Awhile back, I met a boy at a wedding. I say “boy” not because of his age—he was in his early thirties—but because of the way he moved through the world: wide-eyed, eager, with a kind of tender yet unhinged immaturity. He spent the weekend orbiting me, showering me with compliments—how intelligent I was, how beautiful. He remembered the details I shared, circled back to them like they were precious clues. He anticipated my needs before I even voiced them. He was not my type for many reasons. The leading perhaps his strong affinity for cocaine and sleepless nights.
After insisting another guest snap a photo of us posing like a couple on the first night (this was one of four throughout the 72 hour period), he asked if I’d like to come back to his room for a drink. I obliged—but made it clear I wouldn’t be having sex with him.
He nodded politely, then asked, “May I ask why?”
I gave him the well-rehearsed answer I’d delivered more times than I could count. I told him I had a habit of getting attached to unavailable men—men who, like him, were out of reach either geographically or emotionally. If the sex was really good, I’d want more. And when we eventually parted ways, I’d spiral—obsessing, projecting, convincing myself he possessed qualities my rational mind knew he didn’t. I’d waste hours sexting, feeding the fantasy that we were somehow star-crossed simply because he was inaccessible.
On the other hand, if the sex was mediocre, it might as well be bad—an empty transaction, a drain on my time and energy.
I told him plainly: I’ve had enough casual sex to last a lifetime.
To my surprise, he accepted it without protest. He said he understood—and didn’t flinch from the red carpet treatment he’d already laid out. If anything, he doubled down: sweeter, more attentive, increasingly affectionate. His romantic gestures became so theatrical, I started calling him “Tweaker Noah from The Notebook,” a nickname that sent the other guests into fits of laughter.
What began with an eye roll on day one had me sheepishly grinning ear to ear by day two, as he trailed behind me with golden retriever devotion.
He asked if he could kiss me—something I’ve historically had a visceral aversion to, a kind of full-body resistance I couldn’t quite explain. But this time, I said yes.
He was a sweet, deliberate kisser. Passionate, but patient. Soft in a way that surprised me. We kissed many times over the next two days. He never reached for my ass or cupped my breast—gestures that had become almost obligatory in even a first makeout, let alone multiple.
And yet, in conversation—especially when I spoke about my work—he’d drop hints about his interest in domination. A contrast that piqued my curiosity. I was intrigued.
On the last night, we found ourselves making out in a private bathroom. At one point, he gently pulled my face to his and said, “I want you so bad,” his voice threaded with both sweetness and intensity. Before I could respond, he laced his fingers with mine and quietly led us out, as if sensing that lingering too long might unravel whatever spell we’d spun.
I told him I needed to sleep—I had an early flight. So he walked me to my suite, looked at me with those baby blues, and said how incredible it had been to spend the past three days together. He kissed me softly on the forehead, then with deep, searching passion on the mouth, and stood there watching as I slipped inside and locked the door.
The next day, as I boarded my flight, I began receiving a string of unhinged yet endearing messages—about how he missed love bombing me, how he missed kissing me. And somewhere high above the clouds, something in me shifted.
I became wildly, inexplicably horny.
Suddenly, all I could think about was being taken by him—ravaged in the way I had previously resisted. He had proven himself. He hadn’t faltered once in the way he treated me, despite my eye rolls, my provocative teasing, my rejection of his first offer.
And because we lived in entirely different countries, I knew this wasn’t some calculated seduction. There was no angle, no slow play. Just presence. Just persistence.
The urge I felt was primal—an instinct to reward him for good behavior.
So I did. With custom curated videos and filthy dispatches.
I was met with unrelenting praise—which, to my own delight, hit directly on my praise kink. But what surprised me more was how quickly he escalated. The sweet, doting boy began weaving in threads of erotic sadism.
Soon, I was receiving utterly unhinged voicenotes detailing what he wanted to do to me—graphic, unfiltered, and laced with a kind of poetic brutality. What struck me wasn’t just the content, but the conviction.
“Do I need to remind you how desirable your perfect wet pussy is? I would fuck you so thoroughly and relentlessly, choke you and make you scream but cover your mouth so you couldn’t make a sound until I’d have to let you breathe. When I say you have the most perfect pussy I’ve ever seen in my life. I need you to believe me. And it deserves to be wrecked. I want to stick a baby inside of you.”
“I like to exercise restraint until I rupture”, I said.
“I respect that and I admire that. But now it’s going to become an obsession of yours to experience being fucked by me. You need to be my little slut. You need to feel my cum inside of you. You need to look at me in the eyes while I make you cum and just make you feel like the most special empowered little slut.”
“I want you to mark me”, I said.
“Oh have you met the right man for that. I’m going to make you my slut. My empowered little slut. I’m going to make you do things for me that you would never know that I wanted you to do. But I’m going to do it because I have power over you. And I’ll give you everything you want. But you have to do that for me as well. And I’m going to make you do so fucking much for me you have no idea. But I’ll reward you and make you feel like the most special girl in the world. But you’re going to do things for me that you have no idea you’d expect me to want you to do.”
“You can hole me up in a hotel room and I’ll make myself readily available to you around the clock”, I said.
“You give yourself to me…body and mind and you fear for your life at times. But as soon as the scene ends you are worshipped by me. It’s that specific juxtaposition of how degraded and objectified you are in the bedroom but as soon as we leave the bedroom, I show you what your true worth is. I’m going to empower you as a whore and a little cum slut in the bedroom then make you feel like a real woman on my arm as soon as we walk out in public. What happens in that bedroom is for you and I only.”
“You must be exceptional with aftercare”, I said.
“Trust me it’s important to me that you feel like the queen that you are. Because if you do that for me, I’ll move heaven and earth to make you feel like the most special woman in the world. I want people to see me drop my Prada blazer on the fucking street so you can walk over it on a puddle. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll bathe you. Take you to the theatre. Buy you a Birkin.”
“How did you manage this side of you the past three days?”, I inquired.
“The restraint I demonstrated is because I fucking adore you. None of this violent, degrading sex works without the foundation of respect and adoration. What I put into breaking you apart, I will 10x into building you back up. I need that as much as you.”
Before I knew it, I was immersed in a full-time sexting dynamic that had me in an all-consuming subspace across the 49th.
Let’s break down the elements that made this dynamic such a peak arousal experience for me—without a single finger laid on me.
For the sake of anonymity (though I’m fairly certain he’d welcome the praise), we’ll call “wedding guy” Shane.
Sexual Discipline
I didn’t give Shane a second glance at first. He wasn’t even remotely my type, nor did he embody the values I typically look for in a partner. But for those 72 hours, I was the undeniable center of his universe. Despite the swarm of beautiful, single women circling the wedding like it was their own mating dance, his attention never wavered. If his eyes did wander, he did a damn good job of hiding it.
When your sexual discipline is in check, it signals to us you’ve faced temptation and chosen mastery over indulgence. Instead of having “leaky sexual energy” aka looking at every shiny thing that walks by, we see that you have self-control. Self-control = safety. Safety is hot. Safety makes us shut our brains off, regress to our childlike wonder and let you lead us to the sandbox.
I’ve dated men who followed countless half-naked models on Instagram, liking every photo—and it drove me into a spiral of anxiety and insecurity. This tactic, often rooted in pickup artistry and dubbed “spinning plates,” might create short-term arousal through jealousy but it’s not the sustainable solution. Why?
It’s fucking exhausting for you to maintain.
You’re attracting insecure, low value women.
Eventually it will erode because you’ll either be turned off by her desperation or she’ll fucking hate you and tell all her girlfriends or worse, post you in one of those “Are We Dating The Same Guy” facebook groups.
Hot Tip: Check your gram. If we see unreciprocated follows from hot women, a high following-to-follower ratio, or you’re liking clickbait influencer posts—you’re disqualified. It’s not just a glaring lack of sexual discipline; the mental image of you hunched over, jerking off to your Explore page? Instant ick.
Sole Desire
Women become aroused when they feel desired. Unlike men, whose arousal is more stimulus-driven and visually triggered, women’s arousal is far more influenced by psychological and emotional cues. The most popular erotica for women often centers on a man obsessed with one woman, usually reluctant or unaware of her own desirability at first.
You see, women have main character syndrome. As soon as we start to feel like a supporting role, we’ll look for another lead. Shane made me Rachel McAdams to his tweaked out Noah. No audition required.
Neuroscience confirms what is known as “mirror activation”. When women become aroused, regions involved in empathy and mentalizing (i.e., imagining how another person feels) light up. In other words: a woman’s arousal often stems from imagining how much someone else desires her. This is different from being universally attractive—it’s being singled out and craved, which enhances self-perception and arousal.
Women experience peak arousal when they are admired, fantasized about, looked at with hunger and spoken to in ways that mirror their internal erotic self-image. This is also how you get a woman to try things she never would have imagined in the bedroom.
In Emily Nagoski’s research (Come As You Are, 2015), men reported higher arousal from watching their partner be aroused. Whereas women report higher arousal from feeling that their partner is turned on by them. Arousal for women often flows from being the object of desire, not just the subject of it.
Erotic Objectification (mirror their internal erotic image) + Safety = Sexual Disneyland
Safety
As anyone who’s read fucking Sapiens knows, a woman’s body didn’t evolve to jump straight into sex. It evolved to protect her. For most of human history, sex carried serious risks for women—pregnancy, abandonment, violence, social shame. And it still does. Because of that, a woman’s baseline is often hypervigilance: her nervous system scans for danger, even if she likes you. This is why women test.
Here’s how it often shows up:
She pulls away unexpectedly to see how you respond.
She challenges your opinion to feel your confidence.
She flirts with uncertainty—hot, then cold—to test your steadiness.
She makes a provocative or shocking statement to see how you respond.
She’ll poke fun at you to see if you can take it without getting butthurt or snapping back.
The key to winning these tests isn’t overpowering her. Here’s what she’s really looking for.
You stay calm under pressure.
You can hold tension without collapsing.
You desire her without getting distracted or impatient.
You respect her no to make space for her yes.
I rolled my eyes at Shane with every compliment, asked him when he would ever “grow up”, told him his deceased father sounded like a terrible person and left the wedding reception to go to bed without saying goodnight. Nothing deterred him. He passed all the subconscious (and conscious) tests.
Once a woman’s mind trusts you, then comes her body. That’s when she feels safe to express all parts of her and relinquish control.
Contrast
By contrast I am referring to the tension created when unexpected qualities coexist or appear in sequence. Contrast is about surprise and contradiction. It plays with breaking expectations and leads to erotic and emotional effect. It is different from polarity, which is about essence.
Polarity requires a counterpart to activate - it is the dance of opposites, an external presenting paradox that sparks through difference. Masculine needs feminine, dominance needs submission, stillness needs motion. Without a polarity partner, it lies dormant. Contrast, however, can live entirely within one person. It’s an internal AND external paradox, a set of contradictions that don’t cancel each other but coexist and when revealed, they strike another like lightning because their duality mirrors the very split within them. That’s what creates captivation: a mystery to be solved.
Polarity is rooted in who each person is being, not necessarily what they’re doing. It’s what creates attraction and needs to be managed in long-term relationships. Contrast, meanwhile, can serve short-term dynamics or keep long-term ones hot for years by inducing mental novelty.
You can have strong polarity without contrast (e.g., always dominant vs. always submissive). You can also have hot contrast with low polarity (e.g., a switchy dynamic where roles constantly invert). Or you can have both (e.g., a grounded, alpha man (polarity) who tears up during sex (contrast) = unforgettable).
My impromptu wedding date didn’t offer much in the way of polarity—but damn, did he deliver contrast. A neurotic love-bombing lost boy with a bad drug habit, sadistic fixation, and a heart of gold. A contradiction in every sense.
Contrast makes women think, “Who are you really?” And rest assured—she won’t stop trying to figure it out. She’ll keep coming back, chasing the puzzle, hungry for each new piece you reveal (or don’t).
The good news? Every man has it. We all contain multitudes. Gentle. Primal. Emotional. Nasty. Women want to experience your full erotic expression—whatever you’re genuinely feeling, in the moment you’re feeling it.
Ready to map your own erotic contrasts? Try my Wheel of Truth exercise and discover how to evoke the same arousal Shane does.
Aftercare
“I want to break you down and then I want to build you back up.”
“You can’t break the girl that’s already been broken.” (I’m so dramatic)
“Yes I can. And I will. But I’ll reassemble the pieces and put you back together in even better condition that I found you in.”
“No one’s ever put me back together before”, I said
Aftercare originated in the BDSM community. In the late 20th century as kink culture became more organized and safety-focused. Practitioners realized that intense scenes (especially those involving pain, dominance, or role-play) could trigger strong emotional and physiological responses, and that partners needed intentional tending afterward to recover, reconnect, and integrate.
Even though BDSM coined the term, aftercare should be a universal practice, especially after peak experiences involving:
Sexual climax (which floods the nervous system)
Emotional vulnerability (as in crying, confessing, surrendering)
Altered states (like trance, orgasm, or subspace)
Science shows that what happens after sex might be just as important as the act itself—especially when it comes to bonding, arousal, and long-term sexual satisfaction.
During sex—especially intense or vulnerable sex, your body releases:
Oxytocin: the "cuddle hormone" associated with bonding, trust, and affection.
Endorphins: natural painkillers that create a euphoric, floaty state.
Dopamine: the pleasure molecule, reinforcing reward and satisfaction.
Aftercare—cuddling, gentle touch, sweet talk, holding—prolongs this neurochemical cascade, helping the nervous system stabilize while deepening the sense of closeness.
Sex—especially rougher or emotionally charged sex—can push the nervous system into sympathetic arousal (fight/flight). Aftercare brings the body back into parasympathetic regulation (rest/digest), creating a full arc of experience. This transition is felt somatically as a wave of relief, safety, and surrender. When done with care and attunement, that moment of landing is not just comforting—it’s wildly erotic in its own right. The body associates that person with safety, depth, and pleasure.
From an evolutionary and somatic lens, women are often most aroused when they feel safe. Paradoxically, playing with danger (e.g., consensual dominance, primal sex) can amplify that arousal—but only if there's deep trust.
Aftercare reinforces:
“This was play.”
“I still see you.”
“You’re not bad for wanting this.”
This overcorrection—being cherished immediately after being ravished—creates a delicious incongruity. And that contrast is electric.
This is what keeps her coming back for more. Because when you have a sexually uninhibited woman all to yourself—fully open, fully yours—the depth and possibilities become infinite. This is where transcendent, euphoric sex lives. The kind that doesn’t just feel good—it changes you. It fuels your life force.
I’ve had “casual” partners literally make love to me. I’m talking eye gazing, synchronized breath and tears…only for them to immediately hop in the shower or get dressed. Conversely, I’ve had partners tie me up, call me the nastiest of names, degrade me, spit on me and edge me for hours and follow it with the softest of cuddles, praise, forehead kisses, chinese takeout and deep, passionate kisses. The latter works. The former fucking sucks. You see, the inverse of the aftercare ratio simply does not work. We will not come back for repeat business.
Your investment in safety and aftercare is directly proportionate to how far she’s willing to go in the bedroom.
In Summary
In the end, I didn’t sleep with Shane. With a country between us, my rational mind gradually returned. But the fact remains: for days after that wedding, I was utterly unraveled. Consumed. Which only confirmed what I’ve long suspected: The best fucking is mind fucking.
If you want to evoke the kind of magnetism and arousal Shane commands - without faking it or fragmenting yourself - you have to understand the psychology beneath. Getting to your erotic truth will change your entire life. Ready to have the entire world open up to you?
To give you an idea of how effective what Shane's doing is, the whole time I was reading this I was thinking "I'm not sure if I'd be able to fix the coke habit but I sure as hell wanna try, he seems worth it!"... now that I type that out that prolly says more about me, lol
But seriously, to all the men out there, I can't stress enough the importance of making a woman feel like she's special, that she's "the one and only." You ever wonder why Twilight became such a big thing? It's because being fawned over, so heavily desired is so FUCKING HOT. Even if the guy is a vampire who's 80-ish years older than you who watches you while you sleep and also kinda wants to eat you.
OMG. Loved🔥 Bookmarking to reread. Had me breathless reminding me of my own experiences. Thank you, I would love to read more of your pleasured writing.