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No hand in mine will stills the chaos

No kiss will silence the storms.

But I seek forever in moments.
I ground myself in my own rhythm—

And yet…
There is still space for you.

The ache of wanting.

A knowing that remembers

I inhale an imagine your skin near mine

There is a craving that only deepens

I don’t tease to make you weak.
I tease to call forth your strength.

To coax out the beast you keep chained behind your eyes.
To test your edges.
To taste the restraint you fight so hard to keep.

I want to see your power the raw, electric current that crackles beneath your skin.

Show me your hunger your fire .

The reason behind the tension in your jaw.
The growl low in your throat
show me everything you’re holding back

I want truth.
Not what you think I want to hear—
but what your body whispers when your mind lets go.
My teasing unravels you.
Not to destroy you.
But to reveal you.

if we meet in the shallows,
I’ll ask you to come deeper.
Not for me,
but for you.

Because you deserve to be felt,
not just seen.
Held,
not just touched.

You cannot truly embrace someone
when you’re knee-deep in surface tension.
Come in.
All the way in.

Feel my heart
pressing against yours.
A drumbeat older than language.

Let the shoulders drop.
Let the wind kiss your skin.
Let the nervous system exhale.

listens for your rhythm.

My hands finds your neck.
We breathe.

this is the sacred art
of holding and being held.

Over.
Under.
Through.

A rope moves, like memory.
Skilled hands retrace familiar paths.

Attentive eyes listen not with sight, but with breath.
Each motion intentional.
Each pause mindful

Rope isn’t restraint—it’s connection.
A dialogue of sensation, tension, release.

Imagination and excitement meet in living form.
This is art, created with them.

And the rope is alive.
It is an extension of the one tying—
their care, their will, their presence
threading through every fiber.

To be bound is no object.
it is not still.
it is active,
meeting intention with trust,
surrendering lost, to found.
it breaths.
it confesses.
The body rests—because someone else is holding now.

beyond the rope

there is another language we speak:
Touch.
Gentle. Nonsexual. Healing. Human.

The more I study the nervous system,
the more I understand—
we are built for contact.
For soothing. For co-regulation.
For the simple miracle of being felt.

It only takes the weight of a nickel
to tell the fascia to let go.
To release the armor.
To invite softness back in.

The lymph, too, listens—
moved not by force but by caress.
Our immune system, inflammation, breath…
all of it responds
to presence.

A fingertip tracing the spine
can calm the storm.
We are wired for this reset.
But it requires us to step into the moment.

The right way isn’t always the easy way.
In fact, it rarely is.

Sometimes, the path forward reveals itself as a jagged cliff—unscalable, terrifying, impossible.

Other times, it’s a leap into the unknown, the moment where surrender becomes the only way to fly.
You either claw your way up… or open your arms and trust the wind.

Choice lives in both.

And yet, we’re taught to fear pain, to run from discomfort, to flinch from anything that breaks the illusion of ease. But what if pain, too, could be sacred?

What if pain was inevitable and suffering is optional?

it’s consent.
It’s connection.
It’s intention.

It’s the deep trust and negotiated vulnerability that turns pain into pleasure, and domination into devotion.

in life, the difference between being crushed by reality or rising in the face of it isn’t circumstance. It’s framing. How we decide to feel it.

When the world hurts you—and it will—it’s easy to collapse. To drown in pity. To forget the power that lives in you.

But I’ve learned, again and again, that I can choose.

And then… I remembered who I am.
I remembered the part that plays with pain.
The part that knows how to alchemize agony into beauty.

In that moment, everything changed.

A strangely sacred moment

That’s the difference.
Mindset.

We forget sometimes. We fall into the stories we’ve been told—that pain is punishment, that struggle is failure, that ease is the goal.

But there is joy in choosing. Even when the choice is hard. Especially when it is.

This is the philosophy I live by:and has becomes one of my most sacred teachers of all.

to me? It’s not about being holy. It’s not about being perfect.
It’s about presence. About the truth that lives in the body

in the breath, the shiver, the yes, the no.
It’s about slowing down enough to actually feel.

To honor what’s real. To let sex become more than just skin.

I’ve been someone who saw sex as casual.
Even when it looked like play, it was always something more.
An offering. A mirror. A memory.

Sacred sexuality, to me, isn’t about being good or pure.
It’s about being full and whole.

Unarmored. Awake. Rooted

Alive in my skin.

I’ve learned to honor my body

Soft but not passive. Sensual but always conscious.

Sometimes I whispers.
Sometimes I receive.
But I never perform.
I feel.

Sacred sex isn’t about getting it right.

It’s raw. It’s messy.

But it always starts in the same place: presence.
A hunger not just for touch

This path is about pleasure, yes—but it’s also about reclamation.
Every “no” I didn’t say.
Every “yes” I swallowed.
Every ache I now wear like a crown.

I bring my shadows to bed too.
Not to scare—but to be seen.

Because only in full presence can we truly surrender.
Only then can the body surrenders.
Only then can sex become sacred.

So no, I don’t just fuck.
I connect.
I explore.