Working with men wasn’t a calculated choice—it was something I found myself doing, almost by accident, as if the work chose me. I landed here through a journey that was anything but strategic—more mythic than planned. A hero’s journey of my own.
In my mid-twenties, after burning through every cent trying to fund a startup, I made the decision to enter sex work. I could say it was purely financial. But that would be a lie of omission.
The truth is, something in me had always been drawn to the forbidden. From a young age, I felt the split: the obedient, soft-spoken girl... and the girl who was ravenous with curiosity, aroused by everything she wasn’t supposed to want.
Sex work became the one place I could fully embody the unfiltered, desirous, primal version of myself. In casual encounters, I could be wild. But in love? That self was forbidden. The world made it clear: be the Madonna or the whore. The whore would never be chosen. But I wasn’t one or the other—I was both. I am both.
On some unconscious level, I entered the sex industry not to be used, but to be seen. To be accepted, even celebrated, for the parts of me I’d been taught to exile. What I didn’t expect was that the men who came to see me were looking for the exact same thing.
Critics of sex work often dismiss it as devoid of emotional intimacy—as though true closeness can only exist within the bounds of long-term love. But transactional relationships can offer a kind of intimacy that’s rarely found elsewhere. In that space, I was often allowed to see men with a familiarity usually reserved for someone who’s known them for years. Unfiltered, unguarded, they revealed truths they wouldn’t dare speak to their partner, their best friend, their brother or even their therapist —confessions about what turns them on, what makes them feel inadequate, what they secretly long for or resent. Whether it was exploring hidden desires or naming private shame, I became attuned to the unspoken layers of men. I learned how to feel for their nuance, to meet them in their contradictions, and to witness them in their wholeness.
I became a mirror. A confidante. A witness to their longing, shame, kink, grief. I learned how to attune—not just to what they wanted, but to what they needed underneath the wanting. I began to understand men not as caricatures, but as complex, feeling beings—struggling under the weight of narratives they didn’t choose.
And I saw something else, too: how often those narratives fractured their connection to their own bodies. In tantra, there’s a saying—the way to a man’s heart is through his genitals; the way to a woman’s genitals is through her heart. We’re all looking for love, for safety, for devotion. But we’ve been wired so differently, and misunderstood so deeply, that we keep missing each other in the dark.
This misalignment has consequences. It shows up as performance anxiety, erectile dysfunction, compulsive behavior, numbing out, premature ejaculation, porn dependency. It shows up in the men who’ve been taught to fear their tenderness. To repress. To silo.
What I didn’t realize then—but know now—is that I was helping to integrate the very split they carried inside themselves. The same split they projected onto women. The Madonna and the whore. With me, they didn’t have to choose. They didn’t have to hide. They didn't have to perform. And inversely, I got to be the nurturer, the compassionate confidante, the divine feminine incarnate, the queen —and the ravenous lover who met them at their edge.
This inadvertently led many of my clients to experience profound shifts—not just in their sexual performance, but in how they related to themselves and others. In the safety of our connection, the pressure to perform dissolved. Without the looming expectation to impress or dominate, their bodies relaxed, their nervous systems regulated, and they began to experience arousal without fear or self-judgment. As a result, issues like performance anxiety and erectile difficulties often softened or disappeared altogether. At the same time, they were learning how to assert their true desires and express authentic vulnerability, perhaps for the first time.
This is why I am made for this work.
I’m not here to hand out hacks or regurgitate expert advice. I’m not for the man who wants a script. I’m for the man who wants to become whole. The one ready to reclaim his eros—not as performance, but as his life force.
Because the way you relate to sex is the way you relate to life. How you open, how you hide, how you take and how you give—these patterns are not isolated to the bedroom. They are the architecture of your being.
You can’t heal with ChatGPT or a YouTube algorithm. You can’t solve your intimacy wounds by optimizing your testosterone or downloading another breathwork app. We are wounded in relationship so we must heal in relationship. And that’s where I come in.
My approach is holistic—woven from somatic experiencing, nervous system regulation, sexual conditioning, shadow integration, authentic attunement. This is what returns men to vitality. To truth. To depth. To love.
You are not broken. You never were.
But you may be ready to become who you were always meant to be.
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