We keep moving—between massage and conscious intimacy, between silence and speech, between giving and receiving. We flow back and forth, like river and rock. Our sessions evolve into something co-created, something we shape together each time. This is what I want: not a script, but a landscape to explore. Not a routine, but a ritual. A space where I can witness myself becoming.

I arrive.
We talk.
We undress.
We feel into nakedness.

I want to be touched, all of me—not just my skin, but the parts that ache with desire, confusion, history, and longing.

I want to lie in bed and talk.

I want to ask:

• Have you experienced me change over the years or am I the same?
• Has our work ever shifted you?
• Am I overestimating the impact of what we’ve shared?

For me, it has meant so much and continues to. It’s a source of hope for myself that I never imagined, but was always seeking. Our witness, our presence, the possibilities are always evolving.

I want to talk about sex.

What it is. What it isn’t. I’m still learning to define sex for myself.
Is penetration the threshold? Or is it the energy, the breath, the surrender?

I don’t want to be convinced of anything. I just want to understand. I want to find the words to ask the questions I need to ask.

I’m learning to listen to my body.

To trust that no one—and nothing—should enter me unless I feel a strong yes and a stronger sense that if anything shifts, I’ll still be okay.

I like slow. I like sensual. I like stopping and starting.
I like soft and hard and intense and relaxing.

And sometimes, I feel overwhelmed when your body is on top of mine. I need more space around my face, my chest. I need to feel close and safe, but also free.

I feel self-conscious about my weight when I’m on top.
How do I stay with that vulnerability? How do I stay feeling sexy inside of it? Is my vulnerability sexy?

The truth is—sometimes I freeze.

Sometimes, I feel that same old urge to dissociate.
It’s not about you. It’s about memory.

Memories of being taken. Of being used.
Of dominance without care. Of entitlement without listening. Of not being believed. Not being cared about or considered.

And yet…

I crave feeling my power, your power, and where we meet.
I desire being taken in and being filled up.
I feel turned on by it—and also lost inside it.
Can I find myself in that space?
Can I learn to be with intensity without abandoning myself?

I want mutual pleasure.

But I still get overwhelmed trying to balance yours and mine.

What is good sex?
What is nourishing sex?
What is the kind of sex that heals rather than fractures?

I want to find out.

I want to explore how it can be nourishing for both of us.
Is this a dance I can learn, relax and let go into?
I’m still carrying the baggage of having sex to please others.
Still learning that I don’t need to perform to be loved.
Still releasing the ghost of dissociation.

Can you be curious about my fears? Invite them in closer for an embrace.

Can I name them?

• Fear of being left alone.
• Fear of getting pregnant and being left alone.
• Fear of getting an STD and being left alone.
• Fear of opening too deep—and being left alone.

Aloneness is the root of it all.

Not understanding what support is reasonable, or real.
Not knowing how to ask for it without feeling like a burden.

I like physical reassurance.

Is that too much to ask?

I want to talk about what happened after.
To share what it was like.
To feel like that conversation is welcome.

I want to feel held.
I want to feel loved.
I want to know what it all means to you.

I want to know how you want to be touched.
I want to learn how to honor you, too.

You come to my house. We sit on the couch and talk, bodies close, heat rising, a slow burn building.

We go to my bedroom and undress slowly, lie on the bed. You watch me touch myself, witness me giving myself pleasure. This is the most vulnerable I’ve ever been, letting you see me in my private pleasure. I invite you to touch me as I touch myself. It’s not a performance, it’s my prayer to be fully seen, expressed, and to share myself authentically.

I ask you to enter me very slowly. I want to feel every centimeter of expansion as our most sacred parts stretch and expand to fit together fully and completely. I ask you to stay still once you are fully inside me. To breathe with me. To give me time to feel all of this, to register the beauty, the excitement, the moment that always feels like a miracle, the feeling I ache for but can so rarely ever allow myself.

We talk about what it feels like. My body begins to undulate, unable to be still, beckoning the pleasure of feeling you in this way, closer that we’ve ever been before. I see the possibility of being able to be fully present in this moment, and I am also scared.

Today, I lay on a warm granite rock by the river.

I melted into it.
The sun, the heat, the groundedness—it all filled me.
I thought of you, of me and you. Of my rising yes, my engorged desire.

I am the rock.
I am the river.
You are the rock.
You are the river.

Soft and hard. Giving, taking, receiving, allowing.
Opening, deepening, building, releasing. Flowing.

The rock held me—firm, forgiving, solid.
The water held me too—light, alive, flowing.

Together, they reminded me:
There is nothing here that can harm me.
Not anymore.

I am safe here.
I no longer allow myself to be harmed.
I can allow myself to be held.
To be overcome.
To be filled.
To be seen.

I trust myself now.

And that changes everything.
I pray for the continued courage to let myself be changed, to embody the trust, to be present for the pleasure of my life.