I Am Worthy Of Pleasure

I write this from the body, in a moment of truth, tenderness, and becoming.......

I’ve been sitting with something tender, something I’ve known in my bones long before I had language for it.

As Feminas, so many of us were taught to perform sex rather than inhabit it. To offer our bodies as duty, as proof, as obligation. What was meant to be sacred slowly became something that chipped away at us, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, until the performance blurred into what we believed was normal.

I remember the messages.
A good wife pleases her husband.
Your body belongs to the marriage.
This is just what we (feminas) do.

And over time, without realizing it, the acting became the role I lived inside.

We were never taught that we had the right to enjoy sex. Or to be sensual without being consumed by it. Or to receive pleasure without earning it. Our sensuality was invisible unless we exaggerated it, unless we made it loud, excessive, palatable.

There are moments when I notice how hard it once felt to say something simple and honest like, “What I need right now is to be held.” Or, “I don’t want to use my body to smooth over this tension, I want to talk.” I didn’t know then that withholding sex wasn’t punishment. It was discernment.

Using the body for favors, for reassurance, for attention, this is not devotion. It’s a distorted ritual of self-erasure.

Hypersexuality is not sensuality. I had to learn that difference slowly, gently, without shame.

I think about all the times feminas pretend pleasure so men can feel successful in bed. How many moments of truth are swallowed just to keep peace. How often we cheat ourselves out of our own capacity to feel.

No one should ever feel so afraid of abandonment that they silence their body’s no. Fear is not consent. And intimacy without presence is not intimacy at all.

Before sharing ourselves with another, we should come to know ourselves. To touch ourselves with curiosity instead of urgency. To learn what feels true and what doesn’t. Men are allowed to name their preferences without apology. We deserve that same freedom, without fearing rejection.

Lately, I’ve been exploring what I now call sacred touch.

Not performance.
Not obligation.
Not even urgency.

Sacred touch is a listening. It can be shared or solitary, but it always leads back to self-recognition. It’s how the body tells its story without words.

I imagine my body like a harp, delicate, ancient, intelligent. One careless strum creates discord. But the right touch, gentle, intentional, present, quickens something sacred and devine. A harmony so complete that it feels like singing from the inside.

And maybe that’s the remembering.
That my body was never meant to be used. It was meant to be played with reverence.

∞