She is a thousand light pink chrysanthemum buds, poised to unfurl one by one, like an ancient scroll of poetry in your arms.
She is a valiant purple lotus, bursting through the muddiest mud in a symphony of sweetness and sheer will power.
She is soft—her skin like silk—while her soul burns hot, raw, and passionate, like wildfire.
She looks at you with everything she’s got and sees deeply inside of you, into the shadow realms, the hurt, the beauty, the pain, the tattered edges of chapters that you’d like to forget—and she holds each and every part of you with love. Pure, unwavering love.
She isn’t an angel, and she isn’t your savior. But through the crowned glory of her femininity, she can—and will—change your life.
You know it.
You can’t un-know it.
You have fallen deeply under her spell—charmed by the way she is easily moved to tears, the way she takes no sh*t, lives passionately, the golden vibrance that envelops her when she is most herself.
She cares. She feels. She loves fiercely.
It’s sexy—it drives you mad in the best way.
How do you touch a woman like this?
A woman who knows she is magic—and knows you are, too.
A woman who makes you feel like all your dreams, even the distant ones you buried long ago, are budding into vivid, wild-eyed fruition.
A woman whose laughter is like springtime after a never-ending winter. It pierces your darkness and unravels all the threadbare places in your heart that told you to never open yourself to love again.
But you are utterly open to love. To her.
And this is a gift.
Oh, how you long to touch her. You can’t wait to feel her. To twirl her into your arms and press your body close to hers as the moon waxes full and ripe, like the kisses and cabernet you’ll share, staining your lips deep red, as your hearts swell with pleasure, like rubies.
Maybe you want to pounce on her like a hungry tiger, but waiting is better.
How do you touch a woman like this?
A woman you just might want to be with for the rest of your life.
A woman who makes you never want to utter any other lover’s name again. Just hers. Only hers.
Go slowly. Approach her with the utmost care, like the star-dusted goddess she is.
This is special. You knew it right away—by feeling the fireworks erupting in your gut when you first laid eyes upon her.
So touch her like you’ve never touched anyone before.
Touch her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. Like everything in the entire world depends on it.
Touch her like she is a storm about to sweep through the air, all promise, joy, and static electricity—the purest presence of your heart can make her rain.
Touch her like she is a celebration of life itself—all confetti, rapture, and ripe, dangerous curves.
Touch her like you’re weeping the tears you were always afraid to cry. Be humble.
Because you are not getting—or taking—anything by being granted access to the luscious rolling landscapes of her body.
It is about sharing the experience.
It is about all the sweet moments that lead up to kissing, touching, and sex. It is about the precious hours spent laughing. The adventures had. The deep conversations, leaving your souls perfectly exposed.
It is about trust. Surrender.
It is about making her feel as comfortable as possible. Soft sheets, handing her rich pink lilies, and a room bathed in candlelight.
To touch a woman is to worship her. It is to pray, as you plant your fingertips upon her, at the altar of her fantastic soul.
So pray, with the frenzied joy of your entire being—your eyes locked firmly on her, your lips trailing a symphony of kisses all over her arms, thighs, stomach, and neck—kisses that take root deep inside of her, blooming into roses on the surface of her skin.
It is not about your pleasure. It is about your every touch, every word, every whisper—opening her, petal by petal. It is about making springtime happen on her skin, her hips, inside her body, in her heart.
It is about respecting the vivid masterpiece that she is.
For she has a thousand folds, she is a kaleidoscope, swirling constantly, ever-changing like the sea—she is complicated, messy, wild, sad, shy, joyous, free, loud, angry, soft, sweet—and touching a woman is about touching every part of her.
The broken ones.
The dark ones.
The joyous ones.
The sweet ones.
It is touching her dreams. Her sadness. Her hopes and the spicy, exotic scent of her headiest possibilities.
To touch a woman is to feel beyond her skin, goosebumps rising like magic from the gentle weight of your fingertips—as you breathe in the mysterious galaxy she is.
It is not so much about touching her body—it is about tasting the magnificence of her soul.
It is about knowing her, reading her—page by page, kiss by kiss, caress by fantastic caress.
It is about giving her everything, but never making a promise you can’t keep.
It is about asking what she needs, who she is, who she used to be, what she regrets, who she is becoming.
It is about listening and taking your time. It is about the build-up.
She is to be cherished. Felt fully, with every ounce of your active attention.
For touching a woman is never about merely completing an act.
Oh, no, no.
It is about the joyous, creative journey of connecting. It is about the utter sacredness of your bodies folded sweetly together, the feathery softness of her skin against the roughness of your beard—for your bodies are bridges to your souls.
And when you kiss, when your lips meet, like two ruby pillows—everything changes.
The feminine meets the masculine.
Fireworks of blue and indigo violet go off in outer space—and energy is created in this connection.
A birth. A breath. It is bliss. The in-between. Ecstasy. Heaven. God. Goodness. Creativity. Love. It is healing.
Every touch, every graze of your fingers, every stroke, every lick, every kiss—it is about making her feel safe.
To touch a woman is to place your hands over her womb—and tell her with exactly no words that she is safe with you. That you don’t want to merely have sex with her—that you want to make love with her, make life with her, create art with her.
That you won’t take.
It is smelling the blessing of hope stained on her skin—and letting yourself surrender to the eternity of everything she is.
It is knowing that when you touch a woman, when your fingertips trace the edges of her inner thighs—you are entering a sacred space.
Never forget this.
Bow down to her.
For together, you can create a sacred union.
Every moment, every sensation is about creating more connection—and this is what makes it feel good.
Every touch has a fiercely pure intention behind it—and this is what makes it feel really good.
Every kiss contains your entire, dripping heart in it—and this is what makes it feel really, really good.
This depth of emotional, soulful connection—this will get her off.
Your vulnerability is the most important component. Your presence is required, one hundred 100 percent.
And when you enter her—there is no rush. Take your time. Feel everything. When she is succulent and ripe and ready, like a summer berry in its vibrant prime, her every cell will vibrate with readiness. Wait for this prime moment. Let her open to you, as slowly or quickly as she wishes. And when you feel her open— know what a sublime gift this is.
Feel the inhales fueling her body, feel the her essence dripping out. Feel what her body loves, what her heart needs. Follow it—like a map. See where it leads.
But know that she is the treasure. Not sex. Not finishing.
Simply being with her.
Simply breathing with her.
Simply knowing her.
Simply sharing this moment.
Listen to what she says, in the her raspy moans, but feel her speak with the movements of her hips, in the flushes of heat creeping up her neck, spilling onto her cheeks, painting her face with brushstrokes of rosy red.
Tune into her. There is only her—and you—and this moment.
There is no manual. She is your manual.
And after you make love—after your bodies lie spent and sweaty after joining in this epic dance of cosmic beauty—she should feel fantastic. And so should you. Fulfilled, cared for, and satiated—to the core. That’s really how we know if our hearts were in the right place, for this tender moment directly after sex exposes everything.
Continue to connect. Hold her. Don’t get up right away. Don’t fall asleep and face away. Lay together, limbs intertwined, hearts exposed. Trace her skin, connecting the dots of her scars and freckles, making constellations of all the atoms she is comprised of—the hot passion and lilac softness and incomprehensible beauty.
Always remember this—when you touch her, you are entering sacred space. A holy temple. The moment you forget this, she will feel the subtle shift and begin to close to you, her buds and leaves withering ever so slightly.
No—you want to make her bloom. Commit to that, dear lover.
For you are not here to take anything.
You are here to give.
But mostly—you are here to share this experience together.
To touch a woman is ecstasy. It is heaven. It is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Don’t ever forget it.