Eros Without Sex

I’ve been online for a long time now. Some of you have followed me since the very beginning. Back when I first started nude modelling, posting images of my tattooed body in lingerie or nothing at all. Over the years you’ve watched me evolve: writing about birth, about spirituality, about grief, about healing. But what I haven’t done until now is tell the full story of how I came into relationship with my body, my sex, and my sexuality.

Because here’s the thing: when a woman shares anything even remotely sexual online, it gets filtered through a hundred cultural narratives. People assume. People project. Over the years I’ve been called a slut, skanky, attention-seeking. I’ve been labelled dominant, hyper-sexual, and it’s been assumed that everything I did, every photoshoot, every performance, every sensual moment, must have turned into sex or been for the thirst and attention of men. 

But that’s not the truth.

I’ve done unorthodox things, yes. I’ve explored edges most people never dare to touch. But so much of it was never about sex at all. It was about eros, about aliveness, about discovering what it meant to inhabit my body fully and trust that it could be safe.

I want to tell this story because I think people deserve to see the deeper thread that’s been running through my choices all along. And because maybe, just maybe, it will free another woman from the shame of thinking her sexuality has to look one way.

And let me be clear: sharing this does not devalue the exclusivity of my intimate relationships. My sexuality belongs to me, and when I choose to share it with a partner, that is sacred. No photo, no story, no essay gives anyone else access to that. What I share with someone I love - the way I let them see me, touch me, know me - remains just for them. If anything, it becomes even more sacred because I know it is chosen.

This is not about proving anything. It’s not about shocking anyone. It’s about telling the truth.

The whole truth.

Captured by Simon @spitfirekingphotography

What if eros didn’t have to end in sex?

What if we let it breathe, ache, shimmer on our skin without rushing it into climax?

We’ve been taught that desire is a road with one destination. That if you show your erotic self, someone is entitled to take it, claim it, finish it. But eros has always been bigger than sex. Wilder. More unruly. It doesn’t need to be resolved. It doesn’t need to be spent. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is let it burn inside us, let it hum between us, without crossing that line.

I’ve lived much of my life at this edge. Not by theory, but by necessity. I, like many women, have been violated more than once. My boundaries crossed by men who took what wasn’t offered. If life followed the usual script, I should be shut down by now- armoured, distrustful, numb. But I’m not. Against all odds, I can say this with confidence… I’ve healed my sexuality. 

And I’ve done it in unorthodox ways, ways that most people wouldn’t consider possible.

Nude Modelling

It began in front of the camera...

A desire I had for a long time, even as a little girl. 

At first it was intimidating. I had to learn the art of seduction - how to arch my back, how to hold the light, how to position my body in ways that would both look good on film and feel true to me. But once I learned, it felt powerful. To stand naked, to be bold, to use my body as a vehicle for eros - this was power I hadn’t known I could hold.

There was always a playful undercurrent in those shoots. The banter with the photographer, the giggles between poses, the flattery that made me feel both comfortable and desired. But beneath it all, what I craved most was control. I got to decide how much to reveal, how to move, how to let myself be seen. And being seen… that was intoxicating. To be witnessed in my nakedness, not taken, not touched, but appreciated, worshipped even, was deeply satisfying.

Of course, there was conflict. I began modelling as a mother, and the inner critic was loud. “What if your daughter finds out one day?” “What will people think?” And people did think. Old school friends whispered that I must not respect myself, that I was a slut, that my body was a spectacle. But I knew different. For me, it wasn’t about disrespect, it was about daring to step into something most people would never touch.

Looking back now, I see it more clearly. As a younger woman I was rebelling, following a curiosity I’d always had, chasing the thrill of doing something bold. But beneath that rebellion was a longing I couldn’t yet name: to be seen. To be met. To have my nakedness appreciated in a way that felt safe.

It’s only now, in my 30s, that I can look back and understand what those photoshoots were teaching me. They weren’t just performances. They were initiations. They showed me that my sensuality didn’t have to be transactional. That I could hold my power, embody my sexuality, and not owe anyone anything beyond what I chose to give.

Yoni Massage

For my 26th birthday, my girlfriends gifted me a yoni massage session. Aka pussy massage.

The practitioner came to my home and set up a simple bed on the floor with blankets and oil. It felt safe, familiar. I wasn’t afraid, but I did expect it to be hard. I’d always carried this story that I was full of sexual shame. That because of what I’d been through with men, with my body, with boundaries, there would be something broken inside me. I thought it would be an emotional session, full of tears and release.

But what surprised me most was that it wasn’t like that at all.

When she touched me, I surrendered quickly. I didn’t have to force anything open. I wasn’t numb. I was alive, sensitised, present. I felt every stroke of her hands. Her constant asking for permission - at my breasts, at my belly, at my vagina - softened me into trust. What I expected to be painful or shameful turned out to be exquisite.

It reminded me of something I had forgotten… nobody had ever really taken anything from me. My aliveness was still there, humming just beneath the surface, waiting to be met.

That session became a turning point. It wasn’t about orgasm or climax. It was about worship, about touch that honoured rather than consumed, about learning my body in a way I never had before. It woke something in me. It showed me that my pleasure didn’t have to belong to anyone else, that it could be mine.

Afterward, I began to take self-pleasure seriously for the first time in my life. I started seducing myself, touching myself not for performance or release but as devotion. For years I had believed my orgasm belonged to others, that it was only real if it was shared. But in that one session, I began reclaiming it.

Looking back now, I see how important that moment was. At 26, I wasn’t just curious about pleasure - I was longing to know myself. To learn that my body wasn’t broken. To discover that eros could be a homecoming.

Shibari

And then, shibari.

I’ve always been drawn to the taboo. To the things that feel a little wrong, a little rebellious, and therefore irresistible. When I first heard about shibari, it felt exactly that - wild, kinky, dangerous in the most delicious way.

And then there was Aaron.

Outside of the ropes, he is soft, tender, almost gentle to the core. But when he works with rope, something else comes alive. He becomes precise, dominant, certain. That contrast was what made me trust him. I knew that underneath the archetype of the rope master, he was still a kind man, a safe man. That’s what allowed me to surrender.

And when I surrender, I surrender completely.

The first time I was bound, I melted quickly into it. There’s something primal about being handled by a man - moved, pressed, held, tugged in ways that are sensual, tense, and undeniably erotic. The rope created friction, containment, and anticipation. I never knew what was coming next, and that mystery pushed me deeper into submission.

Because Aaron never crossed a boundary, because the intensity was held with integrity, something rewired in me. The ropes showed me what was possible when a man is safe. That I could be handled, restrained, brought to the edge of myself, and still trust. That I could feel desire, charge, even aggression in the room - without it spilling into violation.

And then came subspace.

It’s hard to explain if you haven’t been there. It’s trance-like, hypnotic, almost meditative. A state where thought dissolves, where your body is no longer yours to control, and yet you are freer than ever. I felt small, tender, held… not in a belittling way, but in the way a child feels small in the arms of someone who won’t let them fall.

What surprised me most in shibari wasn’t the ropes, but myself. How deeply I long to trust. How much I crave being able to surrender in intimacy so fully that I don’t have to think, don’t have to manage, don’t have to guard. I want to know, in my core, that a man will hold my best interests, my body, and my sexuality as sacred.

Shibari gave me a taste of that. It wasn’t just erotic play. It was a mirror of what I desire most in love: to be able to surrender, completely, and know I am safe.

Tattooing

And finally, perhaps a little unexpected… my tattoo journey. 

For more than a decade, I’ve trusted my body to the same tattoo artist: Swirly.

Our relationship has never been about eros or sexuality, but about something just as vital, trust. Over the years he has tattooed 80% of my tattoos, including my breasts, my butt, my pubic bone. These markings are now part of my body, part of how I move through the world, part of my sensual self-expression. They live inside my eros.

Being tattooed is vulnerable. You’re half-naked in a studio, exposed, handing your body over to another person for hours at a time. It could so easily become dangerous, exploitative, or unsafe. But with Swirly, it never has. He has always been deeply courteous - putting up privacy blinds, tending to my comfort, paying attention even to where I was in my menstrual cycle. He’d tease me gently if I was sookier during a bleed, distracting me to make the session easier. His kindness was steady, and always consistent.

That matters. Because in between my years of working with him, I did once go to another artist, one who was sleazy, who touched me in ways that felt wrong, who made me feel unsafe. And now Swirly is covering that tattoo for me, literally rewriting the mark of violation with something new.

He has been a pillar in my journey. Not a teacher of eros, not a lover, but a steady reminder that safe men exist. That I can hand over my body and my trust and it will not be violated. For over ten years, he has shown me what consistency, care, and integrity look like. And that is as much a part of my healing story as anything overtly erotic.

This has been my path. Unorthodox, yes. Messy at times, yes. But it’s mine.

I should have been shut down. After being violated, after having my boundaries crossed, I should have locked my body away. But instead, I found ways to open. To explore. To rewrite the story of my own eros on my own terms.

Through the camera, through the massage, through the ropes, through the sting of a tattoo needle - I’ve learned again and again that I can be fully alive in my sensuality without handing myself over. That I can be naked, vulnerable, exposed, worshipped even, and still be safe.

I know this won’t resonate with everyone. Women have been violated in so many ways… some subtle, some extreme, and each of us has our own path through. I’m not saying this is the way. I’m not saying anyone should heal like this. I’m only sharing how I healed.

Not everything has to become sex. Sometimes the deepest power is in holding the charge, letting it ache, letting it move through the body without rushing it anywhere.

This is how I healed.

This is how I came back to myself.

For the woman whose body was not a choice,

but a door forced open.

Who learned too early

that innocence is a currency men devour.

You carrying claw marks in your silence.

Carrying shame that was never yours.

Carrying a rage that could split the sky.

And still

you do the unthinkable.

You keep your heart from calcifying.

You let tenderness return like rain

on the same ground that has burned.

That is power.

Not the power of fists or walls,

but the raw defiance of softening

when everything says… harden.

To have been violated

and still let yourself desire.

To have been destroyed

and still make beauty from your ruins.

To still kiss with an open mouth,

to still pray with your hands unclenched.

Woman

you are the wound that sings.

The grave that grows wildflowers.

The softness that survived the fire.