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The Holy Fuck

Somehow, I intuited this at an early age, that the fuck was my salvation.

That if I truly gave myself to it, I would be delivered. 

I trusted the fuck.

And the fuck hasn’t let me down.

There is an art to the Phoenix fuck, the fuck that changes everything.

It’s not for the faint of heart. Or genitals.

It will ask everything of you.

During my very first epic sex weekend, many years ago, holed away in a cabin in the forest, away from everything but each other, time and space opened up.

My vagina opened up.

My heart opened up.

And the whole world changed.

If you think that your entire purpose here, on this planet, is to learn how to love (which I do), then the very best outlet and learning arena for you is your romantic relationship.

And the very best use of that relationship is a deep, obliterating, prioritized sexual connection.

(Remember what I said last week? “We will fuck a lot. And fucking is important.”).

Because when you are vulnerable sexually and vulnerable emotionally, you tap into the rawest, most powerful form of energy.

The creative and birthing power of the universe.

So that weekend, as I fucked my lover on the couch and in the bed and on the kitchen counters and up the walls of that cabin, I kept opening a layer deeper.

And another layer deeper.

I went back to work on Monday and everything about me was different. I moved differently. I spoke differently. I had this deep calm that wove itself around me as a protective aura.

And a magnetic one.

Men were hitting on me constantly. They could sense, viscerally, intuitively, my openness. My softness. They hovered around me.

There were holes in me, that I had been filling in other ways. Through food. Through substances.

Those cravings evaporated. I only wanted to be filled by my lover.

Again and again.

His hands, his cock. His mind. All of it smashed my silly human parts to pieces.

And all that was left was a purer form of me.

I saw the same thing happen to him. He’d been a heavy drinker when we met.

Heavy. Rock-band, rock-star, heavy.

He had, you could say, a temper.

When we came together, these things also disintegrated in him.

A stronger, truer him emerged.

We were able to recognize and love the dormant parts of each other.

Intellectually. Genitally.

That love amplified our deeper selves, and brought them more out into the world.

With confidence. With calmness.

His cock became my salvation. As all good cocks ought to be.

(Now do you see why I love cocks so much? They are a direct pathway to God. So are vaginas, mind you).

He could penetrate all my resistance, all my hard edges and coax them to soften. Or to give up and find something better to do.

My ability to open and envelop him, to draw him in deeply and hold nothing back, fed him. It made him a stronger man. A better man.

Though still a wild man.

But now, he could channel his wildness into my vagina.

Where it was most welcome.

Yes, a wild man is good to find.

Like any spiritual practice, the fuck demands that you give yourself. You surrender. You open to something or someone greater than yourself.

And then you find that the fuck won’t just change your life.

It will save your life.

And it will help you live the life you were meant to.

Image: Otto Stupakoff


My 10-week virtual salon for couples (and singles too) starts today!


It’s here. Come one, come all.

Check out this program here for the ultimate guide to creating the holy fuck, 4-hour orgasms and a relationship that is one of your greatest sources of power.

Come along now.

Image: Otto Stupakoff

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