and alcohol to get high. I wanted cock. 

 

Please note that at this stage of my life wanting something and allowing myself something were two totally different things. The point is that in my 20s and 30s I didn’t feel that I could possibly ally myself with feminists because I just enjoyed men and their genitalia far too much. 

 

Like so many people, younger me understood feminism to be a rebuttal of men, older and wiser me understands it is a challenge to the patriarchal system that we are all trapped in. 

 

Feminism was born in Europe in the 18th and 19th Centuries – a period of increasingly suffocating control and oppression of women. If you read “Normal Women” by Philippa Gregory you will get a sense of how brutally women were treated and how urgently they needed to break free. 

 

And clearly, in many ways, women have been very successful. We can vote and stand for elections, we too can lead our countries into war against other countries. We too can now slave away long hours in the office for the profit of corporate billionaires. We can choose what clothes we wear, corsets are a thing of the past and we can even choose if/when we want to wear a bra – you know all the things we can do, I don’t need to list them here.

 

But where we haven’t liberated ourselves is in our sexuality. 

 

I guess it took thousands of years to tame women and make them believe that they are non-sexual or that if they are sexual then that part of them is nasty, bad, dangerous, slutty, shameful or lower class. It’s going to take a bit of time for the process to unwind. 

 

What I’m trying to say is that the kind of feminism that fears sex, especially the kind shared with men, is an incomplete feminism.

 

I allowed myself to start considering calling myself a feminist and being a part of this elite club of superior women (I mean who wants to wear the yoke forever?) following a conversation with a friend who was surprised I didn’t consider myself a feminist. 

 

I asked her, “What exactly is feminism?”

 

“Well, for me, it’s having the freedom to choose. Fundamentally if you, as a woman, don’t have choice then you’re enslaved by those who deny you that choice.”

 

So feminism is about choice. Which is about freedom. Now that resonates. 

 

My friend offered her definition during the period in my life in which I was fighting for the right to choose who (and how) I had sex with. The Boyfriend sought to limit my choice. I sought to expand it. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I didn’t want to restrict my life experiences and personal growth for his comfort. 

 

I think that’s pretty radically feminist! A woman living the truth that this is my body and my orgasm and I’ll do with it what I please. 

 

The common response to my demand to live life on my terms is “How selfish.” Which is today’s ducking stool if you ask me. It’s just the modern means by which women are controlled and coerced to do whatever it takes, and be whoever people want us to be, to keep them comfortable. 

 

I once read a brilliant quip on Facebook, “If you have a problem with a sex worker using her body for work, but not a coal miner using his, you have a problem with the sex, not the work.” 

 

People, including many, many women are discomforted by sex work because, in truth, they are discomforted by sex. So many so called feminists – women who believe in bodily autonomy and female choice – become deeply hypocritical and pained when considering sex work. 

 

I’m absolutely fine with women who choose not to have sex. I hate the gym and I hate people who try to jolly me into the idea of sweating in an overheated, over stimulating room. If a woman loathes the idea of a sweaty man rubbing up against her body, that’s great – more for me! 

 

No-one is making women have sex (well only people breaking the law). If you don’t want to, don’t, simples. Just don’t use the weight of a big word like “feminism” to shame and disparage those of us that really do want sex, want loads of it and choose to sell our sex in a capitalist society (in which every other person is selling their unique genius). 

 

My feminism is inclusive. It includes women who hate sex, hate men and hate themselves. I feel sad for them but I won’t tell them that they are not feminists for making the choices they make.

 

So why hasn’t feminism freed women from the chains of sexual oppression? Why hasn’t a movement led by women for women finished the job? I think we’re starting to, it’s one of the roles of my blog, but why has it taken so long?

 

“Normal Women” documents how sexuality became an intrinsic part of the English  class system. One of the distinctions between high class (non-working) women and low class (working) women was how sexual they were allowed to be. 

 

High class women became objects to be revered but not touched. Objects of desire that you could write poetry and love songs about but who remained, pure, unsullied by sex and beyond your grasp, as perfect and unblemished as the statues of the Virgin Mary in all of Europe’s churches and cathedrals. 

 

When the Ancient Greek belief that women need to orgasm to conceive a child was replaced with Enlightenment ideas that they didn’t, even orgasm with a husband was denied any woman who needed to believe herself to be high class or high born.

 

But clearly their husband and “lovers” (the men who wrote lengthy poems and songs expressing their undying love to their untouchable goddess) needed the physical experience of sex with someone. So, low born women, women believed to be little better than livestock, were accepted to be highly sexual, even animalistic in their desires, and thus endlessly available to any man however high or low born he was. 

 

I don’t think this conditioning has been washed out of women.

 

Consider the founding women of feminism – all high born – ie sexless. As more women became educated they moved themselves, through their education, from low born status to high born status, and even if the rigid class system in England didn’t really allow for this upward movement, the women doing the moving wanted it to be so. One way, across hundreds of years of English history, for a woman to demonstrate that she is “high born” is to live as sexless a life as it is possible to lead. 

 

The rules are different for men, who are happily allowed to be sexual whatever class they believe they belong to. 

 

What I am suggesting is that there is status to be gained by women who eschew sex and that after hundreds of years of conditioning this behaviour has become embedded in our bodies. 

 

Well most of our bodies. Somehow I didn’t get this genetic blueprint. Maybe it’s because I am made of immigrant stock and am not a pure-bred English woman? 

 

The hierarchical structure of patriarchy wires us to need to feel superior to someone. Anyone will do. Patriarchy survives by giving us all someone to look down on. And, feminism is operating within the same patriarchal system as everyone else, so it’s not that surprising that feminists also need someone to look down on, and they absolutely do. 

 

Feminists will fight for women to have the right to choose bodily autonomy and to work for a life of economic independence but NOT if it means enjoying herself in the process! 

 

That’s honestly why I think whores are better, we don’t look down on people to make ourselves feel good, we make ourselves feel good by making other people feel amazing! 

 

So, are whores feminists? 

 

Am I a feminist? Is your whore a feminist?

 

I don’t know and I think I have moved beyond caring about whether I am admitted into the club. I know I am a Queen. I stand tall and proud in my space. I don’t feel the need to convert you to any cause or make you feel uncomfortable in any way (unless you’ve booked a Ra massage with me!) 

 

I live my life on my terms because I have vowed to die with no regrets. 

 

I am a wife and a mother as well as a whore. I love my life and I love my work. I wish for everyone to have the same level of freedom, satisfaction, joy, passion, authenticity and creativity in their lives as I have. 

 

I enjoy the company of men especially when they are naked and I can play with their cocks. I am learning to feel less judged by women who are still trapped by centuries of conditioning. 

 

In my little way I rebel against the system every day. And I ally myself with anyone else, feminist, anti-colonialist, anti-war, heck, anti-monarchist who is, in some small way, in their corner of the world, disrupting the patriarchal system that has been so destructive to humanity and the planet. 

 

As a whore my life is devoted to love, pleasure, heart connection and the momentary dissolution of ego – personally I think that’s a more powerful middle finger up to patriarchy than spending hours angrily typing man hating messages on Facebook and X. 

 

Patriarchy will continue to control and exploit us all as long as we continue to waste our time hating, judging and policing each other – and ourselves. 

 

In my opinion, feminists who hate men are agents of patriarchy and feminists who deride sex work are also agents of patriarchy. Their small minded, ignorant, arrogant, fear based belief systems are maintaining the order they purportedly seek to disrupt. 

 

And I have no time for it. 

 

I disengage from the noise. 

 

I refuse to answer the question and I book another sexy appointment. 

 

I have real work to do. 

 

Recommended further reading:

 

“Normal Women” by Philippa Gregory

 

Photo by chloe s. on Unsplash 

Which Am I – A Sex Addict or A Bonobo?

Am I a sex addict? The Boyfriend certainly thought I was. I recall the frown on his very concerned face when he asked me if I thought I might be. I laughed and told him, “I really like sex and that is not the same as being an addict.”

 

Nevertheless, he persisted in hoping that competitive sports, yoga or crafting would fulfill me and return my desire for sex to within the “normal” range. Whatever “normal” is?

 

Of course normal is extremely subjective. My current “normal” would shock other people who’s “normal” would drive me into depression!

 

When I was a young adult, magazines were filled with articles advising readers on how much sex is the right amount of sex – I guess this is a good place to ascertain what is deemed “normal” by current society. So I questioned DuckDuckGo (yep, I have quit Google – it’s easy, do it!) and was fed dozens of articles telling me how much sex is the correct, aka “normal”, amount of sex.

 

Women’s Health quoted a 2020 UK survey which found that 27% of the population was having sex in any given week, of which 11% had sex once a week, 7% twice a week and 9% three times a week. 

 

Only 9% of the UK adult population has sex 3 times a week – I sometimes match that in a day! My “normal” is to have sex with another human being between 7 and 12 times a week. Sex matters to me and I ensure I get a lot.

 

However, according to the 2020 survey, it is “normal” (as in the lived experience) for 73% of the population to have sex less frequently than once a week. Through the eyes of one of these 73% the amount of sex I have must seem completely incredible.

 

Before I continue I want to make clear that I was one of the 73%. 

 

For 6 years I didn’t even have sex as much as once a week. For most of that period I had absolutely no sex at all. 

 

The lack of sex affected me profoundly. 

 

I put on weight. I lost huge amounts of confidence. I lost energy – I felt sluggish and “grey” day in, day out. I became heavily depressed and I would have hit the bottle if I wasn’t very intolerant to alcohol. 

 

I was highly stressed, very controlling and critical of people in my life. I didn’t laugh, I didn’t smile, I snapped and shouted. I was very unhappy and was not fun to be around. I caught every cold going and would often remain ill for months at a time.

 

No sex absolutely sucks. I know this, and can adamantly state it, because I have been there (and got the t-shirt). 

 

The Boyfriend rescued me from my life of no sex but within a year he wanted me to return to comfortably “normal” – which for 73% of the British population is sex less frequently than once a week.

 

I was not going back to borderline suicidal to keep him comfortable. So, in his eyes, I became “abnormal” and possibly even a “sex addict.”

 

There is a lot of judgement in the term “sex addict” and I think it is bandied about quite carelessly by people, very often in the 73%, of the lucky people in the 9%. I think sometimes people genuinely are sex addicts, but I also know that enjoying a lot of sex does not make you an addict.  

 

Addiction, according to Gabor Maté, is when someone has a compulsion to do a behaviour, that they cannot stop, despite knowing that it is harmful (or detrimental) to them. With drugs and alcohol it is easy to see how the addiction is harmful to the addict. Lives and bodies collapse with the misuse of both substances. 

 

Maté points to his own shopping habits as an addiction. It harms him to go binge shopping. His bank account takes hit after hit as he compulsively buys more things that he doesn’t need for the dopamine hit. And despite knowing that his compulsive shopping is detrimental to his life, he struggles to stop his compulsion to shop, making his shopping habit, in his eyes, an addiction.

 

My understanding of the term “addiction” (thanks to Gabor Maté) is that you have to be compelled to do a behaviour that is harmful to you. Compelled and harmful being the two key words. 

 

I always suspected that The Boyfriend accused me of being a sex addict because my behaviour made him uncomfortable and even, at times, caused him pain (ie harm), my choices certainly felt detrimental to him. His opposition to my choices were valid, he had every right to express discomfort and dismay and to ask for our relationship to return to “normal”. These are valid relationship issues which he could air because I was always honest with him and open to conversations. But are his feelings enough to diagnose me with an addiction?

 

To be an addiction my behaviour needed to (1) cause me harm and (2) needed to be more than a conscious and thoughtfully researched choice about how I wanted to live my life as an adult, it had to be a compulsion – the opposite to a conscious choice. 

 

Because I do not live in Victorian times when women were locked away in asylums for far less than being overly sexual (though that was definitely a valid reason to lock us away) I am allowed to examine his claim and refute it robustly.

 

For his assertion to be plausible, my behaviour had to harm me in some way – 

physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually – maybe in all four ways? Because sex, however much you have, is not an addiction until it is causing you harm in at least one of these four ways. So, let’s examine the four ways, one by one, to see what harm I could have been doing to myself.

 

Physical harm? Sex has been made to seem terrifyingly harmful. For decades, if you are lucky enough to receive any sex education, it focuses almost exclusively on the sexual diseases you can catch if you are careless enough to find yourself having any kind of sexual intimacy. 

 

If you came of age during the HIV/Aids crisis as I did, you were convinced that if you let anyone near you without being fully encased in a condom you would catch HIV, and die. 

 

If you are in my children’s generation you are told by the school nurse that if you don’t accept the HPV vaccine you will catch cancer from sex, and die.

 

My whole adult life I have witnessed campaign after campaign brainwashing us into fearing the physical harm we will come to if/when we have sex (note the absence of fearmongering around, say, using motor cars which are both convenient and deathly, with a vast industry to maintain.)

 

The strange (and maybe dangerous?) truth is that sex is far from harmful for us. In fact sex, and lots of it, is really, really good for us. 

 

There is the obvious advantage of a massive download of feel good chemicals which keep your body and your mind in tip top condition even preventing the onset of Alzheimer’s. 

 

Orgasm works out your pelvic floor muscles and the muscles of your vagina arguably way better than kegel exercises do. Sex gets your heart pumping and your blood flowing, if you are including breathwork in your sex that is an added advantage. 

 

Sex makes you happy and sex makes you smile. When you smile your body is provably more relaxed and flowing with feel good chemicals. Sex helps your body enter the parasympathetic rest and digest state. Which is why our nearest relatives, the bonobo chimps, are engaged in sex for large proportions of every day. 

 

Thanks to the sex-negative sex education we receive, we are programmed to be convinced that sex leads to disease. This is an old idea from Victorian times (if not before) when it was believed that highly sexed women (i.e. prostitutes and nymphomaniacs – essentially the same women) spontaneously created disease in their vaginas. 

 

We haven’t, as a society, moved on significantly from this belief. If you go to an STI clinic in the UK for a routine check up, you are immediately deemed to be at a higher risk of infection if you have had sex with a professional (or someone from Africa) – the British NHS perpetuating both racism and sex worker phobia in this initial question on their intake forms. 

 

Using the tube, flying in an aeroplane, going to the cinema or theatre all come with the risk of infection. It’s long confused and frustrated me that we categorise infections of, say, the throat as normal and treatable by a GP or pharmacist, but infections of the vagina or cock must be dealt with in a different clinic with loads of shame and judgement attached. Why?

 

Well, I know why, it’s to fill us with fear around sex to stop us enjoying something that is free and empowering and makes us healthy. Sick people are more profitable. Sex makes your body strong, vibrant, alive and healthy. There is no money in happy and healthy, so we are fed vast amounts of propaganda from puberty onwards to make sure we fear the very thing that could keep us happy and well. 

 

The most serious physical illness or injury that I have had in my adult life was breaking my ankle whilst walking the dog. I still enjoy walking and I have never accused any local dog walker, some of whom walk their dogs 3 times a day, that they are dog walking addicts!

 

Like walking, yoga, swimming, weight training, cycling, sex is good for you. Like walking, swimming, cycling, yoga and weight training there are associated risks which are good to be informed about so that you make good choices. Life is filled with risks which we manage by, say, wearing a helmet when we cycle on the roads. 

 

I very strongly refute that sex harms you physically and that there is any such thing as too much sex. 

 

To me that’s like claiming there is such a thing as too much breathing!

 

Emotional harm? We know that the “appropriate” amount of sex is really good for you emotionally. Oxytocin, released in orgasm, is the hormone that bonds us to other people, building intimacy, making us feel safe, growing love. 

 

The reason why bonobos (our closest biological relative with whom we share 98.7% of our DNA) engage in so much sex within their social groupings is, in part, to strengthen groups bonds so that the individuals within the group are emotionally healthy. 

 

Humans are emotionally fragile in our disconnected, disassociated, egoic world. When we have sex it is not often the kind that builds intimacy. The sex early humans engaged in for the first 3 millennia of our existence has been twisted and contorted into a shadow of its former self. 

 

It is highly likely that for our first 295,000 years humans lived far more like bonobos than like modern day humans, so it’s useful to consider how bonobos spend their time and how they engage in acts of sexual intimacy. 

 

Bonobos are a notably peaceful species, interestingly (to this whore anyway) their troops are led by females and they solve any disputes within their community using sex (genius!) Annoyingly for humans who are too busy working to have time for sex, bonobos spend far more time each day fucking and grooming each other than they do in the “work” of feeding themselves.

Clearly the sexy, peace loving, female led social model that we lived under for hundreds of thousands of years was a challenge to the patriarchs who sought to control humanity for their profit, and still do. 

 

Yes, the species has to reproduce itself. And, as with bonobos, this can be done whilst experiencing exquisite pleasure, building deep intimacy and nourishing harmonious group dynamics.

 

The patriarchal model of sex which has always been, in essence, about one person (male) exerting their power over another person (female) comes with a huge emotional cost for both parties. I don’t accept it is sex that is causing emotional harm, it is the way in which we are conditioned into doing sex that causes emotional harm.

 

The bonobos that walk amongst you (cunningly disguised as humans so that you don’t notice us) solve many of our conflicts through sexual intimacy, heal deep emotional wounds with sex and deepen intimacy with ourselves and others through sex. 

 

The sex we enjoy doesn’t cause us emotional harm, rather it heals the harm done to us by living under the patriarchal yoke. 

 

Does too much abusive sex harm? Of course it does. Just a small portion of abusive sex causes emotional harm. The tired, fractured, impatient and increasingly toxic  patriarchal model of sex does great harm which is why I won’t engage in it.

 

I control the sex I have very carefully. I have found a way to engage in healing, intimate sex on a daily basis with, by now, 100s of men and I have honestly never felt happier. Interestingly, despite my sexual appetite I do not partake in the swinging scene because the patriarchal model reigns supreme in that world and I have found the sex to be, at worst abusive, and at best, incredibly dull. 

 

Mental harm? Scientists are working on the theory that oxytocin “the love hormone” could be used to reverse the effects of Alzheimer’s. Orgasm is accompanied by a massive download of oxytocin in the body. Thus, the sex that does not harm you physically or emotionally is looking very like it delays or even reverses Alzheimer’s. 

 

Wouldn’t you prefer having an orgasm a day to doing a sudoku a day to keep your brain healthy and young? 

 

Sex also increases levels of serotonin in the body, the neurotransmitter that plays such a key role in regulating mood, sleep, digestion and appetite whilst also influencing learning, memory and reducing stress. 

 

It’s a no-brainer that we all want and need healthy levels of serotonin. In my 6 years of no sex my levels dropped so low that I needed to be prescribed pharmaceutical serotonin in the form of SSRI anti-depressants. As soon as my sex life picked up again I had no need for the drugs. Sex literally saved my life. 

 

There is a belief amongst some people that reducing your sexual sensitivity (via circumcision) improves your cognitive performance but I fundamentally challenge this. You may have more time on your hands if you engage in less sex, but I would argue (as Naomi Wolf does in “Vagina”) that orgasm lights up the brain so powerfully that the orgasmically sexually active amongst us bring more brain power to each hour that we choose to work. 

 

The combination of hormones and neuro-transmitters that flood our bodies during sex and orgasm actively keep our brains active, vibrant and healthy, they fuel our creativity and sharpen our cognitive capacity. 

 

In other words GOOD sex is good for you mentally. Lots of GOOD sex is even gooder for you mentally! 

 

Spiritual harm? – Sex has become my spiritual practice. This will confuse and concern Christian folk who do their spiritual in a church and their sexual in a bedroom with their spouse, never confusing the two (unless you are a leader in the Church in which case….maybe let’s not go there, let’s just quietly say “hypocrisy.”)

 

I can see the argument that having a lot of non-intimate sex with a lot of people who you avoid making connections with, could, and would be, spiritually depleting. Our souls yearn for connection. The physical act of sex can either be used as a means to build and nourish this connection, or it can be used simply to empty your ball sack (physically if you are a man, metaphorically if you are a woman.) 

 

Sex can be spiritually nourishing and when it is not it can be spiritually destructive. Good sex, the sex I have, connects you to  The Divine and the divine within yourself and is deeply nourishing spiritually.

 

When you feel The Divine moving as an energy through your body and connect through that energy to the divine within your partner’s body, you are doing as Jesus taught, and understanding that, “The kingdom of God is within you.” 

 

Literally. It is the pure love and light you experience in your body. Especially, if you direct it there, in your heart chakra in the centre of your chest. Which makes the image my Catholic grandmother had in her home make so much more sense to me:

 

The gnostics were burned as heretics for this understanding. I live in luckier times. I experience this truth in my body every day, I can share my experiences with you in these blog posts and at most I will get blocked by Google and banned by Paypal, but I’m highly unlikely to get burned. 

 

This knowledge is why tantric teachings were never written down until well into the 20th Century. Instead, like gnosticism, for hundreds of years they were passed verbally, in secret, between teacher and carefully vetted pupils. It wasn’t safe to know that The Divine is within you: that you are a fragment of The Divine incarnated into physical form for this human experience and that, thus, you are divine, until less than 100 years ago. 

 

We are here. We are at this point of mass enlightenment. We desperately need humans to wake up to the truth that we are a peace loving, sexy species who, given half a chance, would solve all conflict in mass orgies instead of mass killings.

 

Having addressed the four areas in which the “abnormal” amount of sex I desire could be detrimental to me and found that, far from being harmful, sex, and lots of it is good for me in all four areas, I’m going to briefly examine the other defining word for addiction: “compelled.”

 

Compulsion is the “irresistible impulse to act, often despite negative consequences.” Impulsive behaviour comes from below the level of conscious thought and planning, thus consciously choosing to have sex, planning it, being very mindful about how and with whom you have it is surely the very opposite to being compelled by impulse?

 

I love sex. But I will not engage in it on terms that are not of my conscious choosing. 

 

I once found myself in a very seedy sex club. I have never felt less sexual in my life and did not engage in any sex there. If I was a sex addict, I would have felt compelled to have sex with as many partners as I could handle for hour after hour. Because I am not a sex addict I felt no such compulsion, in fact I felt revulsion and we left not long after we’d arrived. 

 

My argument is that you can’t call someone a sex addict simply because they have a higher (probably healthier) sex drive than you. 73% of the UK adult population are having sex less often than once a week. That is a dismally small amount of sex if you are interested in maintaining your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual health. 

 

Yet because 73% is by far the majority and thus deemed “normal”, those of us who want more sex are dismissed by our less sexy partners as “sex addicts”. It’s a very convenient way of shutting down the conversation. It makes you – the “addict” – the problem, the one who needs to seek help on their own, absolving the less sexy partner of any responsibility to even enter into a conversation about your valid needs and desires.

 

Intimacy is built on these kinds of conversations. Every time one of us is mis-diagnosed as an addict in lieu of an honest conversation, that opportunity for intimacy is closed off in the relationship. This is how relationships die. You can’t stay in love with someone who would rather mis-diagnose you than have an honest conversation with you. 

 

I suspect that there are thousands, if not millions of people, in the UK alone, who secretly fear they are sex addicts because their unwilling partner would rather mis-apply the label “addict” to them, than sit through, for them, an uncomfortable conversation. Which makes me angry. It honestly does. How can you learn and grow and evolve as a human being if your very essence is shamed, mis-labelled and avoided?

 

Humans desire to be seen, held and understood. We are much, much more like the sex loving bonobos than uptight, polite society is comfortable with. 

 

Denying who we are, denying our sexy essence, denying our birthright to sexual pleasure and connection to the divine within our bodies does not make us happy or healthy. 

 

It leads to a lot of deeply toxic behaviour and the breakdown of many potentially very loving relationships.

 

Recommended Further Reading:

 

“When God Was a Woman” by Merlin Stone

 

“Sex at Dawn – The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality” by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá

 

“Vagina – A New Biography” by Naomi Wolf

“Oh Gush!!” – A Story About Reconnecting to Sensation

In my recent blog post about Circumcision I shared the painful (and not very often acknowledged) truth that many circumcised men have difficulty feeling sensation in their genitals. 

 

My assertion was made, partly from my observations as a British whore working with mainly intact men but also a number of circumcised men, and also from an illuminating Zoom meeting I once had with a victim of circumcision.

 

He chose to break what I call circumcision omerta. I think because he wanted his pain to be witnessed, he wanted his broken humanity to be seen and understood by a group of deeply empathetic women.

 

We were a group of about 6 witnesses who gathered to hear the personal account of this one man’s experience of sex with a circumcised penis. It was a sad tale. He recounted how he had always struggled to connect with any sensation at all in his genitals. How sex (with himself and others) felt numb, and disassociated. How he had dived into tantra to try to connect with sensation but nothing seemed to help.

 

Then he shared a unique and fascinating insight into his shut down and disconnect. One night, whilst on holiday in Ibiza, he had taken “too many pills” and during the resulting trip he had had the gruesome experience of re-living the pain of his circumcision.

 

He told us how re-living that excruciating pain had made him understand why he felt fearful about connecting to sensation in his genitals. Dr Kelllog was was right, circumcision is such an excruciatingly painful experience that the baby/boy/man makes the choice to never feel anything in this area ever again. Shutting down all sensation to avoid ever feeling that pain ever again. 

 

It was a shocking and terribly sad story. Especially when he shared all that he had done to try to regain sensation in his genitals so that he could experience sexual intimacy in the same way as his fortunate intact brothers. He had spent his adult years yearning to feel more so that he could connect on a deeper level with his sexual partners and now with his wife.

 

Having heard of the immense emotional and spiritual pain he had suffered and of his longstanding commitment to his own healing, I asked, “If you have baby boys, will you have them circumcised?”

 

His reply still shocks me. 

“I do have a baby boy and after much discussion, my wife and I decided that he would be circumcised because it is what our people do. It is what makes us as powerful as we are. It stops us wasting our time in pleasure and makes us superior humans.” 

 

Fuck me. Apologies for swearing, but seriously, FUCK ME!! 

 

A man who had spent an hour sharing his own pain and sadness inflicted ALL OF THAT on his own baby??!! It’s an awful thing to do when you are ignorant of the consequences, but when you have lived experience of them? It truly beggars belief.

 

Further, the notion that being separated from your sexuality makes you more powerful? 

 

The notion that an individual becomes superior when he/she is denied access to the sensation that is their birth right has to be the most horrific myth around human sexuality that I have come across. 

 

My horror at his response to my question aside, the purpose of the meeting was for us to gain a greater understanding of how circumcision affects male sexuality. It had been incredibly useful for me to have such a candid first-hand account from a victim which happened to match my observations as a whore. 

 

As I had observed, by now, countless times in my professional practice, circumcision disconnects the victim from sensation in his genitals and even makes him fear feeling sensation in his own body. 

 

Sometimes this shows up in the most incredible and well disguised ways. Take my client P who travels down from the North of England to see me 2-3 times a year. A bit older than me, he had never fingered a woman before he decided to invest in sessions with me. 

 

When I first opened the door to P I saw him, standing on my doorstep with a heavy back pack and a full black bin bag. Unusual I thought. I invited him in and he asked if he could use the bathroom. I pointed down the hallway and off he trotted, bin bag in hand. I waited on my bed. And I waited. And I waited. The candlelight and the music were inviting me to lie down and close my eyes for a bit, but I kept them open and stayed seated, sexily prim, on the edge of the bed.

 

I heard footsteps in the corridor, stood up, straightened my dress, fluffed my hair and put on my most dazzling smile. This man had travelled across the country for a Kama session, I was about to give him an experience he would never forget!

 

In walked P wearing a short skirt, stockings, a lacey teddy, high heels (not as high as mine I noted) and a blonde wig.  I noticed for the first time that his finger nails were painted red. I fixed the smile on my face and said, “You look beautiful.” We kissed. The plastic hairs from the wig kept falling across his face and getting into our mouths, it was a wig designed for looking good in, not for kissing in.

 

So began possibly the strangest session of my life. I am a tantric practitioner. My approach to sex is sensual touch. Many of my sessions are highly erotic, others are steamily sexual, but they are all sensual. I guide my clients into sensation and deep, deep connection with their sensual, physical bodies. 

 

I have no experience, expertise or really any interest in sex that is not sensual. 

 

In my first (and subsequent) sessions with P he found endless ways to avoid being led into sensation. Sessions were whirlwinds of outfit changes and quick fire scenarios using toy after toy from his back pack: 

 

  • The one when I tied him into a cock cage underneath the lacey teddy. 

 

  • The one when we took it in turns to be restrained to a chair with excitingly heavy metal cuffs, blindfolded, wearing a ball gag. 

 

  • The one in which I wore a strap-on and fucked him with a large dildo followed by a larger one. 

 

  • The one when he fucked me with a mouth-dick dildo. 

 

All of which thrilled me and turned me on immensely as a route into pleasure and sensation. But all of which were ended almost before they began in the frenzied need to do them all.

 

Despite all the toys and all the variety I have never found sex to be so boring and unrewarding. I understood that it was very validating and exciting for him to share his toys and outfits with me. It just did nothing for me at all. And the 3 hours that we had agreed to (on account of him travelling such a long way to get to me) dragged on interminably.

 

I hated how unresponsive and grumpy my body was – the poor man had put in so much effort to entertain and please. But I couldn’t make my body be pleased with sex that was so disconnected and empty. Above all I felt sad.

 

P wanted connection. He craved intimacy. His desire to be seen and enjoyed was a part of this. He was doing sex the best way he knew how. But his teacher had been porn, not other women, so his learned methods didn’t work with a real life woman. Proving, yet again, that porn is a lousy way to learn how to do sex.

 

What looked great on film, flopped in real life. This whore is not aroused by lots of doing. I get turned on by connecting with a human being – to feeling sensation in my own body and through that the energy and sensation in another person’s body. But every time we got close to feeling sensation in our own and each other’s bodies the moment would be abruptly brought to a halt and we would move onto the next thing.

 

It was like some mad Charlie Chaplin era comedy in which a crazed band leader stops the band playing as soon as they have reached harmony to re-arrange the seating of the audience. 

 

And it made no sense to me. People who are comfortable with sensation are delighted to feel another person’s turn on and then stay in that space, building the turn on into an explosive crescendo. You may then move on to something else, but you don’t interrupt the flow once you are in it!

 

With P I felt there were two things at play. First, his lack of experience and contact with real women meant P’s sex life had been limited to, and informed by, porn. 

 

Secondly and even sadder, P is circumcised. Thus he may be substituting the resulting lack of feeling with lots and lots of visually exciting doing.  

 

It is even possible that he, like the man on the Zoom call, feared feeling any sensation in his genitals explaining why he consistently interpreted any flow. 

 

Whenever he got dangerously close to feeling something he would stop what we were doing, break the connection and force us to start over from cold, over and over and over again. 

 

It was exhausting. Female sexual energy does flick on/off like a man’s. We are like a pot of water, keep us simmering then turn up the temperature a bit and we will boil as fiercely as you. But drop the pot and refill with cold water and it takes A LOT of energy to get us to boiling again. Hence why I was so drained at the end of every session with him even though I had done very little. 

 

Plus, of course, there is nothing more tiring than boredom.

 

I was very aware that P had not had many (if any) sexual partners, he was making the most enormous effort to come down to see me and as a whore I owed him my time, energy and skills to guide back to the sexual pleasure and connection that is his birthright. 

 

I wanted to gift him the experience of being seen, being enjoyed and having someone share his enthusiasms with him. I wanted him to feel safe to self express and to be able to trust me.

 

The problem was that I am also a woman. And as a woman I reached a point where I could not bear another 3 hours of this kind of frantic, disconnected, pleasure avoidant, performative sex. I found it boring and incredibly draining. 

 

Sex should make you feel amazing. When it doesn’t you have to put a stop to it. That’s a fundamental rule for me and a promise the whore makes to the woman.

 

Eventually, at the end of one of these sessions, the whore looked on aghast as the woman snapped at P for doing something wrong. I can’t remember what it was, but I had reached the point at which I could smile and pretend no longer. It saddened me that I couldn’t play along with it any more, but I had reached the point that I couldn’t and I really didn’t want to.

 

I did feel really bad for him. I knew that I had become a safe place for him, we had built up a fair amount of trust. I knew he felt seen and unjudged by me. I knew I had been a good whore for him, the problem was the woman just couldn’t hack any more of it.

 

My solution was to email him and suggest that we split the long 3 hour session into 2 shorter 90 minute sessions – one session in his hotel room the evening before a follow up session in my home. He replied “Yes please, that sounds amazing.” 

 

I quietly decided that his porn fantasy sex would be restricted to the session in “his” space – the hotel room and that the follow up session in my home would be my kind of sex – a sensual massage connecting him to sensation in his body. 

 

I don’t ordinarily agree to outcalls and when I do, I charge a lot more for them because I do not like driving to a hotel for an intimate experience. Hotel rooms are bland, poorly lit, often have ill considered art on the walls, and always an ugly television to drain the room of any sacred energy. The energy of the space is always chaotic and not often happy.

 

So I prepared myself for my hotel visit with a bit of reluctance. Driving to meet a client does not make my nipples tingle like walking down the stairs does! And I was pretty sure I was going to have to smile my way through another boring dressing up show. 

 

It’s only 90 minutes, I kept reassuring myself. 

 

He was very chivalrous and met me in the car park to show me up to his room – a family room with a kingsize bed for sex and a single bed for sleeping in afterwards (how very convenient and well organised I thought).

 

He turned off the television (thank god) and I moved in to kiss him. He was still in his civvies. I expected him to pull away and say, “I’ll be back in a minute.” But he didn’t, he kissed me back. Softly, and fully on the mouth. A sexy kiss. My cunt started to twitch.

 

Tentatively I started to undress him. I don’t think I had ever had the pleasure of removing a buttoned up shirt from him before. I noticed he was shaking all over as I slowly undid the buttons and slid it off his back. I removed the low cut red top I had chosen to wear as sexy, but not ‘obviously hooker’ sexy. He fumbled with my bra strap as I undid his trousers and pushed down his boxers releasing his erection which bounced against my inner thigh as he started fondling my nipples. 

 

It was a very sexy start to our session. No wig hairs interrupting our kisses, no complicated lace outfits between our bodies, just a man and a woman removing each other’s clothes in a non-descript hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

 

Unclothed apart from my stockings and shoes, “So sexy,” he remarked, we made our way to the bed, me sitting astride him as he played with my breasts, tweaked my nipples and enjoyed the feeling of me rubbing my vulva on his cock. It wasn’t long before he reached for a towel to protect the bed so that I could come, squirting all over him.

 

“Oh gush!” he exclaimed.

 

We laughed at his clever play on words, I told him they would be used on my website and we kissed, open mouths, greedy for each other. 

 

We kissed a lot, you’ll know that I like kissing, and that I think it is essential for creating intimacy. The oxytocin that kissing releases signals to the body that it is safe to connect, safe to feel, safe to have a deep inner experience within your own body and to share this with another person. Kissing moves people from fear into absence of fear. Kissing moves people into intimacy.

 

P and I shared an incredibly intimate time in that drab hotel room. We kissed, our bodies intertwined, he spent time fingering me whilst biting on my nipples giving me wave after wave of orgasm. I reached for a condom and we fucked, me riding him as he tweaked my nipples making me come more, soaking through the carefully placed towel underneath us. 

 

Reaching into my handbag I brought out the heavy cuffs I had grown used to using with him in the long, tiresome sessions which were all about doing to avoid feeling and being. I looked at the chair and considered cuffing him to it, but then what? I thought, I hadn’t brought my feathers and floggers, pin wheels and canes with me. 

 

Instead I commanded him to go down on all fours on the bed. I cuffed his wrists and ankles and strapped the ball gag tightly into his mouth. We would play with his toys, but we would do it my way – we would use them as a path into sex not a diversion out of sex. From my bag I pulled out my strap on, stepped into it, put on a condom, applied some lube and placed it at the entrance to his arse.

 

He pushed back onto me and we fucked, hard, for a while. I found the heavy cuffs on his ankles and wrists and the ball gag in his mouth thrilling. After a while he rolled over onto his back, ankles in the air to experience me fucking him from a different angle. Navigating my way under the chain to fuck him hard face to face I removed the ball gag so that we could kiss as we fucked. It was surprisingly intimate given the heavy restraints and the feeling of the chain against my back 

 

The session flowed. He didn’t interrupt it once to change an outfit. In fact he hadn’t brought any down with him. He now wanted more from his time with me. And he was ready to experience more during his time with me. 

 

The months in which I had played along with all dressing up and the toys and the constant interruptions to sensation had made him feel seen and accepted, which meant he trusted me – the things a whore goes through to gain a man’s trust! 

 

It had worked, which was satisfying. And, once the trust was there he was open to being guided to feel sensation again. My ticking off, whilst uncomfortable for him, had been the catalyst he had needed. 

 

If I had prostituted myself to feed his porn-fed model of sex, our sessions would have stayed stuck in uncomfortable for me and essentially empty for him. 

 

Because I am a whore I spoke my truth and gave him an option that would enable his growth.

 

And he really grew. Stripped of most of the paraphernalia he became a lover. 

 

I used his name for the first time during a session. He loved that. And he had earned that. 

 

Hearing your name moaned in pleasure is incredibly validating and arousing. When he had been busy changing costumes in the bathroom while I lay alone on the bed there had been no arousal for me, so no reason or opportunity to murmur his name. 

 

But P the lover was giving me many reasons to murmur his name. So, between kisses, I did. 

 

Despite the flow, the intimacy and the orgasmic sex that I was finally experiencing with him, he did still step away from the flow 2 or 3 times. His reason was valid – he wanted to check the time on his phone so that we didn’t overrun. 

 

The reason the conscious mind gives to step away from growth, in this case, feeling sensation in his body, is always reasonable, but I recognised it for what it was – resistance. And I made a mental note to address this in the following day’s massage.

 

I drove away from our encounter in the hotel room feeling very satisfied – both as a whore and as a woman. P had let go of the cock cage, the costumes, the tape, the mouth-dick dildo. In their absence he had felt so much more and he had given so much more. P had transitioned from being a little boy trapped in a porn bubble into a lover who was intent on serving his Queen.

 

His Queen very much approved.

 

And she was not at all surprised when he told me at the end of the session that he had stopped consuming porn. Confirming my long held belief that porn is to good sex what soured milk is to coffee. Freed from the constant images that porn feeds the brain, he was able to connect with a real woman. And the real woman had loved it!

 

The following morning, as I prepared myself and my room for the massage session, I mused over his persistent need to break away from the session. What had been costume changes and some exciting toy had morphed into a “time check” but the break was still there and whilst it had been less of a problem, it was still an interruption to the flow of energy between two bodies which this whore then had to work to reconnect. Annoying.

 

So why does he do it? I wondered. Safety, safety, safety came the whispered reply from deep within me. 

 

When he arrived, in stark contrast to the night before, I invited him to undress himself to lie down on my bed under the fluffy blanket and to close his eyes. The words of the meditation bubbled out of me, line after line bringing his attention to the safety of the room, coaching him to feel safe in his body, even when he felt sensation. I guided him on using his senses and breath to feel sensation and I connected physical sensation with his energy body and The Divine. 

 

At the end of the meditation he was deeply relaxed. Clearly feeling safe and I hoped, had begun to feel sensation in the palms of his hands if not, yet, in his genitals. I removed the blanket, asked him to roll over, turned up the music and placed my hands on his back.

 

The back massage was as beautiful as it always is. I loved the feeling of his body relaxing and yielding to my hands. I could feel that he was feeling and it pleased me. I included his prostate because, after all, I had fucked him hard the night before. 

 

When I invited him to roll over he asked, “Do I open my eyes now?” As he asked this question he opened his eyes, momentarily I felt his body tense so my answer surprised me, “It’s your choice, I think you will feel more if you keep them closed, but it is your session.” 

 

Fortunately he chose to close his eyes again and his body immediately relaxed. I poured oil over the front of his body and sat astride him genital to genital. I picked up his right hand, massaged the heart opening point in his palm before holding it on my heart chakra with my left hand, my right hand placed on his heart chakra.

 

Sitting in stillness, genital to genital, heart to heart for a few moments I allowed the energy to swirl around and between us. I heard him mutter quietly, “This is beautiful.” 

 

When I tried to move the right hand onto my left breast to play with it as I repeated the process with his left hand, his hand refused to move. I managed to massage the left hand and place it on top of the right hand. And he held both hands there for what felt like an age.

 

Where had Mr Interrupt-The-Flow gone?!

 

This was deep connection. Deeper than I think I have ever previously experienced with any client. Through his palms he was connecting his heart to mine. Our genitals throbbed slightly sending energy to each other, otherwise his palms held my body still. He did not want to break the spell.

 

I was in no hurry, I did not want to rob P of this deeply connected moment. This is what he has always wanted. He had just been looking in the wrong places to find it. I smiled to myself. Pleased to have earned his trust to finally give him the experience that he had been yearning for.

 

When he was ready to drop his palms we progressed onto the lingam massage and he enjoyed a full 20 minutes of me pleasuring his wounded cock. He came as I used a variation of the bashing technique that I use with all circumcised cocks to bring them to an explosive 10. With him I moved his cock between my two palms hard and fast, so that the glans bashed against my palms, in a rhythm that I could only maintain with my eyes closed.

 

After he came, he opened his eyes, looked into mine and just said, “Thank you. Truly, thank you.”

 

He didn’t need to say more. I knew that the whore had rewarded him handsomely for pleasing the woman so well the evening before.

 

My whore’s skills had finally been given the space to do what they do so well – re-connect a disconnected man with sensation, with his body, with his energy, with The Divine within him. To do that I had to gain his trust and that had been an interesting journey.

 

And now we are here. He won’t be able to get down to me again for about 6 months. I hope that if he uses porn again it is in moderation and that when I next visit him in a local hotel room our sex builds on the experience we had this time. I hope that with every meet his sexual confidence grows until one day he doesn’t need me any more and he meets a real, real woman who he can make smile and laugh and come.

 

Circumcision is a horrific crime committed by patriarchy on men. But it doesn’t have to be a life sentence of denied pleasure and sensation. Trust can be built between two people to create a space that is safe enough for wounded, terrified, brutalised cocks to feel sensation again. 

 

I am so pleased and proud to have the skills and knowledge to create that safe space and also the bluntness to refuse to play along with someone’s avoidance tactics, however creative and playful they may be. 

 

I am a whore. My passion, my mission and my life’s purpose is to reconnect people to the pleasure and sensation that is their birth right. 

 

Including the men who have been brutalised by the people who despise me.  

 

Photo by Alessio Zappatore on Unsplash

Life Without a Bra – Liberating Myself From Chronic Pain & Discomfort

 

For nearly a decade I have put on a bra only in the certain knowledge that it will be removed again within 10 minutes. 

 

Apart from that brief spell my breasts have been free to move as they will under my clothes for so many years that I can barely remember a life in which wearing a bra all day, every day was obligatory. 

 

From my early teens until my late 40s I thought bras, for me, were non-negotiable. I am a large breasted woman, from a family of large breasted women, and the message from my family, friends, magazines, and Trinny and Susannah (do you remember them?!) – was that as a big breasted woman I had to wear a supportive, underwired bra to give me shape and to stop my boobs from drooping down to my knees.

 

Obediently I complied. For about 35 years. I was certain that if I skipped even one day the great catastrophe of “saggy breasts” would befall me. 

 

Every night my breasts ached when I released them, so much so that I had to hold them in my arms to slowly acclimatise them to life-without-the-bra. 

 

For decades I suffered from a stiff, immobile neck which cost me significant money with acupuncturists, chiropractors and osteopaths as I tried to solve a recurring problem that never really went away. 

 

On hot summer days the wire would rub against the soft skin under my breasts making them red raw.

 

The skin of my shoulders was always marked by red lines.

 

My shoulders hunched over with the strain of carrying weight that was not meant for them. 

 

But I never once questioned my choice to strap myself in every morning for the next 12 to 15 hours. I fitted in. To go braless was completely unthinkable. So I didn’t think it.

 

Then I travelled to Mexico for a week’s tantra retreat with my coach and teacher Layla Martin. It was a long journey involving a connecting flight in Mexico City airport (where, I kid you not, I spent a good hour searching for Gate TBC) and sadly I didn’t think to give my poor body a break from the bra. I was in public, so the bra stayed put.

 

By the time I got to the privacy of the hotel room, where I was staying one night before I joined the retreat, the skin under my breasts was rubbed raw, in places the unforgiving underwire had broken through the skin. And worse, I was in the heat of the tropics to which my body had, not surprisingly, a very sweaty response. The sweat found its way into my rubbed skin, irritating it further. 

 

I had travelled half way across the world for a week of tantric transformation and my body was feeling irritated and irritable. Not a great start.

 

I was so tired I just slept. I guess I hoped that the sore, rubbed under-boob skin would be better in the morning, like it usually is. 

 

It wasn’t. 

 

I journeyed the final leg to the retreat in a bra that was killing me and it still didn’t occur to me to just take the damned thing off.

 

Thank goodness for Layla and for the week I had travelled to attend. 

 

At some level I knew there was going to be nudity involved on the retreat. I guess a bit like my clients know that nudity is going to be a part of my sessions! But I was incredibly unpractised at being nude in front of more than one person, I was far, far more used to being naked with one man than with 40 plus women and I wondered how Layla was going to persuade us all to remove our clothes.

 

As with all her work, she did it with ritual. And it’s a ritual I have adapted to use in some of my couple’s sessions. 

 

We were put into groups of 5 in which one person would receive sensory stimulation from the other 4. The practice began with the receiving person standing in the middle of a circle created by the other women. This person would remove her clothes, item by item, stating one thing she wanted to gain from the week with each item she removed.

 

In this “Goddess Reveal” we were removing “old skin” and as we did so we were calling in the person we felt ready to become. 

 

Once undressed the receiving woman lay down in the middle of her group to receive positive messaging in a multi-sensory way. One woman gently stroked her skin with rose petals, another held beautiful scents under her nose whilst stimulating taste with delicious fresh fruits. The other two women spoke positive affirmations into her ears – one person in each ear, overwhelming the conscious mind, making it impossible for it to object and offer resistance.

 

At the end of my turn as the goddess in the middle, I opened my eyes to find my naked body covered in pink rose petals. I had never felt so beautiful, radiant, held and seen in my whole life. The women were complete strangers to me and yet had gifted me with one of the most impactful 20 minutes of my life. 

 

At the end of the ritual we were all naked and we remained so, in the tropical heat of Mexico, for the rest of the week. Above all it felt completely natural and normal. What I had assumed would feel uncomfortable or awkward felt anything but. Freed from our clothes, and the identities we put on with them, we were more equal and more beautiful than I had ever previously experienced in a group of women before. 

 

It was a week devoted to pleasure and deep healing. To reconnection. To inner truth and knowing. To unconditional love for self. We did all of this using self pleasure, dance, ritual and breathwork. 

 

Inside the structure we were safe to become wild and untamed. I roared. I laughed. I cried. I spoke my truth. And I felt energy in my body on a completely different level. This was the week in which I experienced my true humanity, I felt more alive, more present and more ME than I had ever felt before. 

 

One day, after another incredibly powerful practice, a young German woman, who I  thought was the most beautiful amongst us, said, “I am looking around at all your beautiful bodies, all so different and yet all so perfect, and I realise that if YOU are all so beautiful then I must be too?!” 

 

We laughed, because every single one of us thought she was undeniably beautiful, how could she possibly think otherwise? But her point was spot on. If every woman in the room – all different shapes and sizes and ages, is beautiful, then how is it possible for me to be the sole exception? 

 

We all stood still and absorbed this profound truth. We are all beautiful. We are all perfect. We are all frigging magnificent!

 

That was another moment that changed my life. 

 

Looking around the room every single body was unique, no two were the same and yet every single body was perfect and balanced. I realised it’s the clothes that we try to fit into that make us less than perfect, WE are all utterly beautiful. 

 

I saw how all of our freed breasts moved in perfect harmony with our bodies – as if they were made to fit (imagine that?!) All different shapes, sizes and ages, we all look balanced, natural, perfect. 

 

One woman kept her bra on for the week (she had made a promise to her husband not to remove it) and she was the only one whose body looked odd. I was really struck by how odd a body looked wearing a bra. Her breasts didn’t move with her body. They perched a bit too high and a bit too forward, they didn’t look right at all. 

 

I realised bras are made to make clothes look good, not to make bodies either look, or feel, good. 

 

Spending a week with 40 plus naked women I understood why men who love women generally love every female body. We are all unbelievably beautiful! I wish every woman could experience this embodied experience. It would destroy the beauty industry, but make for much much happier humans and far more intimate relationships. 

 

When the week came to an end we realised we needed to put clothes on again. We had only been free of them for a week and yet it already felt deeply alien and a hostile act to restrict our bodies in such a way. The skin under my breasts had had a wonderful rest but, in the sweaty heat of Mexico, hadn’t healed. 

 

I selected layers for my travelling home outfit and packed the rest away in the suitcase that would go in the aeroplane hold. My bra was zipped away into my case. It travelled home with me but I was a changed woman and I would never unthinkingly wear it again.

Who can forget this advert? When I was a young woman this image was on every billboard on every city street across the country, probably the world. 

 

It must have made a lasting impression on me because when I think “SEXY” I think “HELLO BOYS.” This image was clearly at the back of my mind when I styled my first Anabelle pictures (if you call rummaging in your underwear drawer on the morning of your first photo shoot “styling”?!)

 

After Mexico I didn’t burn my bras, I just wear them selectively, choosing to only wear a bra for impact, for that important first impression when I open the door to my client. Red lipstick, bouncy blonde hair and black plunge bra – what’s not to like?! I do still love the feeling of a man removing my bra and don’t want to lose that additional moment of joy from my life.

 

Bras are great for certain situations – like the pleasure of feeling hands on your back fiddling with the catch – and certain outfits require them, but in my day to day life I feel so much freer and way more comfortable without a wire digging into my soft flesh. 

 

Returning to normality after Mexico was hard. I landed back in England at the beginning of a warm summer, the sun was warm enough for me to be naked as I had been on retreat, but I have no privacy in my garden and I knew my kids would object. 

 

I ached to feel as vibrant and alive as I had in Mexico, I yearned to feel the sun on all of my skin again but I had to compromise. Clothes would stay on but my bra would stay off. 

 

And that is how I took off my bra. It wasn’t a great big political act or statement. It was just me finding a way to honour my body’s deep yearning to feel a little bit less clothed, constricted and uncomfortable. 

 

As much as I loved the feeling of my freed breasts (especially the soft arousal of my nipples rubbing against my clothes) I lived with a nagging fear of The Great Catastrophe. 

 

If I persisted in being wild and untamed and allowing strangers in Waitrose to see my nipples pushing against the fabric of my clothes – surely I would get punished by the gods and receive the cursed “saggy breasts”? 

 

My rebellious nature, which had definitely found herself expressed and loved in Mexico, said, “Fuck it!” but there was always a highly conditioned, frightened voice within me cautioning compliance. 

 

First there’s the problem of the visible nipples, not naked but still visible – what would Mark Zuckerberg make of them? Should I walk around with two nipple stars attached to my clothing? 

 

And there’s always been the deeply embedded fear of The Great Catastrophe. 

 

Were my careless, bra-less ways going to lead me to deeply unsexy, saggy boobs? Wouldn’t I be better to play it safe and invest a bit in discomfort today for the pleasure of well shaped boobs tomorrow?

 

Then Substack offered me an article entitled “What Happens To Your Body When You Stop Wearing A Bra For 30 Days.” I was brushing my teeth before bed and clicked on the article, fully expecting to read about The Great Catastrophe and how it was too late for me – how I was doomed (there’s nothing like a bit of doom scrolling just before bed is there?!)

 

Imagine my surprise and delight when I read that, on the contrary, abandoning my bra nearly a decade ago was one of the best things I ever did for my health.

 

Yep. You read right. Bras are bad for women’s health and the less we wear them, the better.

 

Let’s start with The Great Catastrophe. Turns out to be another honking myth. Who’da guessed?! 

 

Breasts are more than milk sacks with horny nipples attached. They are MUSCLES, which just like the vagina or arm or leg muscles need to be used to work. When you stop walking your leg muscles suffer muscle atrophy. It’s the same with breasts. When the muscles of the breast are not used to support the weight of the breast the muscles lose their ability to support their own weight.

 

Our breast muscles are supported in their work by ligaments – Cooper’s Ligaments to be exact – and they become more active and effective at holding the breast tissue in position when they are allowed to do their job.

 

Wearing bras reduces the ability of the body to support itself. Much like staying in a wheelchair after a broken leg has healed reduces your ability to walk again. This is why removing my bra at the end of the day had been painful for years – the unworked muscles and ligaments were being asked to carry their weight after denying them decades of the necessary training. 

 

The bra story gets worse.

 

If you’re a woman you know that your bra is meant to fit tightly around your back. The shoulder straps are to hold shape, not carry weight. Much like the hip strap on a heavy back pack redistributes the weight from your shoulders to your hips. 

 

However, as most women will also tell you, soon after a bra fitting (and how often do we actually have those in our decades of bra wearing?) the back strap loosens, and as we have shoulder straps we don’t really worry about it too much. Thus our shoulders end up doing a job that they are not equipped to do.

 

This is the reason so many of us suffer from chronic pain across our shoulders and in our necks. The bra has taken the job of supporting our own breasts away from the muscles and ligaments designed for the job and redistributed it to our shoulders which were never designed to carry this load.

 

This explains why, since my return from Mexico, I have not needed to visit anyone to help me with neck pain. I don’t suffer from it any more. I hadn’t made the connection. 

 

I thought it was because I live a life with much less stress than I used to. I am sure being less stressed is good for me, and I am also sure that allowing my breasts to develop independence and strength has been very good for a body that is blessed/cursed with large breasts.

 

I’ve spoken at length about the sore skin I suffered from wearing an underwire bra. This is just an irritant compared to the real problem. 

 

The underwire inhibits the lymphatic system in the body from draining properly. The lymphatic system is the drainage system that clears cellular waste, immune debris and excess fluid. WASTE AND DEBRIS – i.e. shit you do not want in your body is inhibited from leaving your body by the wire in your bra! 

 

No wonder I have more energy in my mid 50s than I did in my mid 40s. I have spent nearly a decade with my body removing waste in the way it was designed to – huzzah!!

 

And it gets worse, especially from a tantric whore’s perspective. 

 

The tightness of the bra’s back strap inhibits a woman’s ability to expand her chest fully to inhale the oxygen we use to stay alive. It’s pretty obvious that the bra is what remains of the corset that stopped women breathing for hundreds of years. We thought we had escaped. But we haven’t. We are still routinely wearing a garment that makes it harder to breathe than it should be.

 

This is not a small matter. The air we breathe in – notably oxygen – is carried through our blood stream to every single cell in our bodies where it is used to create energy –  the energy our bodies use to keep us healthy, vital, vibrant, active, alert, engaged, sexy – alive. When your body is limited in its ability to inhale oxygen your energy, and your life, is deeply inhibited. 

 

There’s an irony here. Women wear bras to look sexy (they raise our boobs and enhance our waists) but by wearing them we probably feel a lot less sexy. Because who feels sexy suffering from a sore neck, with a build up of waste fluid in your body, with boobs that ache because they can’t self support and lacking the oxygen we need to create energy in our cells?

 

I had no idea when I abandoned my “everyday bra” that I was doing something so good for my body. No doctor ever suggested that I stop wearing a bra so that my lymphatic system could drain properly and so reduce the build up of toxins in my body that may lead to cancer. Of course they don’t, they don’t want to empower me to live healthily, they want to make money from scans, operations and toxic drugs. 

 

I had no idea that The Great Catastrophe was happening every day I continued to wear the contraption that I was told would prevent it.  I had no idea that the best (and scientifically proven) way to prevent The Great Catastrophe was to allow my breasts to do the job they were designed to do and support themselves.

 

My breasts are happier. My nipples are WAY happier! My neck is happier. The cells in every part of my body are happier. And from making a decision that SAVES me money every year. 

 

I cannot think of another thing that saves me money as my health improves.

 

Huzzah! 

Circumcision Through the Eyes of a British Whore **Sensitive Content**

I do not write to upset anyone. I write to offer a different perspective and hopefully bring about change. Circumcision is a barbaric practice, if I can save one penis from this suffering by writing my truth, then that is reason enough for me to be honest and brave. 

 

Deep, heartfelt apologies if I cause any further pain to anyone by doing so. 

_______________

 

When I was a young child I was obsessed with collecting conkers every autumn. My sister and I would wake early and rush out to the local conker trees to gather our hoard before any competition arrived. 

 

My very, very favourite finds were intact but cracked shells with the conker still nestled cosily inside. My eager fingers would prize the crack open until the shell broke in half to reveal the glistening conker within. 

 

We were always so pleased with our early morning collection, gathered up in our skirts to transport home. Old shoe boxes, containers and even drawers filled up with our precious finds. We’d then watch, with great dismay (every year the same dismay) as our precious, glossy conkers dulled, dried out and hardened. 

 

We’d try to varnish them with clear nail varnish to bring back the glorious glossy coat but that didn’t halt the drying out process. Within days the glisten had completely gone, within months our beautiful, moist, plump, glossy conkers were shrunken and withered. 

 

To anyone who knows the joy of finding a fresh conker in its shell but has only ever known circumcised penises, this is what you are missing out on. The emergence of moist, plump, glistening glans pushing out of the foreskin as the cock hardens always reminds me of the thrill of a brand new, glossy conker on a crisp autumn morning.

 

As a British whore I encounter relatively few circumcised cocks, and I grieve with all of them.

 

The men attached to these circumcised penises generally don’t know the horror of what was inflicted on them. They were either too young when it was done to them to have any conscious memory of an intact penis (of course all boys enjoy their intact penises in the womb) and/or are too socialised into how “normal” it is to remove the most sensitive part of the male body in a barbaric and highly profitable blood sacrifice.

 

I don’t share my sadness with my clients. I don’t want to make them angry or upset about something that they cannot change, but I have decided that I need to write about my experiences because the omerta around circumcision is the only way this barbaric practice continues. 

 

Let’s begin with my experiences. I accept that I bring my own feelings about circumcision into my work, so you could argue that the pain, and sometimes anger, that I feel coming from the cock into my hands is a projection, but I don’t think it is. 

 

At the start of every lingam massage I hold the cock in my hands for a few moments. Cocks are so conditioned for performance – to do something, to be hard, to be majestic, to impress – that it’s very healing for them to be gently held, cupped in your hands with no expectations. I sit still for a moment, quietly, lovingly, connecting the heart opening points in my palms with his lingam in whatever state of arousal he is currently in. 

 

Often the cock will soften slightly as I sit and hold it, I can almost hear the sigh of relief as it does so. A few cocks cry when I sit and hold them in this way. I feel their pain and the tears almost start flowing from my eyes. 

 

Every single one of them has been circumcised. Every circumcised cock that I hold at the beginning of my sessions is in pain – deep emotional and spiritual pain. 

 

As an expert in lingam massage I understand why. They have far less sensitivity than their intact brothers. They have been mutilated. Brutalised to stop the man feeling his true sensual pleasure. 

 

Yet here he is, lying before me hoping to experience the pleasure that will always elude him. 

 

However much breathwork he does, however creative his positions, however skilled he or his partner become, he will never recover the sensation that was cut away from him at birth or in early childhood. 

 

The “civilised” West abhors female genital mutilation yet remains in conspiratorial silence about male genital mutilation. 

 

We mutilate and brutalise our baby boys (well I didn’t – thank you NHS) and are then – shock horror – horrified when our boys act in brutal ways when they reach adulthood. 

 

***Not all circumcised men brutalise women*** – I am categorically NOT claiming that. But I have read reports linking a society’s rates of circumcision with its levels of violence against women and even, quite shockingly, unnecessary gynaecological surgery. There is a correlation. Which makes sense – brutalised people brutalise.  

 

I’d come across a few circumcised cocks as a young woman, but to be honest, to the untrained eye one erect penis looks much like the next (and young women tend to avoid looking directly at any penis, erect or not), so my first circumcised cock as a professional, about 10 years ago, was a bit of a surprise and a rather sad challenge. 

 

He was a lovely, lovely man who was going through a divorce and navigating all the emotions and financial disputes that entails. He wanted some TLC and a session that would help him rebuild a bit of sexual confidence. I tend to suggest a Musubi massage in these cases: lots and lots of body to body contact with no pressure at all to perform, he could just lie back, receive and interact as much as he wished to.

 

We met, we chatted, we undressed. I massaged his back then his front, incorporating lots of deeply sensual, oily, body to body gliding and grinding, maximising contact with my breasts, nipples and pelvic mound. Everything was as it always is – stirring energies in both of our bodies, a lovely erotic, sensual massage.

 

I slid down his chest to sit between his legs and begin the lingam massage. His cock softened as I held it in my palms and I noticed, with curiosity more than anything else, that he was circumcised. I honestly didn’t think much more about it. 

 

I naively assumed that he would experience the lingam massage in much the same way as all my intact clients did. By now I had tried and tested strokes that cocks responded to quite predictably. I just assumed that this one would be no different.

 

But oh, how very, very different. 

 

To begin with I didn’t have the joy of watching glistening glans emerging from a foreskin. There was no foreskin. His glans were different to the ones I was used to in my professional experience to date – they were toughened and leathery and the deep glossy purple that I was used to was replaced by a dull skin colour.

 

Worse, where was his frenulum? I searched both sides of his glans to find it (hoping that somehow I had forgotten its location and that if I looked hard enough I would find it!) It was gone. Sliced away with his foreskin at whatever age this had been done to him. 

 

The frenulum is possibly the most important body part in a lingam massage. A bit like the clitoris is possibly the most important body part in a yoni massage. Both are packed with nerve endings. Both are different on every body you encounter, but so far, in my professional work as Anabelle, every lingam had had a frenulum, and a foreskin for that matter.

 

So many of my tried and tested strokes had been removed from me because this lingam in my hands had had the most important parts removed. I obviously knew what had occurred but there wasn’t a chapter in the book I had learned lingam massage from on how to deal with a circumcised lingam. 

 

Sadly circumcision omerta is as alive and well in the positive sex movement as it is across the rest of society. I had to think on my feet and fast.

 

I spent extra time massaging his balls – at least the knife doesn’t touch these (they wouldn’t – too crucial for the precious patriarchal seed) so they thankfully retained the sensitivity they were born with. I massaged the root of his cock and about two thirds of his shaft were unaffected by the “surgery” but I was at a bit of a loss about how to give sensual pleasure to the desensitised glans.

 

I spent a long time honouring his cock, pleasuring him as best as I could but he didn’t come. At the end he told me that he had enjoyed a “relaxing” massage and I knew it had been both sensual and erotic at times, but I also knew that his “failure” to come was the last thing he needed to rebuild confidence. I was relieved when he asked if he could see me again – I would have a second chance to get it right for him.

 

After he left I rushed to Google to find out how you give a lingam massage to a circumcised cock. One suggestion, I kid you not, was to spend more time massaging his ankles as this is apparently super erotic for men. I bagged the tip but I didn’t think an ankle massage was going to get my client from a “relaxing” and erotic 7 or 8 to an explosive 10.

 

I kept searching for what seemed quite an elusive answer – circumcision omerta again – no-one wants to admit that circumcised cocks are a completely different beast to those that are intact. 

 

How can you give a circumcised cock which has lost so much sensitivity a deeply sensual massage?

 

Finally I found an answer that frankly horrified me – it was suggested that I slap or bash the glans to mimic hard fucking. I hated the idea, but committed myself to giving it a go if he visited again.

 

He did and I did use my palm to bash the end of his cock as I moved the other hand up and down his well oiled shaft. It made me wince, but it made him come. Hurrah – but how awful. 

 

I am used to using delicate fingers and the soft palm of my hand sensuously over the glans, bashing this usually highly sensitive body part with my hand seemed the complete opposite to loving, tender, sensual or sexy. He left feeling a lot better and I felt really, really sad. And angry.

 

Why? Why are men routinely circumcised across the world? Why remove such an important part of their bodies for NO MEDICAL REASON WHATSOEVER? If you ask an intact man if he would willingly forgo his foreskin and frenulum, he’ll wince, instinctively cover his cock with his hands and say, “NO WAY!”

 

My understanding of circumcision in the patriarchal world is that it evolved to save men, like Abraham (the uber patriarch) from sacrificing their first born sons to an incredibly blood thirsty God. Where Mother Earth Goddess encouraged her people to self pleasure and fuck each other in worship of her, the new Sky God wanted blood. Not menstrual blood but the blood of young boys, on their father’s knives.

 

I think there is some idea that to “belong” to God’s tribe you must sacrifice that which is most precious to you, if not your whole son, then at least the most sensitive part of his body. 

 

For most of the centuries since the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, when Christians have felt it important to be distinct from their Jewish cousins, a circumcised penis was otherised – it was a clear sign that the man belonged to the other faith. Christians in Europe had intact penises and this practice was assumed at the creation of the NHS, much to this whore’s deep gratitude. 

 

Something strange and very sad happened to Christian menfolk in North America in the 19th Century. Masturbation, which had always been seen as a seed wasting sin under patriarchy, became the topic for much hand wringing and pulpit pronouncements. 

 

Dr Kellogg, eugenicist and nutritionist (yes, THAT Dr Kellogg), was particularly agitated by the evils of male and female self pleasure. He created cereal based breakfast products to help American youth to grow up healthy in body and mind – apparently cornflakes would stop young people wanking.

 

Sadly, in his fear and disgust of sexual pleasure, his remedies were far more brutal than boring breakfast cereals. For girls he recommended the use of carbolic acid to burn away the clitoris, and circumcision – without anaesthetic – so that “the brief pain….will have a salutary effect on the mind” was the remedy he used for boys. 

 

Fortunately for women the carbolic acid remedy didn’t take off. Unfortunately for men the circumcision remedy did, becoming mainstream, “normal,” and even a symbol of belonging amongst American men.

 

What America did in the 20th Century, the world mimicked. As with nylons, rock and roll, movies and popcorn, so with little boys’ penises. 

 

Now, much of the world removes the most delicate and sensitive part of baby’s penises, robbing these boys and the men they will grow into of a huge amount of their sensitivity and pleasure that they were born to experience.

 

Today in the US, baby foreskins are a multi-billion dollar industry. Hospitals harvest foreskins for their profit. Parental consent is not required. Parents who want to stop this from happening to their babies have to keep round the clock vigil. Exhausted mothers fear falling asleep in case a nurse whips their baby away to be tortured and maimed for life for the profit of the medical industry.

 

And it is torture. I have read many horrific reports from nurses who had to stand by and watch as newborn babies are strapped into a plastic, inverted Y shaped raft forcing their legs open and apart. Held down in this way the baby is unable to raise his knees to protect himself or respond to the hideous pain of having an area rich in nerve endings operated on. 

 

Kellogg’s recommendation that no anaesthesia is used is unbelievably continued to this day. The “surgical” procedure is done without anaesthetic because the baby is too young and vulnerable to cope with such medication. 

 

There is no thought to delay the procedure until the baby is able to withstand anaesthetics. The completely unnecessary procedure is carried out on newborns without any pain killers. 

 

In a supposedly rational and civilised country the very youngest and most vulnerable are mutilated, often against their parents’ expressed wishes, for the profit of the medical industry, to fit in with societal norms and, I would argue, even to this day, in an ancient ritual of blood sacrifice. 

 

Mothers report the hideous pain of having their babies returned to them blank eyed, staring, crying, un-soothable. The happy, nuzzling baby she had met at birth has morphed into a pained, distant, isolated child. Mothers report the guilt of not protecting their boys when they were at their most vulnerable. 

 

Sons report never truly bonding or trusting Mother – or any other woman – ever again. Thus patriarchy succeeds in dividing mothers from their sons at what should be the most beautiful, sacred, precious and protected time. 

 

I cannot tell you how happy I am that my sons were born in England.

 

The little boys grow up to become men and everyone – I mean everyone – pretends everything is alright. A penis is a penis right? Once erect they all look the same and “perform” the same, right?

 

WRONG. Oh how terribly, awfully, badly wrong you all are.

 

A circumcised penis is a traumatised penis. 

 

The delicate and highly sensitive frenulum has been removed along with the foreskin exposing the sensitive glans which naturally harden over time. Further, unlike its intact brothers the circumcised penis cannot self lubricate – that ability was removed with the foreskin. Decades later many still carry the clear scars of the procedure. The scars are not just physical.

 

As I discovered, the toughened glans need rougher treatment to feel any sensation. The gentle spidery strokes that make an intact lingam quiver in my hands are simply not felt by a circumcised cock. 

 

And it gets worse! 

 

Very often the man is unable to feel sensation in his genitals at all. Dr Kellogg was right. The pain of the procedure is so great that the baby chooses to never feel anything in this area ever again. Can you imagine a life devoid of feeling the tingle, pleasure and explosive joy in your penis? 

 

Circumcision is the triumph of patriarchy that wants sex for reproduction without the distraction of pleasure. This is why I don’t have time for anyone who claims that patriarchy exclusively harms women for the benefit of men. Baby girls are not butchered within hours of birth in any country, certainly not in the supposedly “civilised” West. 

 

Circumcision is patriarchy harming men.

 

But male circumcision doesn’t only harm men. It deeply harms women too. Women understand the deep pleasure of slow, sensual, languorous, sacred sex. Sex that is as much about “fore” play or “outer” play as it is about penetration – it’s how we get aroused and we can spend hours there. 

 

Reduce the pleasure that one of the bodies feels during this kind of sex and you are going to reduce the amount of time spent there. Much to the detriment of women who love it so much.

 

Internet porn has made a bad situation worse and it infuriates me that young intact British men are learning how to “do” sex from what they see on their screens. Porn is largely an American industry – thus the circumcised cock dominates both as the star and the consumer. 

 

Porn is made by (directed by, produced by, acted by, edited by, even lit by) circumcised men for circumcised men. No wonder women find most of it repulsive, it’s not made with our pleasure in mind. Worse, I think the hard, repetitive fucking it models often harms women and reduces the pleasure an intact man could have. 

 

I am lucky to have lovers who range from their late 80s down to their early 20s. Generally speaking, the older the lover, the better he will be. Clearly, men, like women, get better with age! But I think it’s more than that. 

 

I was a young woman once and I had sex as a young woman – before internet porn – with young men. And they did not fuck like the jack hammers of today do. I do not like repetitive hard fucking that goes on for the length of a wank. It is tiresome, boring and wears the soft flesh of my cunt. 

 

Intact men who learned how to fuck pre-internet porn are more nuanced, varied and imaginative. They vary the tempo, the position, the speed, the angle all so that they, and I, can feel a little bit more. Porn influenced lovers, even the intact ones, don’t seem interested to feel, they simply want to act the porn star in their own imagined film. It’s shit sex!!

 

The insidious practice of circumcising Christian men across America and much of the West is now robbing intact British men (and their women) of the true joy of sex and it’s a problem that is getting worse. 

 

Women know what orgasm feels like, we bring ourselves to orgasm a lot. Having sex with a jack hammer just doesn’t measure up. It is not orgasmic for us. It may look good in a porn film (does it?!) but it feels at best boring and at worst abusive in real life. 

 

American women are flocking to sex coaches to mend “their” brokenness, and they may well experience shut down and shame in their bodies which can be healed through beautiful, mindful practices. 

 

But those practices alone are not going to mend the non-orgasmic sex they are having with deeply traumatised cocks.

 

Someone has to name the elephant in the room. 

 

Circumcision is a hideously brutal practice inflicted on men and by extension the women in their lives, by a patriarchal system that seeks to suppress and oppress and deny all that is beautiful and powerful within us so that they can continue to oppress, control and exploit us. 

 

If any body part could summarise the exploitation and abuse of patriarchy I would suggest it’s the foreskin. 

 

_______________

 

Further Recommended Reading: 

 

After my first professional encounter with a circumcised cock I fell down a bit of a rabbit hole to try and understand how such an obviously harmful practice is still so mainstream in our modern, supposedly rational world. I have tried to do what I always do in these blog posts and stick to my experiences and thoughts. If you want to explore further, as I did, I highly recommend Intact America as a place to go to for further information and, if you feel motivated, to join the campaign to stop any further genital mutilation of baby boys.

 

Photo by Georg Eiermann on Unsplash

Indulge in my Full Girlfriend Experience

Taking The War Out of Man – A Whore’s Musings

What is this “War”?

 

What is “Man” fighting?

 

For many men the war is deeply personal – grief, loss, loneliness, disappointment, depression – a life lived so out of alignment with his soul’s purpose that he can’t rid himself of the constant sense of dissatisfaction, however much material success he has created in his life.

 

I contend that these (and other) personal experiences are different manifestations of the same war waged on all men. A war waged on all humans by the social structure we have lived under for the last 5,000 years of our 300,000 year existence – patriarchy.

 

Patriarchy does not serve women, we know that, but anyone who thinks patriarchy serves men, or indeed, is designed to serve men any better is deluded and just not seeing the actual evidence right in front of their eyes.

 

It frustrates me how common it is to see men unthinkingly defending a social system that is designed to control them and limit their dreams and desires, just as much as it intends to control, limit and suppress women. 

 

Patriarchy is the system created by an elite FEW (very, very, very few) to own ALL the resources including human time, labour and energy for the benefit of that teeny tiny elite.

 

Patriarchy fully intends to control and exploit men. 

 

It does so by pretending to represent them and by offering them the control of women in exchange for their compliance – a classic, age-old strategy of divide and rule. Patriarchy is a hierarchical social structure which, by offering men power over women, hopes to hoodwink men into not seeing their own loss of personal power and sovereignty. 

 

Based on what I see in the world around me the strategy worked.

 

Obviously this is a tragedy for women who have spent 1,000s of years under the boots of their men-folk. Considered little better than the rest of the family’s livestock, not even granted a soul for 100s of years, women were consigned to live under the “Rule of Thumb” (an English law that stated a husband could use corporal punishment on his wife – his possession – as long as the stick he beat her with was no thicker than his thumb).

 

But it is an equal tragedy for men who suffer immeasurably from the separation and disconnect this patriarchal structure has imposed upon us all. 

 

Men and women are at their very best when they are connected in loving harmony. Harmony, equality, union, co-operation, collaboration are all ideas that are deeply threatening to patriarchy which relies, for its survival, on a hierarchical structure of control.

 

Maybe the most threatening teaching that Jesus offered the world was the joy of union with a woman he considered his equal in all ways. Certainly the efforts of the patriarchal Church to suppress and extinguish anything to do with Mary Magdalena (including her gospel) would suggest this to be the case. Unlike Adam, Jesus was at ease receiving wisdom, guidance, love and deep sexual companionship from his female companion, Mary.

 

As she was highly trained to do, Mary ignited Jesus’ kundalini energy playing with it to strengthen his energy body for the trials he was to endure. It was an integral part of their work together. The union of Mary Magdalena and Jesus had the potential to heal the deep wound of separation inflicted on humanity by the vicious response of a vengeful God for Eve’s innocent curiosity.

 

The patriarchs would not allow it and we know the rest of the story – the crucifixion, the Council of Nicea and the extermination of the Cathars, just for starters.

 

Maybe that is why men have remained so compliant? They look at what the patriarchs did to Jesus for daring to connect in divine sexual union with a woman he considered his equal in all ways, and, from fear, have denied themselves this pleasure ever since? 

 

I am sure very few men find themselves nodding along to my words, they’ll be saying, “Not me…I’m not like that.” But in 100s of different ways you are.

 

Let’s look at the statistics. Something like 95% of women aged between 18 and 24 admitted to having been sexually harassed in some way.  The only way a figure this huge can be explained is that men (and women) just don’t know to interact sexually. 

 

This is no surprise to me. Patriarchy pushed sexual desires and urges deep into society’s shadow from where, unseen, unacknowledged, untrained, unchannelled, unmastered, unrefined –  it simply reeks havoc.

 

Few of the men doing harm to women want to harm them. They want the opposite. They dearly want to connect deeply and passionately but they simply don’t know how.

 

This is 100% the fault of patriarchy! 

 

Divide and rule remember. How better to divide and rule than to divide us by gender and make 50% of the planet fear the other 50%. And yes, I know the fear goes both ways. Whilst women fear physical harm (even death), men fear emotional harm and deep shame from women. 

 

Everyone is meeting for sex filled with fear (and her sister shame) making sexual intimacy an increasingly rare experience. 

 

And patriarchy is delighted by this!

 

The unhappier and more disconnected we are the more we self medicate with their offerings: material possessions, food, alcohol, drugs (peddled both legally from your GP’s surgery and illegally on the streets) – it makes them richer by making us poorer – materially, emotionally and spiritually. 

 

The war I see in all men (and by extension all women) is this tragic disconnect between them and the lie, which began with Adam that there is only one “correct” way of “doing” sex and that everything else is in some way sinful. We have all been duped into believing that the “original sin” was reaching for and tasting knowledge from the Tree of Life.

 

Adam’s self injurious notion that Lilith should submit to the new patriarchal model of sex as the only way to have sex birthed 1,000s of years of myth making around human sexuality denying humans their true sexual nature and the deep connection that flows from it.

 

The worst myth, and it absolutely is a myth, is that men want power over women in the bedroom. It concerns me that every single one of my clients thinks that he is “odd” because my pleasure is more important to him than his own gratification. I am concerned that he finds this “odd” because it is completely normal! 

 

Every man wants his sexual partner to be lost in raptures of orgasmic pleasure – it makes him feel AMAZING. 

 

Yet Adam has convinced us all for 1,000s of years that “real men” are threatened by, even uninterested in female sexual appetite and pleasure. To maintain the patriarchal version of “masculine” men reinforce the notion that it is “normal” for them to disregard (or even shame) female sexual pleasure.  

 

When they confess their true feelings it is to me, a whore, rather than with other men in the locker room or the pub.

 

Imagine a world in which men felt safe to share spell binding sexual experiences and pool ideas on how to please their women with each other. You can’t can you? That’s patriarchy damaging men. 

 

Men are not safe to talk amongst themselves about the sex that they yearn for because to do so would make them appear less masculine. 

 

So they continue to joke about “fishy fannies” whilst secretly adoring the taste of the woman they were lucky enough to go down on. 

 

They continue to publicly slut shame young women for sexual misadventures but never the young men they were misadventuring with.  

 

In this world where good sex happens in secret, but bad sex is practised in broad daylight, is it any wonder that many men simply do not learn how to “sex” a woman?

 

A second damaging myth, related to the first, is that women are not, by their “true nature”, as sexual as men, and worse, that sex harms women. According to patriarchy, men have (and are even encouraged to have) voracious, “animal-like” sexual appetites and it is the duty of women to counter this, fend off the beast in man and civilise him. 

 

Thus women are shamed if we feel anything animal-like within us and then shamed further when we fail to tame our men (who, until recently, could legally beat us with thumb thick sticks when we disobeyed them?!) Under patriarchy men get all the permission and women get a double dose of shame, so how does this myth create a war in man?

 

Because “Nice guys”, men who have grown up under feminism with newly empowered mothers (released from the “Rule of Thumb” at least) believe this myth. They have either been told expressly as young and impressionable boys by their mothers that sex harms women, or they have absorbed this from the culture around them. 

 

Of course as decent human beings many, if not most, men will reject the abusive and exploitative model of sexuality personified by the likes of Andrew Tate but many, very sadly, come to the wrong conclusion that it is sex that harms women not harmful men misappropriating sex that harms women. 

 

With good information (the reason why I write this blog) and with good experiences (the reason I am a whore) men can learn how to give women sexual experiences that nourish and empower both parties. But deprived of good information and/or good experiences, and living in a world flooded by toxic online porn, many, many men are left feeling that in some way their desire for sex with women is harmful and must be suppressed. 

 

Can you see how that harms men and causes an internal war within them?

 

Penetrative sex, the sex that men most yearn for, requires the man to be so deeply present, so loving, so honouring, so respectful, so trauma conscious, so confident, so strong and sure in himself – it’s a big ask! 

 

And it is all possible. 

 

However, if you have grown up believing that sex is harmful to women how can you show up in this way for women sexually? How can you be deeply present for her during sex if you are fighting internal feelings of guilt, shame and self loathing?

 

Any sex you do have will lack connection. The experience will lack real pleasure for either of you. Worst of all, your lack of presence will make her feel unsafe, she won’t be able to abandon herself to you and the rubbish sex that you end up having will have been harmful to her because sex without deep connection, presence, honouring and reverence is harmful.  

 

This is how nice guys inadvertently cause sexual harm to women, ending up not so different to the monsters they distance themselves from.

 

And, for many men, unresolved, this situation gets worse.

 

Lucky women are married to men who have had enough good experiences or have consciously chosen to develop the traits she needs him to have for nourishing, abandoned, orgasmic sexual experiences. These women, your whore included, remain sexual their whole happy lives. 

 

Unlucky women are married to men who haven’t done the self development and growth, so faced with years of weakness and lack of presence in the bedroom they simply stop agreeing to sex with their men.

 

Being married to a woman who does not want sex with you is such an obvious harm to men that I am seriously flummoxed that they can’t see what patriarchy, and its myth making, has robbed them of!

 

Please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t think any of this is the individual man’s fault. I do not blame men for patriarchy. My whole shtick is that patriarchy harms men as much as it harms women and to give you some really good reasons to stop defending it and fighting to keep it! 

 

Patriarchy has done immeasurable harm to human sexuality. We heal it by understanding what has been done to us and then by working together, not by pointing fingers of blame at each other which only hands another win to patriarchy.

 

The war in man is much the same as the war in women – of course it is! We are all humans and we have all been driven apart by an exploitative social system that seeks to control us all.

 

So let’s blow these myths right out of the water shall we? 

 

Women are by nature as sexual as men – we have been shamed since before Eve by patriarchal society way more than men – but we ALL, men and women, want sex!

 

Men and women all yearn for deep loving intimacy in our sex. Men do not want to exert their power over women sexually or in any other way. They never did. It has always harmed them, at a spiritual level, as much as it did women. 

 

Men want partnership. They want to be seen, to be held, to be loved, to be accepted for who they are as much as women want to be seen, to be held, to be loved and to be accepted for who they are.

 

We are not different. We are all the same. Essentially it’s not complicated – we all want the connection, the joy, the orgasmic download of hormones, the experience of transcending our prosaic material existence to dance amongst the stars in the infinite quantum realm. 

 

We all want the deeply intimate connection with another human being that stops us feeling so isolated and alone on this planet.  

 

Whores understand this. We see the war in men and experience the war in our own bodies. We have done our own deep inner healing and committed to enough personal development to show up for others from a place of deep love and compassion. 

 

Whores want to bring the world together in love and harmony but we are up against a very well oiled and very powerful machine which does not want to let go of its creation: disunited and miserable humans living separate, isolated lives. 

 

Challenge these myths in your psyche when they show up. 

 

Be a ripple in the pond that shifts humanity’s consciousness. 

 

“Normal Women” By Philippa Gregory

 

“The Magdalen Manuscript – The Alchemies of Horus and The Sex Magic of Isis” By Tom Kenyon and Judi Sion

 

“No More Mr Nice Guy” By Dr Robert Glover

What is the Point of the Clitoris Anyway? A Whore’s Musings & Fantasy

What if, in the beginning, human sacrifice wasn’t literally about taking the physical life of a human being, but an offering of something from the selected human to please Goddess? 

I have a hunch, in my body, like a soul-level knowing (so not provable, by me at any rate) that early sacrificial ceremonies were sexual not bloody. That any blood involved would have been menstrual blood but quite possibly of secondary importance to amrita – the “nectar of the gods” – the healer of all ills.

What if, pre-patriarchal humans gathered around a sacrificial altar not to draw blood but to draw orgasm and female ejaculate? The death, le petit mort, would have been the spiritual death of ego perhaps? Maybe these ceremonies were initiation ceremonies that apprenticed whores went through to earn their places as temple priestesses?

The position of the clitoris on the human female body is curious and frankly problematic for anyone who claims that the ONLY role for human sexuality is procreation. Why evolve a highly sensitive bundle of nerves out of reach of the penis during the patriarchy-approved-man-on-top model of penetrative sex if the ONLY reason for sex is to make more babies? 

For that matter, why evolve a clitoris at all?

Patriarchy hasn’t cared too much to provide an answer to this conundrum. Men get pleasure from patriarchy approved man-on-top penis into vagina penetration and that’s all that’s needed for his active seed to be planted inside the passive, receptive female who will host it while it grows into a baby. 

The ancient Greeks believed female orgasm was necessary for conception but the enlightenment era disabused us of this ridiculous notion and from that point onwards, for conception anyway, female pleasure has been of no importance.

So why bother giving a woman a clitoris that is not in any direct contact with the male body during the “correct” (man on top) method of conception? 

Dr Kellogg was so bothered by its existence that he suggested the use of carbolic soap to burn it away (plus the invention of bran cereal to bore us all to death). A few highly patriarchal societies still practise its removal so that women aren’t distracted by the temptation of pleasure in any moment of their enslaved lives. 

The presence of the clitoris has bothered a lot of people over the centuries. A lot. And when a lot of people, in a lot of societies, make so much fuss over a small, apparently superfluous, body part it makes me ask, “Why?” And I muse over this “Why” a huge amount.

I’m not a particularly “clitoral woman” but in the UK we don’t tend to circumcise any of our children, so I do still have both my clitoris and labia – inner and outer- complete and untampered with by anyone ever. (If you have a clitoris and labia and are reading this, do yourself a massive favour and keep all kinds of persuasive plastic surgeons away from this very sacred and highly sensitive area. Please.) 

Many of my clients assume that because I am a woman the best way to arouse me is to stimulate my clitoris (it’s not) and because they are my clients and it’s not unpleasant in any way I will happily allow them to lick and stroke my clitoris for often very long periods of time. And, Mr Enlightenment Scientist, it’s never during penetrative sex!

I have one client whose devotion to my clitoris is exemplary and for about a year our 90-minute sessions were almost completely devoted to this one small body part. He is particularly obsessed with watching me come and whilst I would guide his hands to my nipples and vagina, he would return to his favourite spot: my clit. 

There’s only so many times that a modern whore can correct her client, eventually you get to the point where you decide, “This is a lesson for me. It’s time for me to practise what I preach – surrender to sensation and go with the experience.”

It’s incredibly enabling and permissive to reach the point of surrender. As the professional in the room, I figure that’s my client’s treat, but I have many clients who get enormous pleasure from watching my surrender and abandonment and, with a trusted few, I really go there. With my clit client I reach the point in a session when I know my role is to receive whatever he chooses to give me. 

Obviously, that takes enormous trust which we have built together over the years he has been visiting me. I also play with surrender at a whole new level. I have explained to him that for me to receive the amount of sensation that he gives my clitoris I need to be really still. I need to focus on my breathing and the distribution of energy he activates there. 

I play a game with myself of being completely pinned down, spread eagle on the bed, held by four imaginary people who will not allow my limbs to move in response to him at all. It feels sacrificial. And, at times, his touch feels as sharp as a knife.

The game is to take it all. As my clitoris gets increasingly sensitive, I allow myself to receive and feel at deeper and deeper levels within my body. Yesterday, for the first time, a priestess stood next to me, her mouth by my ear whispering, “Surrender Anabelle, surrender.” Every time I felt like raising a knee, twisting a pelvis or moving an arm in response to the penetrating sensation, I felt her presence commanding me to stay still, to surrender, to be the sacrifice.

I don’t know of what. But it thrills me. It thrills me to submit to increasing levels of discomfort that lead to deeper and deeper orgasms. To feel myself transported to an ancient time when our bodies were revered and worshipped and offered in sexual rapture to The Divine. It thrills my client too. He most often lies with one arm under my head, holding my body close to his, keeping it still, sometimes rolling a nipple between his teeth. 

His entire being is fully devoted to my rapture and he doesn’t relent even when he can tell the pleasure has become so intense that I can barely take it.

On many occasions over the years I have whispered, “Keep going” in reassurance that I am ready and willing to be taken over this cliff edge. It is terrifying. And exhilarating. It feels like I am going to break in half, but if in that moment, I remind myself to breathe and relax, letting go of any tension, giving sensation space in my body to move down the legs and through the torso, the intensity is reduced and I’m able to take more. 

My mind travels back thousands and thousands of years to when I sense this was the lived experience of my lineage. 

Imagine the excitement of being dressed “for sacrifice” in pure white, wearing a crown of blossom, perhaps May blossom, on your head. Being led up the aisle to the altar, through a community gathered in wonderment to witness you being offered to Goddess. You sit on the altar, your white robes and flower crown are removed and you lie down on the hard, cold stone, your arms and legs pulled to the four corners of the block and held down. The high priestess stands by your head to lead the “service”.

In my imagination there are two scenarios at this point. In the first a single shaman stimulates my clitoris making my body pulsate in wave after wave of orgasm – my pleasure is the offering to the Goddess. 

In the second, I am there to be pleasured by every man selected to take part in the ceremony. As a sacrificial body I lie in the same position, I do not lift my arms or my legs in any way, I am there to be fucked senseless. Senseless as in beyond feeling – into a deeply, deeply surrendered state.

The fucking goes on for hours. My body gives everything in sacrifice to Goddess, my amrita drenches the altar and the many men who have fucked me. They have drunk from me and got drunk on the energy from me. Goddess is satisfied and I am carried off to be bathed, to eat, drink and sleep.

In the morning I am reborn. Le petit mort that I experienced over and over and over again on the sacrificial altar has been my initiation into the most highly revered position in society: a priestess in the Temple of Horus, a temple whore. I will now join similarly highly trained and initiated whores in daily worship of The Divine, who we know as Goddess.

My client is a very self-effacing professional, he has no idea that he is a shaman involved in human sacrifice!  

What he does know and he does express to me is how much pleasure he gets from watching me come. He feels amazing that he can make me come over and over again and is amazed at my ability to surrender and receive more and more and more sensation on my clitoris.

“Most women push you away after she’s come, they say it’s too sensitive, it’s amazing how you allow me to do it again and again.” 

I explain my “game” and what I’m doing and it delights him. 

So, let me add to the initial conundrum, why are so many men so pleasured by female pleasure if sex is ONLY about procreation?

For many, many sessions we didn’t even fuck and it’s only recently he’s allowed me to give him blow jobs before the clitoral sacrifice. And he’s far from unique in my professional experience. 

The clients who book Kama (my full sex service) do so, less because they get to fuck me, and far more because they get to experience my sexual pleasure. They want to drink my amrita, they want to see me lost in wave after wave of pleasure, they want to feel the joy of my complete abandonment. 

Why are men wired to enjoy female sexual pleasure so much if sex is ONLY about procreation and female pleasure, (according to Messrs Enlightenment Science) is not a requirement for that?

My theory, one that I initially read in “Sex at Dawn”, is that human sexuality is not ONLY for procreation, it is also, as our ancestors knew, a deeply sacred portal to The Divine. 

Orgasmic folk who are reading this know what I am talking about and will nod along in agreement because they will have experienced this in their own bodies. Orgasm is far more than the release of sticky liquid from the end of a cock and a delicious download of chemicals in the body. 

For many of us, orgasm is when we transcend our mundane, earthly existence and are transported into a sacred realm for a period of time that seems to last an eternity. 

Folk like me feel immensely relieved to stumble into the world of tantra because, finally, we hear ancient knowledge and understanding that explains our hitherto deeply sinful desires, re-framing them as something profoundly sacred.

“A miracle is a shift in perception that changes everything” I recently heard the podcaster Dan O’Connor say. Accepting the universe’s invitation to become a whore and reconnecting my sexuality to the sacred has been miraculous. I didn’t need evidence (though I enjoy it when I read it) I only needed to change my perception. To make this happen I simply frequently ask the question, “What if?”

These two words have totally changed my life. They allow for infinite possibilities, they’re playful, creative and deeply rebellious.

Now whenever I am told that I can’t do something I cheekily ask myself, “What if I did?”

When my body screams “I can’t take any more!” I gently ask, “What if you surrendered deeper?”

When society tells me, “Women aren’t by their ‘true nature’ as sexual as men,” I giggle, “What if they are?”

When I’m told that all men are bastards and don’t want to give us any pleasure, I retort, “What if that’s bullshit?”

Can you see how miraculous “What if?” can be? 

You can question and re-frame any rule or belief handed down to you; in fact, I think it is our obligation to do so! Because ultimately the greatest, most threatening question we can collectively ask is, “What if we can sexually pleasure our way back to personal sovereignty and freedom?”

Despite my clitoral sacrifice fantasy and play I don’t believe it is a woman’s duty or role to be a portal to The Divine for the whole community. Much as I would LOVE that job, I actually believe it was shared amongst us all. 

We all have front facing genitalia, perfectly positioned for us to stimulate on our own without the assistance of others. We also all know the great pleasure and transformation we experience in our bodies when we stimulate our genitalia. What if we all have highly sensitive genitalia on the front of our bodies so that we can all partake in group ecstatic dance ceremonies to worship and honour The Divine?

We know that Goddess wanted her people to be highly sexed and that she discouraged monogamy. I am certain that human communities worshipped Goddess and bonded tightly with each other through sexual ceremonies. In churches Christians still drink the blood and eat the body of Jesus Christ – what if the origins of this continued practice are amrita and blow jobs?! 

Sounds so much more fun to me!!

In my very first week of spiritual training in a completely mundane provincial hotel conference room the coach stood us 10 participants in a circle. She talked us through about 10 minutes of “Haa” breathing – deep inhales followed by long, slow, slightly restricted exhales that cause you to make a “haa” sound in the throat. Initially it made me feel a bit light headed, then as I got into the flow, I became aware of tingles throughout my body as it oxygenated. 

As the tingles grew, I became acutely aware of the energy coming from other course participants. The circle we were standing in held the energy in the middle. When we stopped breathing, we were invited to feel the energy we had created between us. It felt as tangible as a large beach ball and we laughed as we moved it around and across the circle.

I had never consciously felt the energy of a group before; I was completely awestruck. And hooked. That was the point of no return for me – my life has been devoted to experiencing energy ever since.

We were only 10 people and we were not accessing our sexual energy; it was not that kind of training. All genitalia were neatly packed away – it would take a few more years for me to experience group practices that incorporated breath work and genital stimulation. And yet, the power of the energy in that room created by a group of newbie breathers who weren’t accessing their sexual energy was incredible.

What if someone learnt how to harness that energy?

What if someone highly skilled and experienced guided groups of people to activate and direct energy through the power of breathing?

What if these same people knew to add in the creatrix power of sexual energy?

What if humans truly believed to the core of their beings that their sexual energy was sacred and rightfully used in group ceremonies under the direction of a shaman for the good of the whole community and the satisfaction of Goddess?

Would the frontal position of our genitalia make a little bit more sense if my “”What ifs” were all true?

Lilith abandoned Adam because he decided he was God’s first (and most important) child rather than one of many children beloved by Goddess. In his absurd arrogance and profound ignorance, he turned his back on millennia of beautiful, playful, devout, sacred sexual practice and in his wake centuries of men have struggled to explain the presence and location of the clitoris.

What if Adam and all his male followers have all been wrong?

What if sex is for all our pleasure?

What if female pleasure is a particularly sacred aspect of sex?

What if procreation is a positive side effect of worship, but a side effect much like whey is from the main product, yogurt?

I don’t wish to diminish or deny the joy that children bring to our lives, I just seek to suggest that maybe, just maybe, sex is about so much more than making sons to fight wars and daughters to pick up socks from the floor.

What if the whores you diminish and despise are actually here to guide you back to The Truth.

 

Recommended further reading:

“Sex at Dawn” by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha

“She Comes First” by Ian Kerner (A how to guide on the art of giving clitoral pleasure – Note: not all women are aroused by clitoral pleasure – this whore isn’t!)

 

Photo by Margo Evardson on Unsplash (woman on sacrificial block)

Giving Adonis an Adonis Massage – The Day I Met Black Panther

 I am a married woman and I am a whore. Strange combination you might think?! 

 

Actually it is perfect. I am very happy in my marriage, I am married to an incredible man, who is proud of my work, as I am of his. We met over 12 years ago and are still very much in love. We have one of those beautiful loves that gets stronger and stronger with every passing year and, importantly for both of us, our sex just gets better and better as our bodies age. 

 

After work I find it really helpful to transition from whore, not only back to mother, but also to wife. It keeps me grounded. And it stops me from losing myself in my work. When an enthusiastic client invites me away on holiday or out to dinner I genuinely don’t want to go – I want to be with hubby. So whilst I am willing to go – if they pay me of course – I don’t get confused and blur my boundaries by being nice and accommodating. 

 

I genuinely like and even love my clients when they are with me. I am uniquely placed to experience a part of people that most people don’t connect to, I know I have quite a few clients who experience parts of themselves that they don’t connect to with their wives or anyone else. I feel deeply honoured to be that person. I value my clients’ trust and faith in me and work with integrity not to break it.

 

And, very importantly, other than my pay, I don’t want anything from my clients. That is the exchange. It is clean. It is professional and it keeps both sides safe and boundaried. I feel it is very important that I never want anything back from my clients. Life would become an agony if I were waiting for a text from every man I had shared a beautiful moment with. 

 

So after work I refocus my love and my energy on my man, my god, my king. 

 

Then one day, as a delivery man was unloading a bulky delivery in my drive, my client arrived. Earlier, I had messaged to warn him about the delivery and to ask him to park on the lane instead of the drive. He had replied politely that that would be no problem. 

 

I was feeling a bit more frazzled than I like to feel. 5 minutes before his arrival I had been out on the drive in curlers and kimono signing the paperwork. And there he was, calmly walking towards me like a character out of a Marvel movie – Black Panther in the flesh. 

 

He was BEAUTIFUL. All my clients are beautiful. They all have beauty within them and every single soul is a beautiful being, but this man was BE-AUT-I-FUL. Drop dead gorgeous, turn heads in the streets, kind of beautiful. Young, tall, broad, well built and he was walking towards me standing in the doorway feeling very old, frumpy, normal and, well, inadequate.

 

Fuck I thought, he’s made a mistake. This is going to be soooo awkward.

 

“Hi, lovely to meet you” I smiled. He returned the greeting and stepped inside, sliding off his shoes and following me up the stairs.

 

“Do you need to use the loo?” I gabbled.

 

“No,” he said with smiling eyes, “I think I’m alright, thank you.”

 

Oh his voice. He had a beautiful voice too. HELP!! 

 

I showed him into my room, checked that my Adonis massage was the service that matched his desires, asked about prostate massage, his reply, “I don’t want to deny myself the experience, but I’m not completely sure,” then asked him to undress and lie face up on the bed for the meditation. 

 

I am meant to be the calm one. It is my job to be calm and reassuring to steady my client’s nerves and I wasn’t feeling at all calm. I had a bad case of imposter syndrome. What was this complete Adonis doing in my space? 

 

He lay down, I spread the sarong over him and I started the meditation. Thankfully, because I say it most days, the words found their own way out of me and calmed me as they guided him into a deep relaxation, connecting him to his senses and through them, to his energy body. I kept my eyes closed, I generally do, but on this occasion it was to stop myself from seeing the horror on his face when he realised his mistake. 

 

Meditation over, I asked him to roll over, turned up the music, placed my palms on his sacral and heart chakras and then drizzled oil over his back. It glistened in the candlelight. I have massaged some beautiful backs, I have even been in the presence of other Adonis backs, but this one thrilled me like never before. I think it was the play of candlelight on his dark, oiled skin and the contrast with my pale hands, it was exquisite. 

 

What is he doing here? He’s perfect. Why would he want to spend time with you? You are so unworthy of him.  Over and over the same unhelpful thoughts interrupted my hands. I felt less free and flowing than I usually do – when I feel worthy. 

 

I had to get a handle on myself or I would not give this beautiful man the massage that he was most worthy of. 

 

So I gave myself a talking to. I reminded myself that I am a whore. We are here, above all, to give service. I did not have time for all this “I’m not worthy” BS, I needed to put my shoulders back and behave like a proper whore so that this Adonis received the service he had come here for. 

 

It sounds like an easy task, to give yourself a bit of a talking to and banish the “I’m not worthy” voices and feelings long enough for you to do your job, but it hasn’t been easy for me. 

 

Raised by a family which told me, daily, for years that  “You are the ugly one”, “You are impossible”, “You are difficult”, “You are angry”, “You are disruptive”, “You are unwanted because of your behaviour,” I developed a very strong ego identity about being deeply unwanted and unworthy. I’ve done a lot of work to re-wire myself and, “I’m not worthy” is still obviously in there because it still shows up on occasion.

 

My lack of worthiness was very much based on looks. Yes, you all tell me I’m attractive, and I know I am attractive enough, but I am not on the same level as this Adonis. I have age, height, lack of athleticism and just boring old genes against me. As I massaged his back I just felt older and fatter and flabbier. Oh dear!

 

And then, the queen in me said, very powerfully, “ENOUGH Anabelle. This lovely man has entrusted his beautiful body into your very capable hands, give him what he came for and what he deserves.” 

 

I closed my eyes, I connected to the music and I connected with his energy beneath his skin. Under his perfect cloak he was as vulnerable and as human as me and I had been in danger of denying him connection because of my feelings of unworthiness.

 

For shame.

 

After the stern talking to from my queen the session was beautiful. He had requested that I incorporate my feet into the massage in some way. After massaging his feet, I leant back, oiled up my feet and rubbed them over his shoulders, buttocks, thighs and back. I enjoyed the challenge and the creative playfulness. 

 

I did give him a prostate massage. His anus was very unsure and it took a long time for him to open for my finger. I wielded my feet to both arouse and reassure him, stroking his legs with my right foot as my finger quietly moved into him. Inside I stayed very still, feeling for his racing pulse to slow down and allow his muscles to relax. They did and I was able to gently massage his prostate. 

 

I was careful to remove my finger as gently as I had inserted it. If you pull a finger out quickly it shocks the sphincter muscle into tightening and tensing, gripping the finger you are trying to remove. I didn’t want to cause him any shock, so I very, very slowly removed my finger as my left hand moved down his back from his heart chakra until, finger removed, my left hand cupped his anus gently.

 

I circled my breasts around his buttocks a few more times distributing the energy that would have been released by the prostate massage and then as the music quietened to almost nothing I asked him to roll over.

 

I had dealt with my “I am not worthy,” now I had a new challenge. He had booked for an Adonis which is a classic, very boundaried tantric massage. He had reiterated when I asked on his arrival, that he wanted a session in which he felt the energy moving inside of his body, not an interactive session. My role was to facilitate his pleasure.

 

When he rolled over I wanted to devour him. 

 

I had admired, and felt slightly intimidated by, his beautiful back. As I appraised the front of his body I simply desired him. If he had booked for Kama or Musubi, this would have been fine, I could have enjoyed moving my body up and down his torso, holding his cock between my thighs, feeling it inside me if he had booked Kama – oh I ached to feel him inside me. 

 

But he had booked a boundaried Adonis. I am a professional and had no idea about his personal situation. I don’t allow an Adonis massage to go “off piste” because it is only by having strong boundaries that my clients are safe with me. I may have strongly desired him, but he had not booked a Kama session to fuck, so I couldn’t allow my desires off the leash.

 

I smiled, breathed deeply – a long, slow exhale – and poured oil over his torso, in circles around his perfect flat belly, along his shaft, over his strong thighs and I continued to honour this perfect, perfect man, who I really, really wanted to fuck, with the most beautiful massage that I am capable of giving. 

 

I kept my eyes closed as much as I could to keep my mind clear of all intruding thoughts of sitting astride him, taking his cock into my body, of feeling his beautiful big hands on my back (a bit calloused – carpenter? I wondered), of lowering my nipples into his mouth to feel a sharp nip from his teeth, of kissing those full lips. 

 

Yep, I had to keep my eyes closed.

 

It’s an unfamiliar feeling for me to desire someone so much. You may think that strange, let me explain. 

 

In sex I have very strong feminine energy – I am a masterful receiver. I give an exquisite massage, but my real talent is in receiving and mirroring back the energy that a lover gives me.

 

Think moon/sun. Where the sun (masculine energy) is the source of light – the giver of pleasure – the moon (feminine energy) merely reflects the light, or the joy, given by the sun. 

 

Without the sun we would never see the moon. And it is usually the sun in another person who lights up my moon. Which is why I come alive in the arms of a lover but am very quickly bored by self pleasure. I, the moon, respond to other people’s desire, I am not the sun, radiating desire for others. 

 

Yet here I was filled with incredibly strong, desirous energy. I wanted to move the session from massage to full sex. Every fibre of my body was begging me to make the first move and seduce him into sex.

 

I may be a sexually empowered woman but I am also a whore. I hadn’t met this beautiful, crazily desirable man in a bar, I had brought him into my life via my website in which I offer professional services with professional boundaries. I had checked in with him at the beginning and he had reiterated that he wanted the boundaried service.

 

We would have incredible sex.

 

But that wasn’t what he had asked for.

 

I may be experiencing unfamiliar sun energy in my body, but I would have to keep it under wraps. 

 

I moved my body further away from the temptation of his and arranged myself at the bottom of the bed, between his feet, so that I could massage his chest and cock with my feet. I had to use all my concentration to do this safely which made for a really good distraction for my overheating sun.

 

His eyes were closed. His body relaxed, his whole being was lost in the experience. I should have been really pleased with myself, I could tell he was having a really beautiful inner experience. I manoevered my body into position for the lingam massage, took his splendid cock in my hands and released a few really long, deep, slow exhales.

 

His lingam, like the rest of his body, was a complete joy to massage. I opened my eyes a few times to check that he was still relaxed and to locate my oil bottle, but as I generally like to do, I massaged his lingam with my eyes closed, following the music connecting to his energy and losing myself in the experience.

 

He came explosively after about 20 minutes – just the right amount of time I noted with satisfaction. And he lay still for quite a while. His energy was calmer which calmed mine. I opened my eyes as I rubbed his sperm onto my breasts. I surveyed his beautiful, relaxed body with a mixture of deep satisfaction and pride and also regret. I remember stroking his right thigh with my left hand and as I watched my hand move slowly over his glistening skin thinking, I could fall so in love with you.

 

Not I love you. Not you are deeply loved. Not I am channelling love from the divine to you. 

 

I could fall in love with you.

 

The last man I thought that about is now my husband. 

 

I thought I was immune from falling for a client. I thought I was the consummate professional. 

 

And I am. I had this feeling, I had these thoughts and I didn’t act on them. I am the consummate professional. 

 

He opened his eyes and said, “That was immense. Thank you.” I smiled my reply – you’re welcome, my pleasure. And I said, “You have a very perfect body, it was a joy to give you a massage.”

 

“Thank you, I work hard in the gym to achieve it. I am glad you liked it. That’s good to hear.” He laughed gently. Oh, his voice….

 

We talked weights and he told me he can hold his own body weight hanging from his hands for a full 4 minutes (explaining the callouses on his hands), “I can do 10 seconds” I laughed. 

“10 seconds is better than no seconds, every little bit helps” he purred. 

 

It felt very intimate sitting between his legs, holding his softening cock in my hands. Looking down so that there was no chance of making eye contact, I said, “It’s lucky I am a married woman, I could fall very in love with you.” He didn’t say anything, but seemed a bit taken aback. 

 

I continued nervously, talking to fill the silence – an annoying habit of mine, “I mean you’re just incredibly beautiful, it’s such an honour to touch a body like yours. At the start I had a big inner battle with feelings of unworthiness and had to give myself a stern talking to…..”

 

His response interrupted my flow, “You felt unworthy? I was worried you wouldn’t open your door to me!”

 

I looked at him. For a moment I held his gaze. And felt such shame and sadness for the multiple ways humans have found to divide ourselves from each other. Age, race, class, beauty, hobbies, income, the cars we drive, the houses we live in – all conditioned egoic ways to keep us separated from each other, partitioning ourselves into narrower and narrower silos, limiting our life experiences and keeping us divided. 

 

I stroked his beautiful body, not wanting to let him go. To keep him on my bed talking, talking about anything so that I could feel the vibrations of his beautiful voice stirring every cell of my being. I wanted to keep my hands on his body feeling the energy of him moving through me. I feared if I let him go I would never feel him again. 

 

Then he said something that my former self (as in my 90 minutes earlier self) would not have believed. “I used to think I didn’t have a type. But more and more I think I do. She’s kind of you.” 

 

My fragile, I-am-not-worthy, ego struggled to receive those words, she still does. This Adonis thinks I’m his type? How ridiculous! 

 

How I did not fall onto his body and beg him to fuck me I do not know. And writing this, I really hope he did not confuse my professionalism for rejection.

 

Instead I walked him down to the shower and returned to my room to begin tidying away the session, to begin my transition back to wife and mother.

 

He returned, cleaned and as beautiful as ever. And we engaged in small talk as he dressed. I thanked him for being so accommodating about my delivery, I asked about his work – how very English and we talked about the hot dry spell we had had – also how very English.

 

Then I showed him out. He walked away from me. I may never see him again. 

 

I had a beautiful experience with an incredibly beautiful man. I am immensely proud of myself for maintaining boundaries and proving to myself that I am, still, however tempted, a professional. 

 

But, I have crossed a professional rubicon, for the first time in a decade working as Anabelle, I want something from one of my clients. 

 

I want him to message me and book another session. 

 

I want a Kama session with my Adonis. 

Connecting to Tenderness in The Wounded Masculine

“Patriarchy teaches boys that masculinity means control, emotional invulnerability, sexual access, public authority and distance from everything coded female. It teaches them that anger is strength, grief is weakness, care is emasculating and women’s attention is a resource owed to them if they perform masculinity correctly….

 

….This is the crisis. Not ‘men are monsters.’ Not ‘boys are born bad.’ Not ‘women good, men bad, please clap.’ The crisis is that boys are being handed a broken emotional toolkit and then told the hammer is the only instrument a real man should need….

 

….I hate the system that teaches boys to amputate parts of themselves and then calls the wound masculinity…

 

…Need is human, while entitlement is political. A man needing love, care, intimacy, friendship, sex, belonging, respect, purpose and tenderness is not a problem. Those are human needs, Everyone has them. Everyone is shaped by whether they receive them….

 

…..Patriarchy is killing us. It is killing women through violence, control, medical neglect, forced pregnancy, economic inequality….It is killing men too, through isolation, emotional repression, grievance, politics, violence, addiction, despair (war – my addition) and the lie that being loved is less important than being obeyed. Feminism did not create this crisis. Feminism is just one of the few traditions honest enough to name it….

 

….Men and boys are not in crisis because women got too mean, too educated, too independent, too feminist… They are in crisis because patriarchy promised them a throne and gave them a cage. And some of them are so attached to the cage they cannot even see the bars.”

 

 Professor Meredith Bitchy History on Substack

 

I read Professor Meredith’s brilliantly written and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny article while drinking my morning coffee in the garden as the day warmed up. It had been another viciously hot week and being able to sit and enjoy a coffee was a rare treat. The birds were singing and the garden humming with life – so much abundance, so much joy, so much life. 

 

I watched the cats stretch out in the early rays, enjoying the soft breeze before the heat of the day became something to hide from, and I wondered how did we all get so lost? How did we all get so disconnected from how beautiful and magical and abundant life is?

 

The answer is always the same. 

 

A system of hierarchy and control that was created to separate us from the world around us and from each other. Separated and disconnected from the magical abundance of life and our innate creativity, we flap around like fish out of water, desperate to breathe but in completely the wrong environment to do so. 

 

Of course a fish out of water won’t survive long. The GENIUS of patriarchy is to make it survivable but only that – survivable.

 

Let me be clear. Patriarchy is not men. Men are not patriarchy. 

 

Patriarchy is a system of extraction and exploitation. It uses hierarchy as an instrument of control. Of course, if you are slightly up the hierarchical ladder you feel “good” when you look down on those beneath you, but it’s still only survival, just in a slightly nicer suit.

 

To thrive humans need to feel connected. We need intimacy, both platonic and sexual. We need belonging – with an intimate partner (or partners), within a family and within a community of deeply trusted friends. In order to develop and nourish these intimacies we need the emotional skills to ask for what we need/desire and to hear (without defence) what others need/desire from us.

 

We need to reach adulthood skilled in kindness, compassion, love, patience, honesty, courage, open-heartedness, tenderness. We need to be able to feel and safely express the full range of our emotions.

 

But patriarchy does not want us to thrive. A thriving population would learn its collective power and so would strive together, in unison, for independence, self-governance and sovereignty. 

 

You can’t exploit a thriving and empowered population. 

 

You can’t control people who know their own power and see and celebrate the power in the people around them. 

 

You can’t control people who collaborate with one another instead of competing as they have been programmed to do. 

 

But you can control people if you train them from a very young age into roles that will define them, and their relationships with other people, for life. The Jesuits famously proclaimed, “Give me the boy until the age of 7 and I will give you the man.” I watched as my children were conditioned, despite my best efforts, by people and wider society around me.

 

One day particularly stands out in my memory. I had walked the youngest across the fields to meet his school bus at the other end of the village as we did most mornings. We had had a particularly lovely walk, he has always had an incredible, enquiring mind and interesting perspective on the world and I have always deeply valued our chats. 

 

On that morning we were feeling particularly connected and him leaving me to go to school, which would bore his beautiful, inquisitive mind to death, felt like a cruel wrench – for both of us. 

 

The mini-bus drew up as we were swapping red wellies for black school shoes and we both started feeling really emotional – we weren’t ready for the impending separation. Neither of us wanted to be separated (separating children from their families for compulsory education is an essential tool of patriarchy), I was holding back tears and “being brave.” 

 

My little boy was less tightly programmed than me – he was still young, they’d had him for far fewer years than they had had me – and he started crying in great big sobs. It really tugged at my heart, but that was not what was making me want to cry. I wanted to cry because I didn’t want to be parted from my joyous, beautiful boy any more than he wanted to be parted from me.

 

As we stepped onto the bus so that I could settle him into his seat, the old, kindly Santa-look-a-like bus driver said, “Pull it together lad – look you’re making your mother cry – man up!”

 

I was furious. I turned on the sweet old man who was, after all, only repeating the harm done to him, and hissed, “How dare you! Crying is a perfectly acceptable and honest expression of emotion and a sign of a healthy person. DO NOT presume to tell my son how he should behave.”

 

Of course my words were wasted. The damage was done. Patriarchy had won, again. My boy didn’t come home a completely changed being, but it was another brick in the wall. 

 

The kindly Santa-look-a-like bus driver seemingly played a very peripheral role in my son’s life – he only drove the mini bus to and from a school. Yet he was one of the men who raised my son, the men in society beyond my front door, and therefore beyond my control, who taught my boys what it is to be a man. 

 

I am a woman. I cannot raise boys to be men. I am a model for girls, not boys. On that morning the bus driver amputated a part of my young son’s emotional body. My boy carries that wound into adulthood, it was one of the lessons that helped him to define and understand what it is “to be a man.” 

 

It’s such a cliché but in 2016/17 my beautiful boy learned that TO BE A MAN you must:

 

  1. Not cry
  2. Not upset your mother

 

This is a huge wound that needs healing. 

 

Children are NEVER responsible for their parent’s emotional states – that is the job of adults, not children. Yet my young boy had just been told by an older (thus to be respected) MAN (i.e. role model on masculinity for my boy) that he was indeed responsible for my emotional states. 

 

And worse, he learnt this in the year his parents – the people who should keep him safe – were themselves going through a divorce thanks to their own unresolved childhood trauma.

 

I hope that my son, now a young man, will be challenged in relationship to heal this wound. Or maybe he will find a good therapist, a men’s healing group or a shaman skilled in using plant medicine? Sadly the wound is below the level of consciousness and he lives in a society in which carrying this wound is the entry criteria to “masculinity.”

 

So, when after a particularly beautiful and intimate session with a client, lying, limbs entangled on the bed, he mused that feminism had gone too far and made intimacy too difficult for men and women I was honestly lost for words (a rare event for me!)

 

I clearly live in a completely different algorithmic world to him. I am not fed manosphere diatribes against feminism, I am fed Bitchy History diatribes against patriarchy! I am not reading that the feminist fight for bodily self autonomy and the right to choice in our lives is somehow to blame for the crisis in “masculinity.”

 

I think he thought that because I am a sexually active woman who loves cock and offers a professional sex service I am somehow not a feminist? I took a deep breath, reminded myself to be kind and said something like, “How does women having choice harm men?”

 

Flustered, (he obviously realised a bit too late that he had ejaculated all over a real life feminist) he replied, “No….but it’s gone a bit too far hasn’t it?”

 

“In what way?” I asked.

 

When he didn’t reply I offered, “It seems to me that you think feminism is some kind of war against men? It really isn’t. It’s a war against a system of oppression and control that harms men just as much as it harms women. If only men could see how trapped and exploited they are and then either join women in fighting patriarchy as feminists or create a parallel movement to fight with us for freedom for us all?”

 

I had said too much. The cognitive dissonance was writ large on his face and he muttered about not being as well read as me and fled to the shower. 

 

When you’re not enduring a relationship with a man who’s stuck in the algorithmic manosphere it is easy to have compassion for them. They are clearly being manipulated into hating and fearing THEIR PATH TO FREEDOM. 

 

Yes women were the first (of the two genders) to see that patriarchy is shit, we’ve read, written, talked, marched and even self-pleasured our way towards freedom and we love nothing more than when men (with the beautiful cocks we so enjoy sucking and fucking) join us in that fight.

 

But obviously patriarchy is going to fight back. Obviously the machine will pay to boost a few toxic individuals who eagerly tell men, “It’s all women’s fault” to keep men from the warrior women who could work with them towards freedom, power, personal sovereignty and meaningful connected community.

 

The cage that patriarchy works so hard to keep men in is incredibly brutal. From birth boys are conditioned to disconnect from, suppress, judge and shame essentially human traits. Let’s list just a few:

 

Sensitivity – being alert and receptive to the mood in the room, your own and other’s emotions, states of wellbeing and energies. Shut down because a “sensitive man” is a sissy. (Patriarchy doesn’t only seek to shut down sensitivity in men – I was raised in a family that used the label “over-sensitive” not as a compliment, but as an affliction to grow out of.)

 

Collaboration and cooperation – sacrificed on the altar of competition as boys are taught that being Number 1 – A Winner – is more desirable than working collectively within community to reach an outcome that benefits everyone.

 

Kindness – left to women.

 

Compassion – left to women.

 

Empathy – left to women.

 

Tenderness – what even is that? Definitely left to women.

 

Crying – don’t ever do this!! And never, ever allow yourself to feel anything that might make you cry. Crying effectively equals woman. Only women and babies cry. A man who cries is effectively cutting off his own balls. 

 

Which brings me onto: 

 

Circumcision – the single most effective and brutal act inflicted by patriarchy on infant boys. You cannot argue that it’s not both cruel and unnecessary, yet half the planet is still circumcising their infant boys who live with the consequences of trauma and reduced sensitivity for life. 

 

You still think patriarchy is something you want to defend by attacking feminists?!

 

In my session today I was very preoccupied with the concept of tenderness. What would tenderness even look like in a man? What is tenderness? How is a man tender? 

 

I was musing over these questions as I lit my candles and incense, connected my playlist to the speaker, showered, dressed, applied lipstick and mascara. Could I think of a moment when I had witnessed or experienced tenderness in a man?

 

My client arrived – a Musubi/Kama session – I invited him to undress and lie down and guided him through a short body meditation. He relaxed quickly and fell into a deep trance, “excellent” I thought. I asked him to roll over onto his front which he did almost without stirring, again – “excellent” I thought. 

 

His body reacted quickly to the massage and despite the heat in the room I gave him a really sexy, deeply sensual and highly erotic massage. He hadn’t been sure whether he wanted a prostate massage, I had suggested that we follow his body’s desires (or lack of) and go where the energy flowed. His body screamed for a prostate massage – all the classic signs – bum pushing up towards my hands as they glided over it, relaxed buttocks, soft anal rose. 

 

Gingerly and very slowly, I entered him. I applied gentle pressure to his prostate whilst I stroked his shaft, frenulum and balls with my free hand. He was moaning with pleasure, his cock hard, he was pushing back against my finger, but I knew this was the first time for him and I know the released energies are powerful. He had a beautiful cock which I wanted to feel deep down my throat and deep inside in my cunt, I didn’t want to make his energy too powerful for him to ride.

 

So I withdrew my finger and sat astride him, grinding my vulva into his buttocks for a few moments, moving the energy I had just activated between and around our two bodies, while I removed the glove I had worn to penetrate him. Then I leant forward and whispered in his ear, “Roll over.” I raised myself up allowing him to roll over underneath me so that as his face came around he was met with an eyeful of oily breast. 

 

He immediately took hold of them and buried his face deep into their generous flesh, his fingers finding my nipples which you will know, if you have ever spent any time with me, always makes me come. He hadn’t met me before, he felt my juices beginning to flow over his cock and between his legs, “That feels amazing” he sighed. 

 

“Pinch harder” I replied, kissing him full on the mouth knowing that what was about to come would blow his mind as it always does. He pinched and then, as invited, bit down on my nipples. The heavens opened, the longed for rain gushed over him and he was soaked. 

 

 It was too much for him. 

 

“I’m going to come,” he gasped. I could see him desperately fighting the urge to come, tensing his body, tightening his face – tension and tightness accelerate the process and before I could coach him into long gentle exhales to relax and allow, he had come – copious amounts of beautiful sperm all over his sacrum and hip, my thigh and the bed. There is something endlessly magical and miraculous about sperm isn’t there?

 

His exhilaration and intense pleasure was immediately fighting disappointment and shame. 

 

Disappointment that his session – for him – had come to an end and shame that he had failed to control his pleasure and come “too soon.” I could see his inner turmoil and frustration and I did what any self respecting tantric whore would do, I invited him to relax and receive pleasure in a softer, gentler, calmer state.

 

I have brought countless men to orgasm post ejaculation. Many are only too pleased to lie and fully relax, even sleep lightly, as I work my magic with my hands. Post ejaculation men can fall into a deep, deep place of relaxation and in this place it is so much easier to move energy around the body. Very often, whilst almost asleep, they will then feel the unfamiliar experience of orgasmic energy in their chest, arms, hands, legs, feet.

 

Their cock hardens but hasn’t got the same urgency to come because they are so deeply relaxed. It’s beautiful to watch and very empowering. Yes, I was sad not to ride my client’s cock today, but I was equally excited about pleasing him as he dozed off, building his energy until we were both caught up in the dance again.

 

We had plenty of time left on the clock. I wiped away the sperm, picked up my little bottle of coconut oil and settled myself between his legs to give exquisite pleasure.

 

“Thank you, that was amazing. Can I have a shower?” said the voice at the other end of the bed.

 

“Would you not accept my invitation to receive pleasure in a softer, gentler, quieter state?”

 

He lay quietly for a bit, but his legs stayed upright, feet planted on the bed either side of me, knees restricting the movement of my arms, creating a protective barrier around his cock. This was not a body open to receiving or relaxing back into pleasure.

 

I persevered. I stroked, twisted, licked and even sucked his beautiful soft cock. At moments it throbbed its appreciation and I smiled back, “I know it’s lovely to experience tenderness.”

 

TENDERNESS. 

 

That word again. In that moment I was in the wound. And I understood what tenderness is. 

 

Tenderness is softness. 

 

Tenderness is being soft, feeling soft, sharing soft.

 

Pleasure can be so soft – think of a feather stroking across skin. But men are conditioned to expect and require their cocks to be hard. Only a hard cock earns the right to be grasped, stroked, teased, licked, sucked, fucked. 

 

My client today was clearly deeply uncomfortable receiving pleasure in softness. His cock wasn’t. It was throbbing appreciatively in my hands and mouth. But his mind – the seat of patriarchal conditioning – was roaring NO!!! YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THIS!!

 

When he asked again if he could go and have a shower of course I didn’t deny his request. I was sad that he was unable to receive my loving attention post ejaculation, but I wasn’t going to force myself on him. 

 

I smiled, held his cock in one hand, placed the other on his heart chakra, took a few deep heart connected breaths, sent my love through my hands to his heart and his cock and then withdrew my touch and escorted him to the bathroom.

 

And I’m left with a new question to muse over this afternoon – how can a man show tenderness towards others, his partner, children, friends, society, the planet when he can’t allow himself to feel tenderness within himself? 

 

If he’s uncomfortable with being soft, how can he give the people in his life and beyond, the softness that they yearn for, crave and need? 

 

Can you feel the wound?

 

Can you see how patriarchy harms men and the people that they love?

 

Are you beginning to see the bars of the cage?

 

Are you ready to join us in resistance to reclaim your personal sovereignty, or will you carry on blaming women?

 

26.06.2026

 

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