Last night, I woke up from a dream and felt like I needed to write something before it slipped away.

In the dream, I was in an orgy—but that’s not really what it was. I was the only person in the room who had ever been to one of these before, and everyone else felt uncertain, kind of lingering at the edges. Eager, but unsure how to jump in. Like they thought they were supposed to be doing something, but didn’t know what that was.

So I started teaching.

I showed them how to create a container of safety, how consent isn’t just a yes, but also a way of paying attention. I showed them how to explore a body without rushing toward arousal. How to notice breath before touch. How to stay focused on the small things; the way skin responds, the way a shoulder softens, the way someone leans in without realizing it.

I kept saying,

“There’s no goal here.”

Just being present. Letting pleasure exist in the moment instead of chasing it.

At one point, I remember saying—very clearly:

“If the only thing you leave here with is an orgasm, you’ve missed the most important part.”

What Was Actually Being Sought

What struck me most in the dream was this:

A lot of people weren’t really looking for sex.

They were looking for connection.
For touch.
For companionship.
For reassurance.


But so many of them didn’t have the language for it.

They didn’t know how to say, “I want to be held.”
They didn’t know how to say, “I want to feel chosen.”
They didn’t know how to say, “I’m lonely.”

The chaos didn’t come from desire—it came from the inability to name desire.

That’s why consent felt so central in the dream—not as a rulebook, but as a language. A way of slowing things down enough for someone to say, “This is what I’m actually needing right now.”

When needs stay unspoken, we reach for substitutes.
And substitutes never satisfy.

Re-Sensitizing the Body

In the dream, I taught people how to re-sensitize themselves.

How to undo the numbness created by pornified expectations and performance scripts. How to realize that if penetration is the only thing you imagine as sex, you are suffering from a severe failure of imagination.

This was not a time to achieve.

It was a time to play.
To explore.
To grow.

This is not about doing more, it is about feeling more.

When touch is slowed, when attention is sustained, when the body is listened to rather than used, just touch regains its sacredness.

I showed them how to step out of goal-oriented sex.
How to release the idea of performances.
How to stop treating orgasm as end goal.

I showed them how to bask in pleasure, in presence, in nowness, but not conquest.

And I explained something that felt obvious in the dream but radical when I woke up:

If the only thing you take from a this erotic rite is an orgasm,
you have missed out on something most vital.

Why the Dream Felt Familiar

When I woke up, I realized the dream felt familiar.

Group sex wasn’t always this frantic, performative thing we’ve turned it into.

From the Bacchanalia, orgia, ganachakra, or corroboree, communal erotic rites were not chaotic indulgence. They were structured equilibrium designed to maintain balance between the cosmic and the community.

The original meaning of orgia did not refer to excess. It meant sacred acts—rites of initiation and transformation meant to temporarily dissolve individuality so community, myth, and cosmos could realign.

That meaning didn’t disappear by accident.

Colonial powers rebranded these practices as “orgies” to pathologize, criminalize, and dominate. Practices that created strong bonds, shared meaning, and loyalty outside imperial authority were labeled immoral and dismantled.

The ban wasn’t simply about regulating private pleasure. It was a strategic move to break intense cohesion and secrecy of the community.

The community was viewed as a rival power capable of operating as unified, semi-autonomous bloc creating a web of powerful alliances that insulated the community from control and oversight.

The Roman Senate also suppressed the Bacchanalia not because of sexual indulgence, but because the rites created cohesion and secrecy beyond state control.

The threat wasn’t pleasure.
It was unity.

What we inherited was the shell of these practices broken by colonialism… without the container.

What We Chase Now

We chase the form without the function.

We chase fusion without structure, intensity without ritual, novelty without depth.

Sex becomes performative.
Bodies become stages.
Orgasms become metrics.

We mistake arousal for connection.

Erich Fromm said, “Human existence is defined by a profound experience of separateness—a feeling of being cut off from others, from nature, even from ourselves. This separateness is the root of anxiety, shame, and guilt.”

Colonial systems intensify this alienation.

We have turned our life force into a commodity and become consumers of our pleasure rather than participants in its meaning. Our relations and our sex have become transactional.

We conform so that we can belong, but the twist is that we remain utterly alone.

So we seek relief from the pain of our aloneness.

We crave fusion, unity, and oneness.

Our sexual desires are often aimed at that fusion, but they can be driven by anxiety, vanity, conquest, or the wish to escape the crushing weight of separateness.

But your skill will not give you intimacy.
Your control will not quiet the ache for union.
And no amount of force will carry you across the divide between one and another.

Without love—the willingness to extend yourself for the spiritual growth of someone else—physical connection may be intense, but it is inherently brief and impermanent.

It offers momentary relief from the problem of separateness, then leaves people as far apart as before—sometimes more so.

This is why novelty keeps calling.
A new body.
A new stranger.
Another attempt to feel whole.


Not because we’re broken,
but because we’re uncontained.

Ecstasy and Union

True fusion—the “oceanic feeling” of oneness—isn’t just physical.

It’s the desire to be fully known and to know another in their totality. And that kind of union requires presence, intention, and care.

Love is not something we fall into.

It is a decision.
A promise.
An active power.
An act of will.


Sex doesn’t create love.
Love creates the possibility for union.

That union—the oceanic feeling—that’s what we’ve been chasing this whole time.

And it doesn’t need to be explained.
It needs to be held.

The word ecstasy comes from ekstasis, which means “to stand outside oneself.”

The point of these “orgies” was not stimulation for its own sake, but to temporarily dissolve the individual ego so that the group could reform as a unified body.

Modern culture treats sex as the solution to loneliness, but Erich Fromm argued that love—not sex—is the answer.

What the Dream Remembered

That’s what the dream reminded me of.

That there was a time when what we now dismiss as “orgy” was something else entirely.

A way of gathering people back into themselves, and back into one another.

A cosmic mirroring.

A way of dissolving individually, merging into something larger, and returning intact.

Sexual energy was circulated, witnessed, and bound into the community instead of driven underground or turned against itself.

The dream didn’t offer new answers.
It didn’t prescribe a far-flung future.

It simply remembered something true.

I guess it’s time to stop pretending we don’t already know what we are looking for.