Women Obsess About Staying Young & Beautiful. Are We Wasting Our Money & Time?

“I usually go for young, hot chicks – no offense meant – but I experience all of this [multiple orgasms] with you. How is that?”

Asked the overweight, not very hot, significantly older man after experiencing the second or third session of incredible orgasmic energy with me.

My answer begins with a question: what is a woman’s role in sex?

Is it (a) to arouse an erection in a man and then be a receptive hole for him to thrust in and out of until he has emptied his ball bag?

Or is it (b) to be a partner in the activation, expansion and movement of sexual energy in and between bodies?

The standard, patriarchal model of sex programmes us all, and especially men, into believing the answer is (a).

Thus, many, many women spend lifetimes – and small fortunes – trying to maintain youthfulness to remain “young, hot chicks” so that they activate male arousal which is everyone’s programmed route into sex.

Being a “young, hot chick” is the goal, and expectation, for women living in a patriarchal society. The mature crone has been erased as a stage of life of value and worth. All eyes fixate on the maiden and the young (fertile) mother who fights deep fatigue and post labour hormones to reclaim the body of a “young, hot chick” so that she can continue to arouse the all-important erection.

In Snow White we meet the evil step mother – an aging beauty but still a Queen at the height of her powers – who so fears the “young, hot chick” in her care that she repeatedly goes to extreme lengths to have her killed.

The murderous jealousy of older women is not the only thing that “young, hot chicks” have to fear.  If a society is programmed into thinking it is a woman’s function to trigger male erection and then provide it with a willing hole, attractiveness is easily equated with sexual availability. Whether this is something the “young, hot chick” intended to advertise or not.

Thus, being a “young, hot chick” is a dangerous stage of life for women.

In order to protect ourselves many women, including myself, have used clothes and the physical presentation of our bodies (including weight gain) to avoid triggering male desire as we go about our daily lives and to convey the very firm message that we are not available holes to be pumped for male pleasure and physical relief.

Much of this is subconscious and needs to be drawn out of us in therapy. For some of us the arts – theatre, cinema, music – helps us to see what we have been doing our whole lives.

I am going to share a story which is very, very, very common amongst women and very shocking for modern men who had assumed and hoped that we were living in better times. I share to illustrate my thoughts around “young hot chicks” and to talk about my subsequent empowerment, not to elicit pity or hand wringing.

In 2022 Husband bought us tickets to see Jodie Comer staring in Prima Facie. He bought the tickets because he is a huge Jodie Comer fan not because he knew or had any opinion about the subject matter.

It’s a one woman show and she was phenomenal in it. It tells the tale of a defence barrister who makes a living from defending, amongst others, male rapists. In Part I she is sexy, sassy, smart, funny and full of confidence. She portrays a “young, hot chick” with a brain – super sexy.

Her colleague thought so too. One night after she had had a few too many drinks (celebrating a win in court) he took her drunkenness for consent, and raped her.

In one hideous scene the defence barrister became the victim.

“Victim” was acted with a different voice, a different pace and a different posture. The shoulders slumped, her voice was less confident, the pace of her life slowed down to an almost standstill. What struck me the most and made me feel physically sick were her clothes.

Gone were the sexy, tight barrister-black trouser suits that showed her slim maiden body. The “victim” wore shapeless, baggy, grey clothes. Turning a siren into a lump of rock.

As I watched Jodie Comer acting “victim” I felt waves of nausea washing over me, I couldn’t feel my body, I felt numb all over. I was watching my teenage self on stage. Decades of repressed pain flooded through me.

I became a “victim” at 12 years old. A mature man saw my “young, hot chick” body, liked what he saw and manipulated me into a situation where I had no choice but to “give” him what he wanted.

Watching how Jodie Comer’s “victim” reacted to her rape by wearing shapeless, baggy, grey clothes made me realise, viscerally, that I had done the same for the whole of my life since I was 12 years old.

From this very young age I had understood that clothes become your armour when you go out into the world in which you don’t know which man is the next rapist.

When someone your family knows and trusts rapes you, you learn that every man is a potential threat and that your best protection is to look the polar opposite to “hot”.

(The message I learned at 12 is reinforced in every court room across the Western world. A Woman’s choice of clothes is routinely examined by defence lawyers to make the case that by making herself look attractive she made herself available for sex. In this way a woman’s choice of clothes, e.g. knickers – worn underneath jeans – becomes her consent to have an erection or finger pushed into her.)

Fulfilling my patriarchal duty and triggering erections by looking “hot” as in model (a) is

  • deeply disempowering and
  • led, in the past, when I was very, very, very, young, to me being raped.

If looking like a “young, hot chick” gets me unwanted and harmful attention then I will disguise my beautiful body under clothes that make me look frumpy and unavailable. That way I will be safe.

If “young, hot chick” is interpreted by men as “available for hire” then frumpy and unattractive, we hope, conveys the very opposite message. It is how I stayed safe after my rape but I did not realise this until I saw Jodie Comer wearing “my” clothes on stage after her rape.

Oooofff.

Other women go further. I have had friends confide in me that the best armour of protection against unwanted male attention is body weight. I do wonder if that’s the – subconscious – answer many women have to what can be deeply tiresome, often intimidating and, tragically too often, life changing male attention.

Male readers you have to understand that we can’t tell which of you is going to rape us.

You don’t wear labels or an identifying item of clothing like a handkerchief in your breast pocket. You are often our friends or colleague (as in Prima Facie). Horrifically often a family member.

Almost always a trusted person in our lives.

I was manipulated into the situation in which I was raped. I knew my assailant and I had reason to trust him. He did not have a handkerchief in his pocket warning me of his intentions. He seemed like a really lovely, safe man.

I want to be very, very clear here. I am not suggesting that all men are rapists. Absolutely not.

What I DO say is that the sexual model (a) – wired into men and women by patriarchal society – makes rape much, much more likely.

If you’re a woman “more likely” is a huge, life changing, problem.

So, my suggestion to women and the men who want to be our lovers is to reject model (a) in favour of model (b).

Is this a rejection of penetration? NO!!!! Absolutely not!

It’s a rejection of the female role in sex being reduced to being an eternal “young, hot chick.” It’s a rejection of the societal programming that makes female appearance the trigger for erection and erection the starting gun for every sexual encounter.

My problem with model (a) isn’t penetration. My problem is that the “young hot chicks” role for women is demeaning. It is time wasting at it’s best and abusive at it’s worst. Look at the amount of time and money women spend on maintaining youthfulness so that they qualify as “young, hot chicks.”

Sickeningly I think it’s largely wasted. The more powerful and protected a man under the patriarchal system becomes, the more he feels entitled to taste younger and younger “young, hot chicks.” And he’s as happy to constantly upgrade his “chicks” as he’d upgrade a car, or any other possession he owns, to demonstrate his status, power and virility.

Sex is far too sacred and beautiful to be misappropriated in this way!

When men, even those you usually prefer “young hot chicks,” experience model (b) they are blown away. I exist to blow them away along with their belief that model (a) is THE way to do sex and the ONLY way to do sex.

Even rich, powerful, men who can usually afford “young hot chicks,” want deep connection. Many (maybe most) are deeply lonely and disconnected. If you have spent your whole life using your money and privilege to manipulate and control people you will end up very isolated and alone.

It’s one of the cruellest ironies of life. We think money is the answer to all of life’s problems so devote a life time to acquiring it only to find out that life is as lonely (if not lonelier) with money as without.

The route to the desired connection is never through model (a). It is through model (b) – the way I do sex, and that is why, despite usually preferring “young hot chicks” my client experienced “all of this” with me.

Model (a) is the sexual model proscribed by patriarchy and reinforced by hundreds of years of enlightenment science which obsessively measured, analysed and categorised the material, physical world. If you could not see it then it did not exist.

In the physical realm sex was reduced to a physical act between two physical bodies primarily for the physical purpose of making babies. That’s why ejaculation is the sought-after prize of model (a) sex.

For ejaculation you need an erection.

In model (a), for an erection, you need “young hot chicks.”

Indigenous cultures around the world have always known there is so much more beyond the physical, material realm that we experience through our remaining senses. Indigenous cultures (and almost certainly earlier, pre-patriarchal human societies) maintain contact with the magical realm. Western science is now catching up. Science can’t call it magic (they have set themselves against magic for centuries) so they came up with a new term – the quantum realm.

Sex in the quantum, or magical, realm uses physical connection with and between bodies to connect with energy within and beyond our bodies. Sex becomes a practice through which you connect to the magic within you and beyond.

In an early training I heard my coach say, “Sexual energy is the energy of creation. It is the most powerful energy on the planet. Think about it, it creates LIFE.”

She went on to say what we have all known since our childhoods – sexual energy makes babies: baby humans, baby cows, baby pigs, baby sheep, via pollinators it makes baby apples, baby blackberries, baby cucumbers, baby rosehips etc.

And this powerful creatrix energy can be used consciously to create the lives we want to lead. To manifest our desires. To re-empower us into choice, agency and sovereignty.

You don’t have to use your sexual energy to manifest your desires. You can “just” enjoy incredible, full-bodied, mind-expanding, deeply connecting, multi-orgasmic experiences. And you can do all of this with women of every age and with men both with and without erections.

And here’s the reason why my I-usually-prefer-“young, hot chicks” client experienced so much more with me. I am a crone who has, amongst many other things, fully rejected model (a) in my life.

I still wear lose, baggy clothes and no makeup when I am out and about in the normal world. I still don’t seek or want male attention. In my work I use carefully crafted images to sell you what you want – an erection – and then give you what you need – an initiation into the magical realm of deeply connected, mind-expanding, full-bodied, multi-orgasmic sex.

The connection every human yearns for is gained through sex and it is often gained through penetration, but never in the model (a) version of sex.

Model (a) sex starts with an erection. These are often fleeting. They have a tendency to be impatient and demanding. Programmed to see a “young, hot chick” as inviting sex and the attractiveness of a woman as her consent for sex, erections dominate and take what they want. Female bodies shut down in response to this behaviour. We turn away from sex. Rejecting the men that we love and we yearn for connection with.

Model (b) starts differently. It is not an urgent, spontaneous erection-centric response to stimuli, it is a conscious, desired choice by both parties. The woman in this model is empowered to sometimes take the lead with her voice, her hands, her mouth, her presence. The man is invited to be soft and receive as well as to give.

In model (b) the woman pulls the man towards her when she wants him to penetrate her. He enters a fully alive, activated, pulsating and strong cunt. They will both often have orgasmed before penetration because in (b) orgasm is an expanded energy experience not the limited physical ejaculation of semen from the penis as it is in (a).

When you allow your sex to move from the limited material realm into the magical quantum realm it completely transforms the experience. Men are amazed by how much more they feel than when they are merely responding to an erection triggered by another “young, hot chick.”

And women are freed. We are freed from both the pressure to be, and the fear of being, a “young, hot chick.”

Empowered, we meet our men for sex as an equal partner in orgasm.

We feel safe because we are not going to experience another smash and grab raid on our bodies.

Instead, we are embarking on a magical journey of deep connection and pleasure with the men that we love.

Thinking is Sexy – And It’s More Important Than Ever To THINK

If rape is patriarchy’s weapon of choice against women, then war has to be the harshest of patriarchy’s weapons against men.

I have written previously about patriarchy’s war against men using the word “war” metaphorically. In this metaphorical war men are shut down and emotionally amputated by a social system that harms them as much as it harms women.

Damaged men then go on to harm women – programmed into being patriarchy’s tools of war in its battle against the feminine.  The system works as it is designed to – separating human beings who are wired for love and connection so that we can all be exploited and controlled.

Real WAR, the type fought with guns and bombs is the most brutal and total way in which patriarchy exploits, abuses and harms men. And we never, ever talk about it. There is almost complete omerta about the damage war does to our men and by extension us, their women.

Very, very, very few people gain from war ever.

This is a just a truth.

So why are millions of young men killed and maimed year after year after year?

Who gains?

What is gained?

Why are these wars fought?

If you have your eyes open and you have retained (or regained) your sovereign right to think for yourself and ask challenging questions (I would say this is more than a right, it is a duty) you have probably realised a long time ago that there is one small group of people who gain from war.

Everyone else loses.

The families in war torn countries obviously lose.

The families in the countries that wage the wars also lose as our taxes are spent on bombs rather than the schools, hospitals, roads, sports’ facilities, art galleries, theatres, pensions, parks, clean beaches etc etc that would enrich our lives and reward us all for our hard slog.

My youngest child turned 18 this year. He was born into the financial crash of 2008. His entire life has been spent in austerity. Meanwhile the money keeps flowing to make wars on the INNOCENT peoples of other countries.

I am impatient with the notion that only women and children are “innocent casualties” of war. Our men are too. Men, women and children are all innocent casualties of war waged across the world for the profit of the few.

By now you will be thinking, I am sure, why is Anabelle going off on one about war? What has war got to do with sensual massage and steamy sex?

My reply is that I am a whore, not a prostitute – I keep telling you this! And whores care, deeply, about humanity. We care deeply about the pain we connect to in the (mainly) men that we work with. We do not want our men to be hurt, maimed or killed.

Whores, like most women, deeply want our men to heal their wounding and stand beside us to create a better, kinder, more loving and compassionate world. The planet needs this and so do the humans living on her.

Whores, unlike most women, devote their lives to helping men heal their wounding. It is what we devote our sensual, steamy sessions to. Yes, we enjoy the pleasure we share with you and we devote it to healing – you, the planet, us, humanity.

Sexual energy is the energy of creation, when it is offered up, with intent for healing, it will heal.

But we are working against a monstrous war machine that is unrelenting in its pursuit of death and destruction in the interests of profits for the very, very few.

I am currently working quietly, in my own corner of the English countryside, connecting one man at a time to his divine power, his magnificence, his beauty, his love, his compassion and yes, his pleasure. As I do this the newspapers, TVs and radios in this country are constantly banging the drums for war, war and more war.

It is so unbelievably disheartening. I am up against an immensely powerful and well-funded war mongering establishment. I feel very tiny and insignificant. But I must use the little voice that I have and implore you to THINK.

Please.

THINK.

Please think for yourself.

Your thoughts are the most powerful weapon we have against the war mongers.  They invest billions in getting you to think their way. You can be a spanner in the works by thinking differently.

Just start by asking the question – to everything they want you to believe – WHO GAINS?

My great grandmother was interned in the first concentration camp – created, not by the Germans in WW2, but by the British in the Boer war in the early 1890s. She was a Boer (Afrikaner) imprisoned for the crime of living on the land the British wanted to control (well more specifically they wanted the diamonds underneath the land that my ancestors lived on). She was interned with her English husband who had committed the crime of marrying into the “enemy”.

He died of typhoid whilst interned. She survived with trauma that the females in my family are still trying to release from our bodies (possibly one of the reasons orgasm is so important to me – it’s a very deep release.)

Who gained?

Who gained from a war that my family still suffers from?

Did any of the families of any of the British (and Empire) soldiers who died or were maimed in that war gain from their death or maiming or did they just suffer like mine?

Did your family gain?

Did the British people gain?

For sure, a few British people gained.

These few are commemorated with countries named after them. Released and grieving, my great grandmother travelled north to escape the people who had imprisoned her family and killed her husband, into the country which, with cruel irony, was named after the man who had instigated the war.

They are commemorated in statues across our cities and with trust funds that ensure their descendants are always a rung higher up the hierarchical ladder than the descendants of the men who fought and died in the wars that they profited from.

Whatever the BBC, or The Times, or LBC tells you, war is not about fighting for your freedom (or your children’s freedoms), it is always, always about taking your freedom (and quite possibly life) and sacrificing it on the altar of their insatiable greed.

They rely on us having poor memories.

I don’t have a cognitive memory of the horrors of the concentration camp my great grandmother endured in the 1890s. I don’t have a cognitive memory of the terror my grandmother went through giving birth on a kitchen table during war time blackout in the 1940s.

But the memories do live on, as trauma, in my body which I have sadly passed down to my daughter.

Even when the damage wreaked by the guns, gases and bombs of war are repaired, the physical and emotional damage remains in our bodies. I doubt there is a single person living in the supposedly civilised western world that is not impacted to some degree or other by the wars fought in the time of our parents, grand-parents, great-grandparents and beyond.

How is this civilised?

How is it civilised to fight each other?

Any parent or primary school teacher can tell you that the earliest lessons we teach our children is to solve disputes without resorting to fighting. Yet our newspapers and TV screens are filled with experts saying over, and over, and over again – i.e. hypnotising us – into believing that we MUST fight – that there is no other way.

I doubt very much that the Boers really cared about the diamonds under their land. I am sure a negotiated settlement could have been reached. But when you want ALL the wealth, and ALL the land you don’t attempt to negotiate a settlement.

The British didn’t want to settle with the Boers in the Transvaal (diamonds), they didn’t want to settle with the Iranians (oil), they don’t want to settle with the Russians (abundant natural resources).

They want it all.

And because they want it, they create a narrative about “just wars” that entitle them to grab it. This has been the way the English have operated since Elizabeth I and her pirate sea dogs. The English power elite have looted and pillaged their way through history. Why would they stop now?

And they use our men to do their dirty work for them. The formula is simple:  you bang the drums for war. You persuade gullible and brainwashed young men, or men who have no other choices, to put on your uniform and sacrifice their lives or their mental and physical health for your desire so that you can own ALL the diamonds (oil or mineral natural resources).

I implore you again, THINK.

Why do you think the BBC, LBC and The Times want you to believe that Russia (like the Boers before them) are the greatest evil to mankind?

WHO GAINS?

Maybe DuckDuckGo the mineral wealth of Russia before rushing to an answer.

That is how you begin to THINK.

Most of my very lovely clients are from the blessed generations of Brits who have not gained first hand experience of the horrors of war. Other countries have not been as fortunate as we have, and shamefully we ignore our good fortune when we seek to deny people in great need refuge in our blessedly peaceful land.

I am deeply troubled that the lucky generations are nodding along with the evil messaging of our billionaire media class telling us that we need to prepare for even more war.

Armchair warriors across the nation, G&T in hand, nod along as the latest BBC nodding dog pronounces the need for conscription.

Unthinking Daily Mail readers consume the same messaging over their morning tea and toast.

The entire media establishment is busy making the “sensible” case for conscripting our young people into a “just war” for Russian resources.

Maybe I’m selfish, as a mum, to not want my beautiful boys sacrificed on the altar of Blackrock’s insatiable greed?

Maybe I’m selfish, as a citizen, to not want my country to be further depleted by a completely pointless war so that a few well positioned individuals can make themselves filthy rich?

Maybe I’m selfish, as a whore, to not want to navigate my way around broken bodies and broken souls?

The armchair warriors, the political pundits and the billionaire owned media do not seem to care about the cost of war. Maybe that is because they never pay it. Churchill led Empire troops into complete disaster at Gallipoli (how many lives were lost because of his incompetency?) and yet he is remembered as our “greatest war leader.”

It is easy to bang the drums of war when you never have to dance to the tune of war.

Surely, we have learnt this by now.

Are we really going to let ourselves be led on this merry little dance again.

You know how it goes – YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU – bang, bang, bang the drums. Then the fatalities and casualties return year, after blood-soaked year, until finally an end to the slaughter is negotiated (by talk – talking is always the way the slaughter ends). Then comes the hand wringing, the wailing, the parades, the memorials, the poppies, the commitment to NEVER LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN.

Until our memories fade and we start marching to their war drums, again.

Please.

THINK.

Think of your duty to the young men and women who have whole lives ahead of them.

Think of the intergenerational harm that is about to be inflicted all over again before we have fully healed from the last round of intergenerational harm.

Then challenge the narrative.

Be brave.

Find your voice and ask – everyone – is this actually necessary? Is it actually “just”. What is “just”?

If it is necessary for millions of Brits to follow their Ukrainian, Russian, Gazan, Syrian, Somalian, Libyan, Lebanese, Iranian, Afghan, Iraqi, Vietnamese etc etc brothers and sisters into the slaughter machine.

This Saturday, 10th October 2026, there is a rally in London to say NO to conscription. Read that again. It is not a rally to oppose another far away war in a far-away land. This is a rally to say NO to the conscription of our young people to die in a war that had a negotiated settlement between the two parties as long ago as April 2022 (which Boris Johnson scuppered).

The billionaire owned media will move from calling for conscription to tarring and feathering any of young people who take a principled stance against killing other young people in a different coloured uniform.

And you will nod along with that too unless you stop nodding.

You will also nod along to the imprisonment of young people – who could be building this country – for the crime of seeing the complete waste of war.

You may even nod along as your own children and grandchildren are sacrificed so that Boris and his mates can make another hefty contribution to their Caymen Island accounts.

Please.
THINK.

Please disconnect from their tools of mass hypnosis and regain your ability to think and challenge for yourself.

Thinking is fucking sexy. If you have got this far into this blog post you clearly agree! My regular readers find my writing as sexy as my body. I take that as a compliment rather than a kind way of saying “You’re not one of the hot young chicks I usually go for” (that is currently only a partially written blog post!)

Thinking women find thinking men sexy. Thinking men find thinking women sexy. If you have stayed with me this far then you are one of the sexy ones!

Why is thinking sexy? Well sexy is, as I keep saying, in blog after blog, your power and you cannot have power if you are not thinking. That is why women will have much bigger, deeper orgasms with a thinking man than they will with a hypnotised tool of the establishment – whatever the size of his cock.

And yes, I know I am being manipulative here, but these are desperately desperate times and I will bribe you with my orgasmic pleasure to save my sons or daughter (or any of their friends, or any of your children or grandchildren) from being conscripted to fight in another completely unnecessary war for the gain of already very rich and powerful people.

Humans are not aggressive and combative by nature. We are peace loving, sexy fucks who love to fuck. We have to be massively brainwashed into believing that war is somehow good for us. Just look at the consistency and persistence of their messaging if you doubt me.

And switch off from it.

Return to love.

Return to sex.

Return to orgasmic pleasure.

And read another of my blogs with your cup of tea or G&T instead of mindlessly consuming more of their hate.

Please.

THINK.

For the sake of my children. And yours. And his. And hers.

For the sake of all our children, this whore implores you to THINK.

And she reminds you that thinking is the sexiest thing any human can do.

Hieros Gamos – From Marriage into Divine Union

Regular readers have met my husband – you know him as The Lover. He is still The Lover and he is also Husband.

He was the man I met for a casual sexual encounter who I found I couldn’t see only the once. He was, and is still, the most incredible lover and there was also something more about him. More than I have ever experienced in any other man. It intrigued me, it excited me and it deeply healed me. Meeting him turned my world upside down.

Until I met Husband I was leading a pretty ordinary middle class, middle England life. I turned that life on its head so that I could keep experiencing him. Sitting here now, in our garden, writing this blog post as Anabelle, this all seems so ordinary and normal. Then I view myself through “normal eyes” and laugh. Here I am, a whore writing about the man who fucked me senseless when I was married to one man and deeply in love with another!

I have always had courage, others would say, sometimes too much. To which my reply is my courage is intuitive. Intuition is your body’s guidance system. If you want to truly trust your decisions, follow your intuition, it’s your subconscious making itself conscious and is far more powerful than your narrow and highly programmed conscious mind.

With more courage than I consciously knew I had, I held onto The Lover who in 2022 became Husband. The love we felt on the first day that we met has never waned. It has grown stronger with every challenge and with every passing year until we found ourselves here, in the Autumn of 2026, with him freshly returned from a retreat during which he fully stepped into his King energy.

I write a lot about the damage patriarchy wreaks on men. This is because I am a lover of many men, a wife to one man and the mother to two more. I see the damage. I have written about witnessing it happening. It causes me immense grief. I grieve for men and I grieve for us women who are in turn harmed by the men that patriarchy has damaged.

I know to the depths of my being that men are beautiful beings – my intuition tells me this is true – and yet, I am one of millions upon millions of women who have been deeply wounded by men. Not men as a concept.  Specific men who chose badly and acted badly because they were following their programming and/or acting from their wounding instead of from their Truth.

Husband knew he wounded me. I told him often enough. And he could feel in his bones that he was causing me pain. He saw how the woman who had courageously fought social programming, conditioning, judgement and exile to be with him was wounded by his wounding. He wanted to be better but he’d tried traditional therapy and it sucked for him (one actually kept checking her watch during the session in which he was trying to connect to, and speak of, his pain – can you imagine?!)

His pain at witnessing how his wounding hurt me was matched by a terror that I would grow tired of the cycle of arguments that plagued our otherwise beautiful relationship and simply give up on our magical union and my beautiful, beautiful man.

The arguments followed a similar pattern: first I would express an annoyance, irritation or need (in an admittedly tense voice because I feared what would come next) he would respond with denial and defence (because he’s a pleaser and has a deep need to be perfect for me) which just irritated me more.

My tone of voice would then become harsher which would trigger his childhood wounding so he would withdraw to keep himself safe. I took his withdrawal as abandonment which triggered my childhood wounding, filling me with rage.

In anger my words are chosen to be as cutting and as cruel as I can make them. Unsurprisingly he would withdraw deeper to lick his wounds and hide from the angry woman his beloved had morphed into. I took his further withdrawal as further proof of abandonment, even rejection, and so we would spiral. Sometimes for days.

It was exhausting. And incredibly painful for us both.

Intellectually I knew what we had to do. I could see the pattern. I am fully aware of, and am horrified by, his childhood wounding, as he is of mine. I have done a lot of training and am invited by couples to help them when a similar dynamic affects their sex lives. But it takes two people to commit to and build a beautiful and loving relationship. One person cannot, on their own, nourish a relationship.

It does take two.

Two people have to fully commit, heart, mind, body and soul to the relationship. To do that they have to have the courage to be vulnerable.

It is deeply, deeply vulnerable – and so incredibly brave – to commit 100% to another person. What if they’re faking it and have only committed 99%, or 95% or 90% or less?! If you commit yourself 100% you are super vulnerable to being hurt by the one who has committed less and has maintained an “out” option. So, most of us keep “out” at least a couple of percentage points, as a reserve, just to keep ourselves safe.

I don’t think this retention of a couple of percentage points is conscious. I think, on the contrary, that most people believe they are fully committed to their beloved and are surprised and a bit confused when either, their partners tell them that they are not 100% there or, the argument spiral kicks off and they’re planning their departure within minutes (again).

Fully committed is, as the vow in church says, “In sickness and in health, until death do us part.” How many of us actually commit to those words even as we say them? How many of us commit ourselves 100% to the other so that they feel safe enough to do the same for us? How many of us commit ourselves 100% at the risk that the other hasn’t?

This is the relationship minefield. It takes great courage to walk through it.

As I have told you, I have great courage.

Husband wanted to commit 100% to me. But he always found a bit of wiggle room. Nothing too easily identifiable, but enough of a % for me to feel it and even see it on occasion. I really thought I was committed to him 100%, that I was raw, honest, open and vulnerable with him, but as you will learn if you keep reading, I wasn’t.

In his desire to be the best he could be for me – to break our hideous argument spiral cycle -he announced one day that he was going to bite the bullet and do some “men’s work.” Neither of us were entirely sure what it entailed, but I had heard that it was transformational and we knew someone – a friend of a friend – who offered this work so Husband reached out.

Over an intense weekend he “did the work.” In a nurturing and caring community of men he was supported to express his anger at the people who caused his childhood wounding. He learned about the four masculine archetypes: Lover, Warrior, Magician, King and how patriarchy pushes these beautiful archetypes into the shadows from where they wreak havoc in men’s lives. He learned how the damaged masculine violates and desecrates the feminine and that in order to be Divine Masculine you have to honour and revere the Divine Feminine. Finally, he was initiated into his King energy.

The work is not over. It will be, like my work is, a lifetime of commitment, lapsing, recommitting, re-learning, learning anew – a spiral, rather than a linear, personal evolution.  But he made the commitment and he returned to me a King.

While Husband was on retreat with a group of courageous men walking the same path, I made my way over to Glastonbury for my first ever visit and my first ever yoni massage. Glastonbury is the earth’s heart chakra, I have long wanted to visit, to climb to the top of Glastonbury Tor, drink from the Chalice Wells and generally mooch around a small English town that is a magnet for heart opened souls from across the world.

Whilst wandering around I came across a mural on the side of an ordinary row of cottages that made me cross the road to look closer. It depicted Hieros Gamos – the union of Divine Masculine (Hieros) with Divine Feminine (Gamos) which I have read about but never seen a modern illustration of.

I spent quite a while looking at them. Especially at Hieros. Husband was on retreat connecting with his King energy and when I looked at Hieros I saw King. Not a patriarchal – male monarch on a throne exerting power over others version of King. Instead, a primordial, ancient essence arising from the sun and fire of the natural world version of King. His gaze is direct and strong yet soft, loving and deeply penetrating. He is saying with his eyes, and his outstretched arm, “I am here for you. I’ve got you. Join me. Be my love.”

In contrast to the fiery, action taking heat of Hieros – Gamos is calm, serene, patient, receptive. The moon to his sun, cooling water to his hot fire. Her stance is powerful and strong, this is not a weak woman, but by contrast to Hieros she is not taking action and reaching out for him, instead she is absorbed in the beauty of the water falling through her hands.

(Murals by Jon Minshull)

My eye was drawn to the white water flowing from her sacral chakra. These murals are on the wall of cottages on the road leading up to the sacred wells of Glastonbury – one flowing with iron rich red water, the other with calcium rich white water, but it’s not lost on me that the waters flowing from her strongly resemble amrita.

The more I looked at these two images the more I was drawn to Hieros. He depicts everything I have always found deeply attractive in Husband – the safe, strong, outstretched arms, the intense eyes, the physical power, the raw masculinity, the unapologetic presence.

I was less sure that I felt aligned to the image of Gamos who appears so very passive and patient as she waits for his love – a softly feminine presence which my bold, courageous, fiery Boudica energy doesn’t easily identify with.  But I loved her peaceful watery setting – being immersed in bodies of cold running water is how I reset and recharge – so her space looked like heaven to me.

 

I took photographs and walked on. I climbed up the Tor which was breathtakingly beautiful in the evening light and made sure to go to bed early for my yoni massage the following day.

The tantrika giving me my yoni massage opened her session, as I do, with a short meditation in which she said the words, “I see your beauty. I see your strength. I see your wisdom. I see your power.” The words she spoke were accompanied by the blissful sensation of ostrich feathers stroking my arms, face, neck and breasts. My pleasured body happily received these words from a complete stranger and they floated around in my body/mind throughout the session.

At the end, as I lay on the massage table, my body humming and vibrating with orgasm, the words whirled around installing themselves as part of my identity. It felt a bit like magic. It’s because sexual energy, when used with intent, is magic.

Soon after my massage I left Glastonbury and headed back to Dorset to wait for Husband in a little shepherd’s hut tucked away in the rolling hills of Hardy’s England.

Waiting was an unfamiliar experience for me. For years I have been the action taker. I haven’t waited patiently for a man in eons! It was uncomfortable too. I knew he was going through an intense experience. Retreats are intense. They change you. The carefully selected and managed practices (aka rituals) are designed to bring about change at the primal level.

You can learn facts in a classroom or by reading an article online but facts don’t change your programming. Rituals do. Husband was on retreat. He was going through a rigorous programme of transformational rituals. He would return a changed man.

I had enjoyed my yoni massage. It had been deeply pleasurable but I was unsure it had been transformational in any way. I have a lot of yoni love in my life and although I wanted my massage to have unlocked something in me, I had a feeling that it hadn’t.

In the shepherd’s hut I found it difficult to settle to anything. Usually, I love to walk and swim. Without Husband to accompany me I did neither. I couldn’t read or write – I had days on my own, ample opportunity to do both, but I had the craziest energy and couldn’t settle myself body, mind or spirit. I was worried about Husband. I felt sure that my unsettled energy was my energy body picking up that he was having an intense and emotionally challenging time.

 

By Sunday afternoon I gave up and took to bed. The day outside was beautiful, late September sun warming the hut so I was able to undress and lie on the bed overlooking the valley and pleasure myself to peace.

It worked. My body was super receptive after the yoni massage two days earlier and she missed Husband probably more than I did! Whenever I felt myself about to come, I would quickly stand up, allowing my amrita to flow over the wooden floor (easily cleared up with kitchen roll) to keep the bed dry for Husband.

And so it is that I spend a sunny afternoon waiting for Husband, making myself come over and over again, soaking the wooden flooring of the little shepherd’s hut in the Dorset countryside. Gamos waiting – in pools of sacred water – for my Hieros to return.

Finally, he did. That’s the beautiful thing about time, if you are patient enough it will eventually pass.

My man joined me in my little space and he filled it. He has always been a broad, big-hearted man, you always feel his presence and when he returned to me, hoarse, his voice not much more than a whisper and exhausted from the most intense four days of his life he was undoubtedly a King. He called me his Queen, we made love and went to sleep. He was too tired to share much and I just wanted to receive the invitation of his strong arms.

We had both taken time away from our everyday to integrate his experience together. I have been on retreat and found re-entering normie world very jarring. When you return to the demands and mundanities of everyday life it is hard to hold onto the person the retreat’s rituals have reconnected you with – your true essence, your Truth. We chose to create a bubble for ourselves in which we could first reintegrate with each other.

We needed it. I had taken care to wash my hair with my regular shampoo so that when we were back in each other’s arms I smelt like me. I wanted to send a very strong signal to his nervous system that I was still me.

But it was MY nervous system that needed the managing. First there was his voice – something that is so important to me had gone, replaced by a strange croak – then there were the words he was using which just sounded so strange coming from my man’s mouth.

Then there was a palpable shift in the balance of power. I was no longer the only one to have “done the work” he has too and it was clear he was no longer going to be the push over that I had grown used to.

When we woke on our first morning it didn’t take much from him to reduce me to tears. He shared ways in which our relationship would be different going forwards, I misinterpreted his words (which he admits were a bit blunt and over enthusiastic) and thought he was offering me the dreaded ultimatum. Hieros telling Gamos that she wasn’t good enough for him. Or that’s the way I took it.

My upset kicked off a day of the most appalling stomach cramps. He expressed concern, but what can you really do for someone who’s belly has swollen to three times its usual size and keeps bending over in agony? I endured them for a large part of the day as we talked, him reassuring me of his love for me and sharing details of the retreat as I tried desperately to push out the fart that would end my agony!

Something reminded me to check in with Louise Hay to see what she has to say about abdominal cramps, so I put my question into DuckDuckGo and was served my answer. Oh how incredible, incredible, incredible the body is at communicating if you only have the tools to listen and understand!

According to Louise Hay abdominal cramps are a symptom of fear and a desire to stop the process.

Identifying what the body is communicating to you is the first step. The second is to release the pattern so that you can let go of the symptoms. Her guidance is to say, “I am willing to release the pattern in my consciousness that has created this condition” followed by the affirmation for your particular symptom, which in my case was, “I trust the process of life. I am safe.”

So, I did as Louise Hay prescribed. I said repeatedly throughout the day, sometimes whilst looking into my King’s powerful eyes, “I am willing to release the pattern in my consciousness that has created this condition. I trust the process of life. I am safe.”

The cramps didn’t disappear just like that but they did get better and by the time we went to sleep that night they were more of a memory than a direct, intense feeling. When I woke the next morning everything was different.

My resistance to the changes in him had just gone. I saw my beautiful man, my King, my Hieros and I simply melted.

That night as we sat in the Swedish bath on the balcony of our shepherd’s hut, we had our first test. He had lit the fire for the bath hours earlier, we had eaten and played Uno (I won!) whilst we waited for the bath to warm up and then as the newly waning moon climbed high into the sky we undressed and climbed into the bath. The warmth of the sun was long gone, we had been sitting under thick woollen blankets as we played cards, so the air was fresh and sharp around our shoulders as we sat in the heat of the bath.

It was utterly perfect. Gamos was in water in the arms of her Hieros. I don’t think I have ever felt happier. We laughed and noted it was our first ever bath together – what a way to experience it! We admired the moon, we revelled in the feel of each other’s bodies, we inhaled the fresh air and we chatted easily. Then he threw in a statement that sabotaged the evening.

It was easy for me to see – in hindsight – that it was sabotage. We were getting on too well, we were deeply, deeply intimate, his nervous system became unsettled – vulnerability alerts were fired and click, just like that, the unhelpful statement was uttered. Hieros dropped his Gamos, the King failed to protect his Queen.

The sacred power of the masculine is to hold the feminine safe. This is true of the two energies inside your own body or between two people in a relationship. Husband had spent a weekend healing his wounding so that he could be deeply present and hold his Queen, or Gamos, safe in those beautiful, strong arms of his. Safety includes how we talk to each other and the care with which we broach sensitive topics.

That was how I knew, fairly quickly, that this unhelpful comment had not come from my King but from a shadow in his subconscious. Shadows are the part of our psyche that we don’t see – by virtue of being in the shadows – until we shine a light on them. Shining a light onto the shadows is part of the work he had been doing on retreat it is also, I believe, a beautiful opportunity in relationships – if you are courageous enough to go there.

I knew a shadow of his had shown up to sabotage our evening. For a few hours he didn’t agree and was just angry with me. And it was in those hours that I learned how much my yoni massage had transformed me.

Sitting in water, my safe place, my place of power, I had no need for words or anger, I patiently waited, Gamos personified. And I heard the words used in my yoni massage circling around my body and mind.

I see your beauty.

I see your strength.

I see your wisdom.

I see your power.

The weather turned windy and rainy as we sat in the bath, so whilst our bodies were emersed in hot water our heads and shoulders were whipped by cold wind and rain. It was incredibly elemental, primal and raw. With the rain soaking my hair and running down my face, I felt the power of Boudica radiating through my body but this time joined by the peaceful, serene presence of Gamos.

I see your beauty.

I see your strength.

I see your wisdom.

I see your power.

My King at the other end of the bath was dealing with his shadows. Ordinarily his silence would make me furiously angry and by now I would be expected to unleash a torrent of cruel words on him. But I felt different.

I felt quietly powerful. I felt strength in my calmness. My understanding that his poor words had been an act of sabotage by one of his shadow parts made me feel wise. Under the light of the moon I felt as beautiful and bold and at peace as I have ever felt in my life.

We moved inside, in the warm soft bed of our hut we found each other’s arms and he claimed his Queen. His strength softened me and I yielded to him more deeply than ever before. And then an incredible thing happened. Instead of pulling my body to his so that he could penetrate me deeply with his cock, he pushed my legs wide apart and went down on me.

You will know from reading my other blogs that I love, love, love receiving oral sex. But, perhaps surprisingly, I have always resisted receiving oral sex from Husband. Whenever he positioned himself to gift me this pleasure (he reads my blogs too!) I would manoeuvre my body out of the way and pull him up a bit so that his cock found my cunt instead.

It was too vulnerable for me to receive oral sex from a man who I feared rejection from.

If a client leaves a session thinking to himself, “That was a great session, but oof she was a bit ripe,” I don’t know it and I don’t care. I care about my clients but I have no emotions invested in the sex I share with them. I am giving the experience. It is my job to do so.

With Husband I am receiving him and that is a completely different level of vulnerable.  And thus far in our relationship, I had been unable to receive the oral sex that he knows I would love and which would delight him to give me.

Until this particular night in the shepherd’s hut, I had never laid back and opened my legs wide for Husband. I had never experienced the power with which he eats cunt. I had never tasted my juices from his beard. I had never allowed myself to fully surrender to my man. I had never trusted him enough to be this level of vulnerable with him. I had held back a couple of % points.

At last, held by his newfound strength, I had the courage to. Silently instructed by his powerful eyes, I opened my legs wide for him. He feasted on me. He licked my vulva and bit my clitoris. This wasn’t just gentle honouring, this was a King devouring his Queen. I moaned with pleasure, he grunted with satisfaction and animal desire. Then, when he judged that the time was right – and not before – he pushed into me. My orgasmic muscles contracted around his cock as he fucked me deep and hard

Over 10 years of holding him at arm’s length whilst believing I was 100% committed to him were over. I finally trusted my man enough to be fully vulnerable with him. There is nothing I hold back from him now. He is my King. I am his Queen.

We have shared an incredible journey of healing and connecting. Parts we did away from each other. He did his in the companionship of male love and support. I did mine in the hands (literally) of one woman and then alone in the hut as I waited, like Gamos, for my Hieros to reach out for me. Reunited, we did the final bit together. Eyes locked, commitments made, affirmations repeated, love strengthened and grown.

This is why you do “the work”.  You don’t know how it is going to evolve or where the path will lead, you just have to choose your person and trust the process. Then the miracles happen.

 

 

Recommended Further Reading:

“You Can Heal Your Life” by Louise Hay

“Getting The Love You Want – A Guide For Couples” by Harville Hendrix

“Warrior, Magician, Lover, King – A Guide To The Male Archetypes Updated For The 21st Century” by Rod Boothroyd

 

For those interested in exploring men’s work for healing and growth this is the group that Husband is working with: https://www.theunmaskedman.co.uk/

The Swans pictured are one of many breathtaking sculptures in Sculpture By The Lakes Dorset

Connecting To My Magnificence – I Receive a Yoni Massage

I wasn’t sure what to expect, I had followed my intuition when booking my session and, of course, my mind found endless ways to sow seeds of doubt and make me feel anxious. So, by the time I found myself heading to The Temple of Avalon in Glastonbury for my first ever yoni massage I was genuinely quite nervous.

I am very, very, very used to taking my clothes off with men and women when I am in professional mode, but I wasn’t in professional mode, I was on holiday in the West Country – I was me, the civilian, an ordinary middle-aged woman mooching around the shops and cafes. No-one would look at me and see Anabelle.

That was the point of receiving this massage. To show up as ME. Feeling vulnerable, nervous and unsure, willing to receive, surrender, allow. To do as I coach my clients to do – to drop into the experience to fully experience the experience.

I knew I would be tempted to analyse and even critique the massage I was being given which I also knew would lessen the experience for me. My greatest worry was that I would stay in my head with an inner narration instead of fully dropping into and feeling the sensation of energy building and moving in my body.

Like my clients I had invested substantially in the session. Not just the cost to the wonderful soul who was giving me the massage, but also in the time away from my own work, family and home, the cost of travel and an overnight stay, meals out etc etc. I knew that resisting sensation by staying in my head would be a considerable waste of money.

So it was with great relief that I heard her open the session with similar words to the ones I use in my meditation: “Close your eyes, connect with your breath, allow your body to relax, feel into your relaxing body, relax on the exhale, breathe into your heart, into your belly, down into your yoni.”

She asked me to connect to my intention for the session and I heard my body reply – to surrender and receive.

The space she works in is very different to the space I work in. We started the session with me seated, blindfolded, undressed to my knickers, in a high-backed arm chair and as I connected to my breath and body, she bathed my feet in warm rose infused water.

Her wet hands stroked my legs with a light, delicate touch which I found deeply honouring. As my lower legs and feet began to tingle in response to her, I heard her say, “This water cleanses your body.”

It felt cleansing, it felt purifying. And this, I think, was her tantric ritual – to cleanse a body of shame or anything else that could come between me and my full experience.

Cleansed, she removed my feet from the warm water, patted them gently with a towel and stood up to stroke my upper body. I asked her afterwards what she had used and she showed me a bunch of ostrich feathers which she had arranged as a fan in her hands. It felt incredible, lighting up my torso, arms and neck. I tried to stay connected to my breath but it was hard to remember to breathe.

As she stroked my body, I heard her soft voice saying, “I see your beauty. I see your strength. I see your wisdom. I see your power.” The words whirled around in my mind and my body mixing with the sensations the feathers were activating, welcome now in my cleansed being.

When I had booked the session, I had warned her that I have a tendency to ejaculate which she had said was no problem, but I was still sitting on an unprotected chair in only a pair of thin knickers. I could feel my body’s slight resistance to fall fully into the sensations I was experiencing for worry of letting go – literally.

Fortunately, she asked me to stand up. Still blindfolded she guided me to towards the massage table, stroked my body some more and removed my knickers. Then taking off the blindfold, she asked me to lie face down. I had booked an indulgent two-hour session – I wanted to feel her hands on all of my body for an extended period of time so that I would have an expanded experience.

And it was incredible.

She had asked when I arrived if I preferred a soft or a hard touch. I had replied, maybe unhelpfully, but completely truthfully, both. And that is what she gave me.

At times the firmness of her arms pressing into my buttocks and thighs made me gasp. At other times her touch was light and feathery making my skin tingle and smile – especially when she traced her long nails over me.  My skin was humming and I could feel the energy surging around my body.

She used liberal amounts of very warm oil and it was WONDERFUL. To my long-suffering clients, I apologise! I have robbed you of this sensory delight for too long. The situation has been rectified, by the time this blog is posted I will have bought a baby bottle warmer so that my oil is as deliciously warm as hers was.

It didn’t take long for my body to move from relaxed and pleasured to orgasmic. My first orgasm was triggered by an unusual experience for me – she breathed hot air onto my skin (was she a dragon? It felt like it!) My response was both immediate and dramatic – as if I needed my amrita to flow to quell the flames her breath had ignited (a whole new take on St George killing the dragon!)

I am used to feeling my energy flow early in sessions when I am activating a client but I had always thought I was feeling their energy moving through me (maybe I am?) For some reason I didn’t expect to orgasm before my breasts or cunt were touched. Yet here I was experiencing waves of orgasm in my body as I lay on my front during a leg massage.

The lady giving me the massage has been working in tantra for 16 years. Her body is activated and lit. Her breath was fire. My body responded accordingly. At times I stopped breathing – there was too much to feel to remember to breathe. And she did what I do, she either used words to remind me to exhale and let go or she simply did a long, slow, loud exhale herself. Once when she did this, I nearly laughed with the joy of being with another me.

When she asked me to roll over I almost couldn’t. I was so relaxed I didn’t quite know how to make my muscles respond to her invitation. My breasts, belly and cunt were yearning to feel her touch but my back and legs didn’t want to let go of her hands. My whole body wanted her all at the same time. Is it possible for parts of your body to have sibling rivalry?

The formula of a tantric massage is to first massage your client’s back to relax them. Then the front of their body to begin to activate them and finally the lingam/yoni to further energise them towards eventual orgasm. When I rolled over after the back massage my body was relaxed, activated and energised – proving our entire bodies are sexual.

Our skin is our largest sex organ and receiving a full-bodied yoni massage reminded me that I am highly orgasmic in every cell of my being.

I managed to roll over without falling off the table, my muscles did in the end remember how to move my body safely! Her voice invited me to connect with my heart centre, I felt more warm oil flowing over me and her hands began their magic on the front of my body.

Many years ago, I had a “full body massage” at a local spa. When I lay on my front there was a towel across my buttocks covering the whole area from my lower back to mid-thigh. When I lay on my back the towel went from above my breasts to mid-thigh. And this was sold as a “fully body massage”?! I left that session feeling robbed and deeply frustrated that my body had been partitioned into “touchable” and “untouchable”.

Today my body was gifted a fully integrated experience and she wept with joy. Hands moved around my breasts, flowed across my belly, swirling around her fulness, before sliding down my thighs. My WHOLE body was accepted, appreciated, honoured, seen. The skin on every part of my body was tingling with delight. The feeling, for a woman – whose bodies are policed and judged by everyone our entire lives – was overwhelming.

Yes, I am touched, appreciated and honoured most days by my lovely clients AND this honouring was different in that my stillness and passivity was expected, allowed, even encouraged and my whole body was equally revered, I had no sense ever that my belly was given brief attention before my cunt received the lion’s share of love and attention.

When she did move down to my yoni, my cunt, she did so seamlessly. Working around a massage table rather than on a bed meant that, initially anyway, she didn’t move to sit under my body as I do when I am working with my clients. Her hands continued to swirl around my belly and breasts as she rubbed my clitoris and vulva. The overwhelming feeling was of wholeness and connection. I felt, in the words of my first coach, “A healed, whole magnificent being.”

Having all of your body receiving sensual, sexual touch at the same time is not only honouring, it is also deeply healing and it does reconnect you to your magnificence. Your sexual self is magnificent! Feeling your body lit up with sexual energy, feeling vibrantly alive, activated, pulsating with pleasure is magnificent!

I think she climbed onto the end of the table at this point. I don’t know, my face was turned towards the sunshine coming in through the window on my left – I was dancing in the light, my favourite place to be. But I am sure I felt her hair on my body as she softly asked, “Would you like me to go inside?”

“Please” I replied, I hoped not “too” enthusiastically. My cunt was screaming for her. The long nails I had enjoyed stroking my back and limbs miraculously got tucked away when she allowed her fingers to be pulled inside me. I had trusted that she wouldn’t be careless – she’s a woman after all – but I have had clients whose nails have caused me enough discomfort to be concerned about how she would manage hers. Marvellously as it turned out.

My knees pulled up, my legs opened wider,  my body convulsed, at one point my upper body lifted up towards my knees. I so wanted to be held and kissed but this was a boundaried yoni massage so I lowered myself back onto the table to be held in the arms of the sun coming in through the window.

I was massively in love with this woman at this point. How can you not love the person that connects you to all of this without taking anything for herself? I lay exhausted back on the cotton and paper towels that massage tables are always covered with and just felt it all. She wasn’t finished with me. The fingers of one hand pushed into me deeper and deeper whilst the palm of her other hand rubbed my pubic mound and clitoris. The intensity was incredible.

I completely lost track of time, pleasure had taken me into a timeless, infinite space, I was fully surrendered and just accepting the orgasmic pleasure she was giving me. When the session came to an end, she gently removed her fingers from my cunt and, honouring the place she had taken my body to, briefly placed her hands on my vulva and heart chakra. Then she covered me with a towel so that I could lie and fully integrate the experience.

Unlike many of my clients who seem deeply discomforted by this opportunity and literally bounce off the bed to have a shower the moment they come, I allowed myself to lie in the sunlight, my body dancing – filled with light – in the light, lost in sensation, lost in the energy of orgasm. The affirmations, “I see your beauty, I see your strength, I see your wisdom, I see your power” were swirling around in my body/mind. Her words whirled around with my body’s sensations and orgasmic energy – creating an alchemical mix in my cunty witch’s cauldron.

I spent what felt like ages in this magical post orgasmic space and I needed her voice to pull me back into the room. The first words I said were, “WOW. That was beyond words.” And I laughed because I have been on the receiving end of these words so often.

My body felt so light, vibrating and humming, fizzing with delight and joy, connection, presence, light and love.

As I dressed, we talked a bit about our journeys into the work that we do now and we agreed that we find it completely remarkable that other people hear about this world – this access to energy, pleasure and sensation – and don’t fall headlong into it.

Why would anyone deny themselves this pleasure, this presence, this connection, this magnificence?

 

Photo by Eric Wang on Unsplash

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! 

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. 

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