The Only Sex Toy(s) I’ll Ever Use, & a Chance to Have One of Your Own!

I absolutely love getting myself off with my hands. I love feeling the subtle & succulent nuances of my own arousal, dictating the direction of my turn-on with my fingertips by going fast or slow, harder or softer. Pausing, playing, pulsating.

There’s just nothing like an organic, self-prompted, incredibly juicy, hands-on orgasm. No vibrator can match it, no sex toy can unearth its depths.

Or so I thought.

It’s been a few years since I’ve weened myself off of my vibrator, breaking up a dysfunctional relationship which left me feeling orgasmically codependent rather than orgasmically liberated. And since that separation, I’ve explored & experimented with vibrating-free, non-battery-operated ways of giving myself sexual pleasure.

The most readily available & obvious modality for this has always been my fingers. And then I discovered shiva lingams, which a good friend of mine turned me on to, telling me that they were the only sex toy she ever used. So I bought one for myself.

One of the things that I love(d) about my shiva lingam—aside from its amazing healing properties—is that it allowed me to explore pleasureful penetration, something that I’d never done with a sex toy before.

I’d always been turned off by the idea of inserting a foreign, plastic, chemically-filled device in my body; even more so when I was reminded that the vagina absorbs anything & everything that’s put into it.

With my shiva lingam, & particularly because of its smaller size (it can fit comfortably in the palm of my hand), I was able to finally play with penetration (albeit, shallow) without fear of pain or the ickiness of harmful manmade materials in my body.

Fast forward a year or so later. I’m in a small, private Facebook group where sexual healers & enthusiasts gather to collaborate & share their work. I get a notification that someone had recently chimed in to the group—I believe it was from Rashida KhanBey.

The message read something like. . .

| OMG LADIES! have y’all seen this??? they’re crystal dildos! I think I want one!!!

Inside the thread was a link attached to A few of the women commented & expressed the same intrigue, spurring my own. So I click over, & bought one as a gift to myself shortly after.

My solo-sexplay has never been the same.

What Chakrubs is. . .

Chakrubs is an indie biz that sells sex toys made from 100% pure, 100% natural crystal.

They look like sacred sex wands that only a Goddess would wield—stunningly gorgeous, incredibly powerful, a mix of delicate & earthy. Perfect for your altar & sexplay.

Crystals themselves are a potent earth-made material, one that helps to awaken higher levels of consciousness, provoke transformation, work through emotional imbalances, & heal deep core wounding. Take all of that & put it in sex toy form, & you’ve got a mighty healing & orgasmic tool.

Chakrubs can help to. . .

  • sensitize you so that you feel tingles from even the slightest sensual touch
  • create harmony in mind, body, & spirit
  • reduce stress
  • create deeper intimacy between you & your partner
  • encourage self-awareness & mindfulness

And it’s true.

me with my rose quartz Chakrub.

me, blissed out with my rose quartz Chakrub.

From the the first time I used my crystal dildo, I could feel an incredible shift in my body, as if I had been cracked wide open to experience & receive a deeper kind of pleasure than I’d ever had with any toy before—including my shiva lingam. And the orgasm was so intense, sending me on a kind of body-high, one that reverberated into my day-to-day.

One thing that vibrators never gave me was a full, unhindered connection to my sexuality. There was always a level of detachment, however small, that kept me from accessing the depths of my arousal. And then there was this sense that the pleasure was being done to me, not received intentionally, consciously.

With my Chakrub, I’ve always been beautifully aware that the exchange of pleasure I am giving & receiving has a very co-creative, self-loving aura to it, one that I don’t zone out on, one that heightens my capacity to feel & get off.

The kind of sexplay I have with my Chakrub rivals the love I make with my partner: it’s spiritual, intentional, wholly sensual.

I remember the excitement I felt when I received my rectangular box in the mail. And my excitement was surmounted by sheer joy at the thoughtful, love-filled message that inducted me into the Chakrub community:

“I love you for purchasing your Chakrub. . . . I love you for believing that your body is sacred & so your items should be as well. I love you for taking care of yourself. I love you because you have desires. I love you because you are brave to act on those desires.”


Chakrub has me as a raving fan & loyal customer for life.

Ev’Yan’s tips & tricks for using your Chakrub. . .*

1. Cleanse it. Gentle soap & warm water will do. You can also do a sea salt & water bath, soaking your Chakrub for five minutes or so.

2. Sync it with your body. After cleansing, spend some time with your crystal by putting it close to or on your body. On the night that I got mine, I set the Chakrub right on my heart chakra (chest) while I was laying flat reading a book in bed. Then. . . I moved it to my sacral chakra (right below my belly button) for a little while. When it was time for sleep, I then moved my Chakrub under my pillow, sleeping with it all night.

Working with crystals is a very intimate & personal, & because they are so sensitive to energies, it’s important that your Chakrub’s energy always has a home in / with you.

3. Play with it. . . but, warm it to your body first! Chakrubs, when not in use, are pretty cold to the touch. Not incredibly inviting when you’re rearing & ready to go. A trick I’ve learned is to not play with the Chakrub right away, but instead to allow it to warm to my body first. I do this by simply putting it on my body (like resting against my leg, for instance, or holding it in my free hand) while I’m turning myself on by watching porn or using my fingers to get the juices flowing.

By the time my yoni is begging to be penetrated, the Chakrub is warm & practically buzzing with energy; charged & ready to play.

4. After play, cleanse again, then keep in a safe place. I store mine in the little bag that comes with the Chakrub & keep it in my bedside cabinet.

5. Don’t let anyone come into contact with your Chakrub unless sacredly ordained. My crystal dildo is quite the topic of discussion amongst me & my girlfriends. I start gushing about its amazingness & naturally, they want to see it. So I bring it out, let them coo & ahhh!, but I don’t allow anyone to touch it. Not even my partner. Not just because for hygienic purposes, but because my Chakrub is intricately attuned to my body.

Again, crystals are alive & they have the ability to absorb other people’s energies. So use caution when sharing the love, & make sure to always cleanse afterward!

6. Charge it with the full moon. This is another form of cleansing, but more of an energetic one. Think of charging your Chakrub in the full moonlight as a kind of retuning, like you’d do every so often with a piano guitar. The moon holds within it incredibly potent & healing & activating energy, perfect for your Chakrub to absorb. On the night of a full moon, put your crystal on a windowsill that faces the moon’s light & keep it there while you sleep. Crystals love moonbaths!

7. You don’t have to use it for just sexplay! I’ve found that just sleeping with my Chakrub underneath my pillow when I’m in need of some self-care is enough to help balance my emotions & relax my body. I sometimes meditate with it, too, sitting on top of it (like a chicken were to sit on an egg) & doing some deep, conscious breathing. That in & of itself is energy shifting.

*All of these tips & tricks apply for shiva lingams & other crystals alike.

Want a Chakrub of your own?

Now that I’ve gushed & gushed, I’m pretty sure you’re wanting your own crystal dildo all to yourself.

Vanessa Cuccia, the illustrious creator of Chakrubs, has very kindly offered all Sex Love Liberation readers with a 10% discount off every Chakrub purchase!

Just go to, select your crystal [my favorite is The Original Heart, but I'm biased], & at checkout enter the code SLL10.

As for shiva lingams, you can go to any gem store or place that sells crystals to find them. Check to see if you can purchase one at your local New Age bookstore first before buying online.


More about Chakrubs here.
Follow Chakrubs on Twitter, Facebook, & Instagram.

How (& Why) I Weened Myself Off Of My Vibrator


i am so in love with you // jolie ruin

I got my first vibrator when I was 20, a pink, small, plastic thing with four tiny silver nubs at the end of it which gave the sensation of coolness & vibration when pressed against my skin. It only had two vibration levels—low & high—but its mighty buzzing sent me on quite the excursion of sexual bliss that I had never known existed. I believe I named her, my vibrator, Betty.

Before this, I had always thought that vibrators were completely off limits to me, that they were reserved only for the serious-of-serious sex practitioners, a mode of living that I felt could never be claimed as my own, for I had seen myself for so long as frigid, girlish, & amateur to sex.

But then I received Betty as a gift from my partner—a not-so-subtle kind of nudge in the direction of my erotic curiosities—& I became quickly entranced by its capabilities. How quickly I could access my buried sexuality & elusive orgasm with just the turn of a dial! I thought it would only be a matter of time before I became that which I had secretly yearned for: a bonafide sex goddess, one that could have multiple orgasms & sexy adventures, all by way of that pink plastic symbol of sexuality.

I really thought that. I really thought that by regular & frequent use of my vibrator, I would help train my body to have regular & more frequent orgasms—& not just via the vibrator, but by penetrative sex & maybe even the occasional jostle of the car. A fool-proof plan, one that I put all my hopes into.

But of course that didn’t happen.

Instead, I became quite dependent on Betty for orgasms; I couldn’t have one (or two) without her. When I was having sex with my partner, Betty came too, relentlessly buzzing as he entered me, trying to bring me to climax. And when I tried to pleasure myself the “old-fashioned” way & my orgasm was no where to be found, I would whip out Betty in frustration & she would conjure it out with her pulsing language in a matter of minutes.

Ours became a dysfunctional relationship, one that I loved because of the bliss it gave me, & one that I hated because of the emptiness I often felt afterward.

One afternoon, I was taking a walk with my good friend who began lamenting about the sex toy industry.

“Vibrators are just another form of male-driven sexuality being thrusted onto women,” she explained hotly. “The drilling, the vibrating—it’s teaching women to access their sexualities in the same disconnected ways men do; very wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. It gets us off too quickly.”

She took a sip of her coffee, our steps syncing with each other’s. And I noticed that as she continued on, speaking even more passionately, her steps became quicker, her strides longer. I tried my best to keep up.

“Women need to learn about how their pleasure works,” she explained. “They need to learn how to get themselves off without a toy. Only accessing your orgasms with a piece of vibrating plastic doesn’t allow you to feel the incredible depth of your arousal.”

I listened intently, not really understanding all that she was saying, but recognizing the areas where her words made my ears perk up. Specifically, the part about getting off too quickly. That was a big part of my experience with Betty.

When using her, my arousal was almost always centrally- & remotely-located: right on my clit. Never expansive, rarely gradual; only quick, jolted moments of zero to aroused, no steady, succulent climb. And then, from there, full speed ahead straight to orgasm. Most of the time, I would come in less than three minutes using my vibrator, making my arousal hurried & my climax short-lived.

While the “sex” between us was good, I often felt that the sensations of pleasure didn’t last long enough, leaving me to feel a tinge of dissatisfaction at the rushedness. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t like that, I didn’t want that. (And apparently I wasn’t the only one.)

I wanted more control of my arousal & more of a connection to my orgasm. I wanted slow sex. I wanted lasting juiciness. I wanted to continue to explore my sexuality without needing to be tethered to a battery-operated device. I especially wanted to experience the organic accumulation of sexual energy by playing with different sensations all over my body, not just on my clit.

I didn’t think any of this—conscious, full-bodied, expansive arousal & pleasure—could be had without the aid of a sex toy or a magical warming lubricant. But the very impassioned conversation I had with my friend tipped me over the edge of possibility. I wanted to try to find & experience this side of the erotic again.

So I began to experiment.

I had already tried to masturbate myself without the use of Betty, trying to quit cold turkey, but that ended with me crying myself to sleep at how not-aroused I was, even after 30 minutes of stroking on a well-lubed finger, feeling broken & incredibly dejected. Instead, I wanted to try something easier, both on my mind & my body.

I wanted to try to ween myself from my vibrator with the help of my vibrator, alternating between battery-operated pleasure & good ol’ fashioned finger-stroking.

The goal being to slowly ween myself off of Betty, eventually getting to the point where I could, from start to finish, pleasure myself to back-arching orgasm without the use of her at all.

Because more than anything, I wanted the ability to choose—to have an self-appointed orgasm via vibrator or my fingers if I wanted to. And my—dare I say this?—addiction to vibration-induced climaxed was not allowing me that freedom.

There was a time where I had that freedom, where I could get off with mere dirty thoughts. And before I started the experiment, I reminded myself of those times.

By holding memories in my mind of when there was no dependency on a buzzing device, I was reminded that this was about simply reclaiming something I had lost, not fixing something that was broken.

And so I began.

And the practice looked like this:

1. Beginning by taking in deep breaths, getting in my body.
2. Rubbing my body sensually in all the right places, waking up my body.
3. Turn on vibrator, pleasure for 15 seconds. Stop.
4. Lube finger, pleasure for 15 seconds. Stop. 
5. Switch back over to vibrator, this time for 30 seconds. Stop.
6. Back to fingers, also for 30 seconds. Stop.
7. Continue at these intervals until on the verge of climax. Stop.
8. Then. . . pleasure myself to orgasm with fingers only.
9. Orgasm, allowing myself to really feel the sensations in my body.
10. Ending with a few deep, conscious breaths, bathing in the afterglow.

I did this whenever I wanted to masturbate, & even when I was having sex (penetrative, mutual masturbation, etc.) with my partner. The beauty of this practice, aside from having some really awesome orgasms, is that it helped to renew my faith in my ability to get myself off sans vibration. I wasn’t broken, my technique wasn’t off. I just needed to go back to my roots.

After several months of consistent weening, I completely ditched my vibrator. No longer was I a slave to Betty’s pulsating lullaby. I could play with my sexual energy & bring myself to climax without her help. Yes.

At this point, I would like to say explicitly:

There is absolutely nothing inherently wrong with or bad about vibrators (or any sex toys for that matter).

Sex toys (like porn) can be glorious tools to enhance & uncover our erotic selves; they can help to prompt & further our sexual sovereignty & liberation. It’s only when these tools leave us feeling as though we don’t have a choice to explore other sexual expressions that it becomes a problem.

Simply put: Vibrators shouldn’t be a “should” in sexual expression. They shouldn’t be imposed on our sexuality to heed to a particular one-size-fits-all model to access our pleasure & orgasm. The only “should” that exists in sexuality is our right to choose the ways in which we explore & express our erotic energies.

And I, personally, wanted the freedom to choose.

Naturally, it takes me a bit longer to get there (“there” being climax) but I thoroughly enjoy the slow & steady build up to climax, the lovely little dance that I do with my erotic energy, one that rises & falls, one that fills me up slowly with ripe, juicy arousal.

As for Betty, her small but mighty motor had long-since died, but I held onto her as long as I could for sentimental reasons. She was my induction into adult sexuality, my orgasmic savior, after all. But when I began to grow tired of her lifeless shell taking up space in my bedside table drawer, I cleaned her up & gave her a proper, environmentally-friendly burial.

And I never looked back.

/ / /

Last year, I discovered the most amazing, feminine, super magical sex toy. It’s been giving me delicious orgasms & leaving my body feeling such bliss every time I use it—& it’s battery-free! I’ve been telling all my girlfriends about & I’ll be telling you all about it next week—with a chance for you to win your own.

I’ll give you some hints: It’s made from 100% natural materials, has the ability to heal your body, would look great on your altar, AND is likely something Aphrodite would use to pleasure herself.

Interested? Put your information down below. Only people who get my newsletter will be eligible to win one. x

*Note: I will never send you spam or anything less than marvelous. Promise.

Autonomy is Sexy, & Why We Try to Change Our Lovers

From the moment I first laid eyes on him, he had a way about him. Cool, calm, collected. Zen without pretentiousness. Worldly & wise & charming. I perceived all of these things from just looking at his picture.

I liked him instantly for who he was: different from me; not necessarily opposite, but more advanced, more far along. His music choices, the books he read, his taste in movies, his spiritual practices—he was no one like I’d ever met before.

Then we spoke on the phone. His surroundings were busy—I could tell from the background noise—but he managed to hold his attention on me, asking me about myself, telling me he wanted to meet me. He articulated & enunciated his words with such deliberateness that it sounded like he had an accent, & I asked him if he wasn’t American. His laugh was good-natured, his voice smooth & playful.

And then we met in person, & I was inundated with his third dimensional characteristics. He looked dangerous in a non-threatening way; very unlike a bad boy caricature & more like a man who housed the ability to move the planet with his own hands. His smile was brightening & warming, a kind of light in darkness. There was a subdued confidence about him—not cockiness, more like self-assuredness. He spoke & moved as though he’d been an adult for all of his life.

We began a rapid love affair shortly after this, our first date. In the early, early stages of our love, everything about him was enchanting, mysterious, novel.

Slowly, I began to learn about the silly little quirks he had—the exciting idiosyncrasies of his character, the subtle & not-so-subtle tendencies of his self-expression. He had his own rhythms about him, his own routines, nuances, likes & dislikes.

He was a smoker at the time—not super heavy, but he smoked enough to earn the title. And the way he formed his mouth to expel the smoke out of his lungs wasn’t in a typical “O” shape; more like a horizontal lowercase “L.”

His clothes were usually stained & worn, sometimes with full-fledged, strategically placed holes in them. I was attracted to this particularly because it reiterated his carefree, non-self-absorbed nature, something that I, a fussy, put-together, strait-laced young woman, found appealing.

And while his energy was profound—he could walk in a room & seemingly shift the direction of the mood toward lightness, gentleness, kindness—he never used it against anyone, never exerted his will. Truly, he was gentle, even a little soft spoken, though sitting next to him or just speaking with him for a few moments gave you an impression of subdued bigness.

But mostly, he owned who he was—his smoking, sloppily dressed, slightly broodish self. He didn’t try to be anything but what he already was. He didn’t apologize for the holes in in shoes. He didn’t backtrack when his voice didn’t raise itself to match the uproarious voices of others. He didn’t shrink away from his bigness, from the bright energy he could conjure. I adored that.

Which is to say that I adored him—his independence, his self-sovereignty, his unique way of moving in the world. That is what wooed me most, above his gentle hands & his protective nature & the sensual way he nursed a cigarette.

I was attracted to his beingness; I was attracted to his independence & the mystery housed within it.

Our love was founded on that—the entrancement of silly quirks, the bliss of the soon-to-be discovered; a lot of love is. Love is nourished by these things, & also by projections & lavish fantasies about the other, but most especially by autonomy.

But as time passed, autonomy (at least for me) wasn’t being made the priority thriving force behind our relationship. Security was; I didn’t want to lose him, naturally.

Autonomy is the antithesis of security, because where there is unpredictability, there is the loss of stability—& it is stability (i.e., predictability) that essentially keeps a couple together. It shifted that individuality began to become less important to me & that stability—security, predictability—was the underlying motive in our continuation of building a life together.

And how does one create stability? Many, many ways, but the most unfortunately common way is by nulling their partner’s autonomy, or individuality.

For me, it started small, insidious. Suggesting that we replace his grungy, holey shoes or getting him an expensive peacoat in exchange for his worn & weathered bomber jacket (for me, security meant uniformity in all aspects, but particularly in the way he dressed himself up); making snide comments about his tastes in movies & his tendency to spend too much time socializing in bars—all of which translated into me craving a sense of reliability.

Of course, not all suggestions to make tweaks to his character were harmful—on the contrary, most of them were quite healthy, like inciting him to quit smoking or to use the money he spent buying rounds at bars towards a better apartment for him to live. But the line between inspiring him to better himself & controlling, as best as I could, his image to offer me the security I craved began to become blurred, & our union began to strain.

And it wasn’t just in my beloved that I began to inflict predictability; I did it in our relationship as a whole: creating the habit of eating dinner with the television on; spending the weekends holed up with each other, rather than with our friends individually; stepping into roles that didn’t truly fit us but we did so anyway to preserve the security we craved. The patterns, the routines, the mindless chatter about things that didn’t really matter.

No more wooing; no more puffing up our feathers or embellishing ourselves creatively. We were steadily finding more & more predictability, but our relationship was beginning to drift a bit lifelessly. We began to fight, & we began to have less sex.

We’ve all done this to some degree, because we all crave security, continuity, reliability. And yet at the same time we desire mystery, the very thing that brought us to our beloved’s feet in the first place. And therein lies the rub.

Esther Perel puts it best. . .

“There’s a powerful tendency in long-term relationships to favor predictable over the unpredictable. Yet eroticism thrives on the unpredictable. Desire butts heads with habit & repetition. . . . So where does that leave us? We don’t want to throw away the security, because our relationship depends on it. . . . Yet without an element of uncertainty there is no longing, no anticipation, no frisson.”

Quite the conundrum. So how do we fix it?

By breathing autonomous breath into the relationship again. By reminding ourselves that lasting, erotic desire thrives better in an interdependent relationship. By admitting aloud, to ourselves & to our romantic partners, how, in our quest to feel safe & secure, we’ve imposed & succumbed to routines to dull unpredictability.

But especially by realizing that our relationships are not cemented in place, that they are in a constant state of evolution, of refinement. As long as you are breathing, you are transforming, blossoming—both of you are. This transformation often goes unnoticed & can even seem to lie dormant, but it’s in there, waiting for you to pull the weeds & clear the debris (i.e., routines, habits, fears of loss) so that it can burst through & begin to unfold into the open air.

That’s a start.

And then of course there’s this dance of balance that needs to happen—the dance of Security & Autonomy. It’s very, very possible for these two things to be harmonious. Perhaps that means setting up borders in a familiar place & inviting the unknown to play within that safe, designated space. Or maybe that just coming to terms with our fear of loss, of rejection, of disconnection, of death, can be enough to shift the perception & begin a healthy balance between predictability & novelty.

As for me, I’m happy to report that after realizing the direction we were going in, we abruptly changed course & began the trek toward both interdependence & healthy, good ol’ fashioned security.

Security is scrumptious, to be sure. And autonomy is devilishly sexy. Both are needed to make a romantic partnership healthy, loving, fulfilling. One over the other ensures a demise. Begin the dance, find the balance, & celebrate your beloved’s idiosyncrasies, her funny little quirks & differences, that drew you to her.

That’s where the magic is.

/ / /

Does this topic intrigue you? Check out Esther Perel’s book Mating in Captivity. This writing was conjured through reading her prose.

A Prayer for You When Silly Religious Dogmas Are Trying to Kill Your Arousal

I hear it all the time:

“My religious upbringing is a major inhibiting force of my sexuality.”

And. . .

“I was taught against my sexuality by my [pastor, priest, rabbi] for so long that even though I no longer practice or believe in [religion], I can still hear their voices loudly in my head while trying to have sex.”

And. . .

“They [pastors, priests, rabbis] were so adamant in sex only being experienced between husband & wife that it’s hard for me to make love to my long-term committed partner—even though we love each other & want to spend the rest of our lives together.”

And. . .

“I can’t masturbate without thinking that what I am doing is wrong in the eyes of God.”

Me too.

Even after all of these years, even in the practice of the work I do. . . the feelings of sinfulness, of depravity, of being impure, implanted by passionate sermons & dogmatic beliefs, still rise up inside of my mind & body.

And it hurts. And it’s stupid. And it kills my libido.

But when it happens, I take in a deep breath & exhale. And while I am letting air spill from my lungs, I envision that those ugly thoughts & ancient, misguided beliefs are being expelled from me, like hot steam from a whistling tea kettle.

And then, I say a prayer—to God, to Aphrodite, to Source, or to Whomever it is that is listening Here—one that acknowledges, honors, & recenters my sexual beingness.

It changes nearly every time I conjure the words, but it often sounds a little like this. . .

My sexuality is good.
My sexuality is pure.
My sexuality is Holy.
Because it was created by You.

The juicy things I’m feeling in my body—they were created by You, for Your pleasure, with Your Great Love.

The juicy things I’m feeling in my body—they were created by You, for my Pleasure, with your Great Love.

And through these juicy feelings, through my arousal & my eager search for pleasure, I worship You;
I worship this Body that You have created;
I worship the richness of feeling & being;
I worship the gorgeousness of erotic energy.

For my Glory. For Yours.

I know with my whole heart that You would not create such impulses, such desires, such layers of feeling as a morbid test that proves my devotion to You. I know with all my heart you are kinder, graceful, more sensual than that.

I know with my whole heart that sexual energy is just one other way to commune with you.

And so I do. With all of my might, with all of my heart, with all of my body & soul.

Thank you.

/ / /

Sometimes, this prayer works. Sometimes it wards off those heavy, dark ideas of sin & impurity, leaving absolutely no trace of their slimy, unwelcome sensations.

Sometimes, the prayer, even when said with sincerity, isn’t enough. Sometimes I need a shower to cleanse myself back to a place of sexual liberation, & then I can come back to conjuring sex magic.

And sometimes. . . I need to say “Not today” to my sexual urges; sometimes I need to cease & desist & give space for those harsh feelings to dissipate—allowing however much time is needed: hours, days, weeks, as hard as it is.

The point for the prayer (aside from wanting to get my groove on without those libido-killing thoughts in the back of my head) is that I am consciously rewriting my own spiritual history; that I am making beautiful space for my spirituality to form in a holy, accepting, sex-celebrating container; that I am honoring the holiness of erotic energy in a way that I’ve never been taught to before.

It helps. It’s not a permanent fix, but it helps.

My prayer for you. . .

May you know peace in your sexuality.
May you find a spiritual practice that celebrates its sacredness.
May you celebrate the beauty of erotic energy as a form of worship.
May you feel always at ease that your sexuality is good, holy, & pure.

(Important Note: That’s the way it’s supposed to be.)

Like a Bitch in Heat: How I Embrace My Wildish Nature in Sex

The best sex I’ve ever had started with desire, with that undeniable pang of lust in the pit of my belly that said, clear as crystal: I want you. Then, spontaneous & strategic touch, playful flirtations, suggestive tones of voice, & eyes that say, “Get me while I’m hot.”

Then. . . open-mouthed kisses; my body pressing heavily onto his; hands grabbing, gripping flesh; fingers fumbling to undo clasps & laces & zippers; heavy, synchronized breathing.

Then. . . guttural sounds that seemed to come from the bellows of the ground beneath me; wetness from sweat, from spit, from arousal; thrusting hips—deeper, deeper, faster, faster; hot, fiery heat; teeth & nails; pulsating climaxes with unfaltering eye contact; total surrender.

And afterward. . . a smell of salt, of musky-sweetness wafting through the air—sweat mixed with cum mixed with my own sweet nectar; heaving chests swallowing big gulps of air, throbbing hearts ready to burst, & eyes & mouths that still cannot stop searching for each other.

“Sex is animal activity.” —Osho

When I am unwaveringly in carnality, when my body is buzzing with unreserved horniness, when I am hyper aware of my nakedness, my wildness, my animalness, I have the best sex of my life.

In those moments of total animalistic beingness, there’s no preoccupation with my stretch marks or whether I’m messing up the sheets or worrying about my cries of pleasure disturbing the neighbors. I care about nothing. I know nothing. All that exists is pleasure & my ravenous hunger to claim it with my body.

Like a bitch in heat.

More & more I’m realizing (& vividly experiencing) the connection between sex/sexuality & my wildish self—that is, the self that is not dignified or docile, but feral, fierce, & maybe even a little savage; a side that I’ve been so accustomed to suppress.

Because wildness, while liberating, can be an absolutely scary, ferocious thing. In wildness, there is no control; no fences, no masters to request permission from—just our instincts, our compulsions, our need to feed.

In wildness, anything can happen. Vile things are capable if we gave way to it: teeth gnashing, mouths foaming, eyes flashing, blood spilling.

There is a wild animal in us all with vicious, licentious tendencies. And we often keep this animal caged away as a way of protection.

We suppress our wildness to protect the innocent. Understandably.

For me, however, that caged animal—my caged animal—never fails to break free during sex.

No locks can hold her, no ropes can bind her. Sex stirs & instigates her, rattles her cage, riles her up, brings out her fury. She busts loose, & no matter how hard I grip her chains, digging my heels into the ground, fighting with all of my might to get her to mind me. . . she rips & roars & has her way.

And rather than fight against her (because it is utterly exhausting), I’ve begun to let her have her way, to give her space to roam wild in desire & wreak a little havoc, to allow her to satiate her innermost hungers with abandon.

But. . . I keep her on a long leash—that is (to keep with the metaphors), I stay conscious.

I let her have her way, but I don’t walk away from her unsupervised; that would be totally irresponsible of me. No, I remain a vigilant witness. I see it all, my eyes fixated on her movements, even (& especially) when she’s getting crazy. I watch her closely, staying present to her fierceness.

In doing this, she transforms into a not so scary, not so threatening being. Her wildness becomes beautiful, something magnificent to behold, a powerful force of nature that requires deep honor & reverence.

Consciousness in wildness creates a safe space for our animalistic natures to be fully explored.

And this, of course, doesn’t just apply to sexual expression. This can be harnessed in exhibiting fierce self-love, in speaking our truths, or in expressing & releasing dark energies—anger, fear, sorrow.

Wildness needs space. Wildness desires freedom to be expressed. And sex can be an easy way to curiously explore our wildish tendencies, if only we remember to keep a mindful, watchful eye on it.

You’ll know when you’ve wandered into wild territory when your beloved looks into your eyes after an unrestrained sack session, their breath harried as they wipe their brows, saying hoarsely:

“Damn, honey. What got into you?”