Issue Eleven: The kind of truth that turns you on. Many people say they want intimacy. Few are prepared for the honesty it demands. Because honesty, the real kind, doesn’t live in words. It lives in the body. In the moment your breath changes. In the way your shoulders tighten when something doesn’t feel right— even if your mouth is still smiling. We grow up thinking honesty means confession: the courage to speak, to admit, to tell. But erotic honesty isn’t about confession.

Issue Ten: Pleasure is not accidental. It’s intentional He kneels before me, a rosary slipping through his fingers.  I tell him to speak — but only of sin. Not religious sin. Erotic sin. Every time he’s disobeyed the one command I gave him: “Fantasise about anyone. Anyone but me.” This is not a confession in the religious sense, but one crafted—intentional, embodied. It’s not punishment. It’s design. A ritual of consent, power, and attention. An agreement between two people w

Issue Nine: The most human truths live in contradictions. I feel things intensely—joy, grief, desire, despair—and I am not afraid of depth. I write poems that taste like longing. I love with my whole being. I dance until time dissolves. And I’ve never once regretted it. But I learnt early in my career—especially as a twenty-something woman in a professional space—that intensity has a place, and it isn’t here. That to be taken seriously, you must silence the parts of yourself

Issue Eight: And the myth of connected sex Let me tell you a story. A client sat across from me—well-spoken, thoughtful, emotionally literate. The kind of man who’d done some reading. Watched a few Esther Perel clips. Maybe too many. He came in because his partner believed he had a porn addiction. (That’s how he phrased it. “Diagnosed” was the word he used.) But beneath that label was something else entirely. Not pathology. Not avoidance. Curiosity. He wasn’t watching porn t

Issue Seven: The Subtle Violence of Unconsensual Affection I went on a date. He asked what I did. I said, “I’m a clinical sexologist.” He said, “That’s hot.” I said, “No. That’s evidence-based, regulated and trauma-informed.” Then he asked if I’d ever tried handcuffs. Sir. I teach the erotic architecture of power. You’re bringing Ikea furniture to a cathedral. I laughed it off at the time—until he hugged me goodbye. A hug that felt like the rest of the conversation: all assu

A client asked me today: “How often do people come to you for a sex problem, but it turns out it’s not really about sex?” I smiled....

Let me start with a desperate confession: If I hear one more couple in my therapy room say, “Her love language is acts of service, and...

Issue Four: On Libido, Lube, and the Lies We’ve Been Told I’ve always believed that storytelling—especially the kind that dances between...

Issue Three: On Bachata, Bad Sex, and Sneezing I dance bachata. It’s sensual, alive, magnetic—and has a lot in common with sex. Let me...

Issue Two: What a jar of Vegenaise taught me about intimacy, disappearance, and remembering my worth It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe...

Issue One: The First Time I Was Asked About My Job Mid-Orgasm I always enjoy people’s first reaction when I tell them I’m a sexologist....