How I Learned to Touch
I didn’t come to this work only through books.
I didn’t sit in lectures or pass certifications.
I followed something older—
a pulse that never left my body,
even when the rest of me tried to grow up.
Desire has always lived in me like fire under silk.
Untameable. Soft. Constant.
Even after I stopped drinking, the hunger remained.
Only now, it had nowhere to hide.
So I danced.
And when I wasn’t dancing, I watched.
I remember a night—Berlin, lights thick with smoke and sweat.
A man on stage lifted his hand.
A woman waited, bare and still.
The first strike landed like the start of a poem.
Her legs shook.
And everything in me leaned forward.
Not out of lust.
But something deeper.
A language I didn’t speak—
but already understood.
They called it kink.
I saw a ritual.
A mirror.
A key.
I found a teacher.
He was cautious.
He told me he doesn’t teach most men—
too many chase shortcuts to sex.
But I wasn’t.
I wanted the long way.
The slow undoing.
The art of it.
The mystery.
I began to travel.
Twice, I went to Tokyo to study rope with Yagami—
in his quiet dojo,
just breath, tension, and silence.
He taught me to see what I was already doing.
To listen with the skin.
To tie with intent, not just technique.
Later, in Paris, I tied a woman named Tulip.
Not to restrict her,
but to hold her.
And I remember how her whole body softened.
She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to.
That day, I learned something no manual ever said:
A woman lets go when she feels you stay.
When your hands don’t rush.
When your eyes don’t flinch.
When your stillness becomes her sanctuary.
The work deepened.
I trained in tantra massage—in Berlin and all over Europe.
I joined a hypnosis retreat, and completed a full program.
Not for the title.
But so I could guide from embodiment, not theory.
Now I work with presence.
Sometimes it’s through floggers.
Sometimes through rope.
Sometimes through silence.
But always, it’s the same invitation:
Come home to yourself—without shame.
This work isn’t about performance.
It’s not about proving anything.
It’s about reclaiming everything we were told to hide.
Our pleasure.
Our wildness.
Our softness.
Our hunger.
I speak most often to women—
because when a woman remembers her power,
the men who are ready follow.
And what keeps me devoted?
That quiet moment, after a session,
when someone whispers:
“I didn’t know I could feel this way.”
Or the message that comes days later:
“Something opened.
I don’t know what you did.
But I’m different now.”
That’s the thread.
And I keep following it.
