Tantric touch is the antidote to this disembodiment. It’s not about sex, but about sensation. It’s not about getting somewhere, but about being with. It’s a sacred, intentional practice of connecting with your body, your partner, and the life force that moves through you.

Dong Quai is said to "return the body to balance.” That means helping your body get back on track when it feels off. The root contains natural plant chemicals that help relax muscles, ease pain, reduce swelling, and support smooth blood flow.

While society loves to pathologize libido—too much, too little, too wild—we know the truth: pleasure is your power. And plants want you to remember that.

For centuries, herbalism has been the people’s medicine. Not because it was trendy, but because it was necessary. When midwives and medicine women were outlawed or burned, their knowledge went underground.

Now, we are the ones digging it back up.
And we’re not doing it in secret anymore.

Let’s be real—humans have always looked to nature to alter consciousness. Whether for ceremony, connection, or just a damn good time, plants have long been our co-conspirators in expanding the mind and softening the edges of reality.

They came to my body like a shrine, hoping to find their own worth mirrored back to them. They didn’t ask permission. They didn’t have language for what they sought. But they wanted to feel powerful, and my energy made them believe they could. Even if they disrespected me. Even if they left. Even if they discarded me after. It didn’t matter. Because for one moment, they were close to the source.

I spent the whole damn day crying on the couch watching Hamilton. 

Have you seen it? It’s so good. Devastatingly good.

Of course, this emotional spiral came after three days of drinking—vacation vibes, right? 

But how do you navigate the dooms day spiral after a good time?

Omens are messages.
Whispers from the divine.
Opportunities to pay attention.
To adjust. To realign. To remember.

In the meantime, I was guzzling the souls of my beloveds like they were cheap glasses of Cupcake wine—sweet at first, but always ending in a headache I saw coming.

I was a hungry ghost, a humanoid spirit mummified by rage. A black hole in lipstick. I had to stop. But I had to eat. 

They talk about future plans and fallen star wishes.
They write down ideas on cocktail napkins and leave them in drawers to decay.
They wallow in wet puddles over the dreams that were never even spilt—because they held them too close to the heart.

Whether you’re dancing under a full moon, curled up journaling, kissing someone delicious, or just trying to get through a Tuesday without spiraling—Kanna can be the gentle hand on your back saying, “You’ve got this.”

By the time we got to our seats, the come-up was punching through me. Not a gentle rise—no. This was a tidal wave. My heart was pounding, my skin crawling, my vision bending sideways. The music hadn’t even started yet and I already felt like I was going to crawl out of my own body.

Then the lights went down.
Bass dropped.
The crowd roared.
And I launched.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love the people I was with. I did. Fiercely.  But I also knew, deep in my bones, that love and sex weren’t the same thing. A warm body next to you doesn’t mean a warm heart is behind it.  And for me, physical connection was exploration, expression, even therapy.

The first time I ever cheated was in high school, with a boy named Matt Steale. We were dating. It was fun. He had a silver Mustang and drove recklessly fast with one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh.

We did anal, but never "traditional" sex. I was still a virgin—whatever that meant.

I took pills that put me to sleep. Acid that cracked me open like a ribcage. I played chicken with the void, hoping maybe if I got close enough to the edge, I’d find myself.

So no, you’re not “crazy.”
You’re not dramatic.
You’re just finally telling yourself the truth.

Drugs don't always numb the pain—sometimes they help us name it. We use them not to forget, but to understand. The chaos feels like clarity when you’ve never had control over your suffering before.

And the post-nut (rather, post-bleed) clarity was unreal. 

It was as if the menstrual goddesses had come down and whispered sweet nothings in my ear about how I was misusing my gifts. I wasn’t a man and shouldn’t be acting like it. I had to live differently. 

Ever thought you might actually like playing small? You probably do and here’s why.