Do you Need to SWAMP?

I must be ascendant of swamp flowers —
My eyes find blessing in heavenly grays;
When my feet touch the muddy soil,
My soul is uplifted, by Mother Earth.
My arms spread like newborn petals
My lips unfold, under the rain

What’s more,
Unwelcoming arms to stormy whistles
Lips that curse the veil-like drizzles
Eyes unenchanted by dancing ripples;
They are not a home, for me.


If you are a Womxn, you probably experience a lot of emotions. On a deep level.
That is the nature of Womxn. We feel.

Regardless of this simple fact, the nature of our male dominated society means that throughout the centuries our feelings have been reduced to labels: too much, over the top, over-reactive, hysterical, unproductive and unwelcome.

Because we feel, Womxn have felt these labels in a big, big way.

There are a few fundamental qualities a human-being needs to thrive in this world and most can be boiled down to Love, Safety and Belonging.

So when an intuitive, feeling Womxn recognises that she/they are perceived as too much, or that they are unwelcome, they experience a very real threat against their humanity:
the threat of not belonging.

Cast your mind back to Highschool. Whether you personally experienced it or you witnessed it you will recall beings who visibly did not belong. You probably noticed a shurnkenness to them, a timidity, a translucent, almost sickly, invisibility.

Sometimes when a Womxn feels like they don’t belong they try to shrink themselves. They try to banish their feelings to a far off land, turning their back on themselves. But these feelings don’t go away, they remain, like a cloud looming above their head, suffocating their capacity to see any signs of light.

Emotional suffocation. When a Womxn tries to outrun their emotions and then succumbs by becoming their emotion. They believe they are their grief, anger, resentment, fear, pain – they are stuck, they have become their feelings.

Returning to high-school there is another type of Womxn, one you may not have easily noticed. It is the Womxn who feels deeply, and is scared of that feeling. Having witnessed their Emotionally suffocating peers they believe their feelings, if found out, will make them not belong. So they vow to themselves that no one will ever know what they are feeling on the inside.

Emotional suppressors. When a Womxn feels an ocean of feelings but fears gravely what might happen if these feelings are discovered they have no other choice but to become numb.

Their body churning with an ocean of emotions with nowhere to go they internally start to shut down. They know how to plaster a smile on their face for the outside world, but inside they are dying, like a flower without sunlight, forgotten and distorted.

Both suffocating and suppressing feelings cause a Womxn to lose their true belonging.

But it is not lost. It is born again through rupture.

Womxn are born to rupture.

We know how to feel.

We know how to move our emotions through us, like a fire raging through the bush we can clear out the debris of our own heart and of the whole world.

We are MEANT to feel our feelings. To feel them and let them move through us, like fire, like a wave, like the wind, like an earthquake – all of these natural elemental experiences have a beginning, middle and end.

The trick no one taught us is that instead of running away from our emotions we should be running towards them. Crying when our heart is hurting. Screaming when we are enraged. Purging when we are sickened by atrocities.

WE NEED TO LET OURSELVES FEEL. WHEN WE FEEL WE HEAL.

Have you ever noticed that your feelings heighten before your menstruation? They say our menstruation forces us to say, and feel all that we have been bottling away from the previous cycle.

Imagine if you hadn’t bottled a thing?

Imagine if your friend called you and told you that their Mother had cancer and you said and then together you cried in pain and fear. Imagine if you saw footage from a refugee camp and the injustice of it all made you so sick that you got onto your hands and knees and you wailed for 10 minutes straight. Imagine if your daughter told you that a man on the train had been looking at her creepily, and you both picked up a dish cloth and started smashing it against the wall screaming obscenities at him, and at all those beings who make Womxn feel unsafe.

This is SWAMPING. A practice born by Mumma Gena – author of Pussy. The intentional practice of noticing your feelings and then letting them be fucking felt. Letting them move, and purge through your body however they want without any restriction.

Have you ever seen a toddler have a tantrum? Mum won’t buy them that artificial candy and bam, they feel the injustice and then they express it. They drop to the ground, flail their tiny body around. Wraith in anger. And then they get up, return to mum for a hug – and continue their day.

That is what is possible for us adult Womxn. We don’t have to shut our bodies down. Dim our light. Kill ourselves to fit into a society that is, by design, not inclusive of 50% of the population.

We need to create a new norm around feelings.

For it to be normal to express our emotions healthily, to witness healthy emotional expression. To welcome feelings and celebrate feelings.


We will never stop feeling. But we can learn to love our feelings, find the blessings in their heavenly gray. Put our feet into their mud. Be uplifted, like a radiant swamp flower.


Melbourne! You can join me for SWAMPING alongside other womxn this Sunday – December 6th! This week’s Pussy Pride will be all about SWAMPING. When we SWAMP together the gap between us closes. We remember that we are all in this together, feeling different versions of the same struggles that are felt from the age of a toddler, to high-school, until the day we leave this earth.

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Introductory poem: The calm in the Storm by Clairel Estevez

Panda Points – A Celibate Tally of Self Love

Whilst roaming Africa years ago, I found myself tucked into a cosy corner deep in conversation with a fellow traveller, a witty Dutch woman. After an exchange of stories on my favourite topic- sex – and at that point in time, my lack of it, she questions: How many Panda Points are you on?

Panda Points?

Female pandas ovulate just once a year. When that precious window opens, you would think they’d be rearing to romp, but no. Pandas don’t get down with any ol’ lover, she is picky and turned off by the idea of fucking in captivity… go figure. This lousy libido has been analysed in dismay, as pandas literally unfuck their way towards extinction.

The Dutch woman explained that Panda Points are an award system for us humans, inspired by panda sex life, to calculate each month of celibacy — intended or not. The points accrue until they are either ‘banged-off’ or you hit the magic twelve: a full year without getting down to funky town. And then, it’s time for a Panda Party!

At a Panda Party, guests arrive in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of this hoopla, peacocks one virginal panda. Unsurprisingly, these parties often end with a panda costume laying flaccid and forgotten on the ground – Panda Points dissolved. 

At the time, a Panda Party sounded like a fabulous affair but I, Chloe the well fucked womxn, would never be its panda.

To me, even a month without sex felt like a farmer in the midst of a drought; filled with sickening fear for the livelihood of their wilting crop. To summons the rain god, the farmer would strip down naked, run out into the thirsty pastures, and dance — Rain down upon me!

Not unlike farmers, when I feared my sex-crop was wilting, I’d doll myself up, head to the smuttiest nightclub in town, and lure a cum god to rain upon my dry pastures.

Yet as we entered Melbourne’s second round of enforced human distancing and social isolation, no matter what these cum gods grumbled, we singles couldn’t do a damn thing about our panda-point scoreboards. Pandas in captivity, and we humans suddenly had a lot more in common.

In the beginning, the inability to connect, touch, cuddle, play, or fuck genuinely plummeted me into a grieving process.

First, denial: Whatever! Having sex is probably GOOD for a virus — sex makes people happy, and happy people have better immune systems! 

Then came anger: FUCK YOU COVID19! Can’t you see I’m in the PRIME OF MY YOUTH and deserve to be fucking according to my free will! 

Depression came knocking: This is the end. I am going to die alone, never to be touched or loved again, and buried with years worth of uncelebrated panda parties.

Then bargaining: Well maybe… I can get onto FetLife and meet someone with a mask and goggles on?

And finally… acceptance.


I accepted that for reasons beyond my understanding I was to surrender to the company of, not a ‘cum god’, but my own inner Goddess.

I chose to see isolation and my accruing panda points as a demand from the Self-Love-Goddess to ‘Get to know YOURSELF better than anyone has or ever could’.


From that moment I have journeyed through EVERY dark nook, and velvety cranny of my utterly unique being — mind, body and soul.


I have fed my mind with book after book so that I can learn all I can about sex, love and relationships. I have learnt to communicate with my pussy and ask her what she would like to do, wear, eat, listen to. I have learnt to penetrate her more lovingly than anyone EVER has before. I wept while she told me how often I had crossed her boundaries with past penetrations.
I have given myself cosmic orgasms with tools of breath, sound and movement.


I have met my inner-child, heard her pains, her longings and I have tended to them by empowering my inner-mother and inner-father. I have poured out my heart and filled it up with the sweet nectar of my learning that pleasure is a choice to be made every single day.


I have danced to pop for the first time in years. I have danced wildly to my beloved techno. I have screamed bloody murder dancing naked to Rage Against the Machine.


I manifested my dream home so that I could spend lockdown with a soul sister. I have coached incredible womxn over zoom and held space for their own transformations. I started my own freakin’ business. All this growth on the fuel of my sexual energy.


I have reached TWELVE MOTHER FUCKING Panda Points and I could not be more radiant.


At my Panda Party, guests arrived in all manner of jungle-themed costumes, and at the centre of the hoopla, peacocked one proud virginal panda…me.


A HUGE THANK YOU to my amazing friends for making my Panda Party more wholesome than ever imaginable – particularly Mumma Africa and Mr. Mt Kilimanjaro for all the time spent cutting out pussy’s, leaves and cocks!

Thank you to the EPIC Robyn Strathearn (Giraffe) for her stunning, always joyous photography.

Thank you to Caroline for helping me write this piece throughout the year before I even knew the article would be about me.

Thank you to Caity’s Cookies for providing the iconic vegan and gluten free cookies.

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You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything

I have come to the understanding that a womxn’s menstruation is more than a time to shed blood. It is a time to shed suppressed emotions, to shed tears laced with our deepest fears, it is a time to shed womb memories from our ancestors, and it is a time to shed our own womb trauma. For to be a womb-being on this earth is to know trauma.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

My best friend and housemate Amber – previously known to long time readers as Zimbabawia – said this when I got off the phone.

I was upset.

Upset because I could sense a pattern emerging from my new interaction with a man.

Three weeks ago I had gone on the red hot pursuit of him. For the first two weeks I thoroughly enjoyed our communication, but as I entered the third week my interest was waning, and I felt myself less and less available.

It is important to note that when we began communicating I was in the Summer phase of my cycle, Ovulation. Fast forward two weeks and I had moved through Autumn and was well on my way to Winter – menstruation. Having become so much more aware of my emotional relationship to my menstruation this makes sense, Autumn and Winter are times for shedding and turning inwards.

On our call I spoke my brutal truth – ‘I actually don’t want to be asked questions, in fact I really don’t feel like talking to you at the moment. I just don’t want to connect online.’

Afterwards I was feeling like shit. In fact as I write this I can feel a heavy, dense and dark presence looming over me, and my laptop.

I spoke my truth to this kind man. Yet as I did it I kept hearing a voice in my head saying: ‘You’re a tease. You’re leading him on. You’re wasting his time.’

These harsh words are so against my core beliefs that although it was painful to hear, I thought, well maybe it’s because they’re really true? Maybe I hurt people with my desires, my flirtation, my wants.

You Don’t Actually Owe Anyone Anything.

Amber said this to me as I nestled my heavy head into her bosom, laying on the couch. And something landed. We stayed there for hours and my subconscious mind was coming to a deep sense of realisation.

You see, in the past I have been called those things: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

I’ve been called them by men, by womxn, and even by family members. Although every time I fought the labels vehemently, I didn’t have any foundational evidence as to why that wasn’t true. When it happens enough times, you start to believe the labels you are assigned.

Cuddling on the couch finally gave me the time and connection that I needed to uncover my evidence.

It wasn’t long ago that I found out what the word boundaries meant. When I was told that I didn’t have strong boundaries I thought the person making this claim was talking about a fence around a paddock… I think that says enough.

But it was true, I didn’t have boundaries. When I began to be a sexually active young womxn I delighted in flirtation, banter, and randy dancing,and when things started to turn up a notch, and the receiver of my flirtation made an advance, I didn’t know how to back out of the situation…

I had initiated this flirting. This dancing. This Banter. So that meant I wanted it. Didn’t it?

I didn’t. But I did it anyway. Because I thought I had too. Because I believed I owed it.

It = my body, my mouth, my pussy.

This went on for some years, then eventually something started to shift. I remember a few times when I had engaged in an evening of flirtation and the recipient went to make the next move, I expressed my objection. My no.

And that’s when I got it: You’re a tease. You lead him on. You wasted his time.

From the men, from womxn, from a family member. I was fed this dialogue and I was furious.

Why was I being punished when it did not feel like I was doing anything wrong?

No one had an answer for me. I was left with these accusations, I didn’t even know I had taken them to be my truths.Until this week.

When I told that beautiful man my truth, that I wanted to reduce our communication, that I don’t want to connect online – there were two parts of me present.

First: The empowered, Goddess, Queen, part of myself who knows how to listen to her truth and then SPEAK it.
Second: My young, newly developed sexual little womxn. The one who was coerced into believing, ‘You owe them something. You owe them your body, your sex, your love.’

Writing this is my expression of bundling my sexual little womxn up into my arms and telling her that she never owed anyone anything. That she wasn’t doing anything wrong. That her love of flirting is a pure, and a beautiful form of moving her life force energy.

I am telling her right now that she always has and always will have the right to change her mind.

That every single other womxn has the right to change their mind too.

That our bodies are not properties.

That our actions are not contracts. ONLY our words. Only CONSENT. Always CHECKED IN ON.

I have come to the understanding that each menstruation is a beautifully painful opportunity to shed the trauma my younger self endured. To heal her wounds. To deprogram the narrative that a womxn owes everything. When in fact, she owes nothing.

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Is it Time for Heart Healing?

In the days that follow the Another Visit to the Stars event, I am humiliated, vulnerable, and afraid of what happens next. So, like many vulnerable times before, I decide that a man and his cock will surely penetrate away my need to face reality.

The man I find happens to look like Thor — dribble — and he does indeed hammer me for three days, though on the fourth night, while dancing in a dingy Portuguese nightclub he casually asks ‘Chloe you do you mind if I hook up with another chick?’

I am devastated, well that’s an understatement — I run out of the nightclub and wail in the streets of Lisbon screaming
‘WHYYY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO MEEEEEE?’

With a face of horror, Thor finds me the corner, requesting access to me as my friends guard me. He kneels down to mournfully explain that he had assumed I was a liberal, polyamerous being, and that he’d genuinely thought I would be happy with him kissing another woman.

The assumption strikes me…of course he believes this falsity. I portray myself to BE that woman. I don’t dare to show the soft, broken, vulnerable, and lonely side of me who so longs to be loved — who would hook up with her?

The next morning I awake with a hardening in my stomach and words from a dream whispering — Your heart chakra is blocked. Determined to make change, I intuitively google – Heart Chakra. I’ve been doing yoga for a long time and always hear about these chakras but it wasn’t until recently I learnt that they can become blocked. My google search leads me to a FB group; Portugal Conscious Community.
Without thinking twice, I post:

I need help…I’m writing here because I don’t know what else to do. I think my heart chakra is blocked, I am trapped in a loop of getting hurt by men over and over again. I don’t know how to stop it? I don’t know how to help myself? Please?

I press post, and leave the house alone, again letting intuition walk my legs up the steep, cobbled streets until the place: a hairdressers. Walking out I feel 50% better with my shimmering, revibratised red hair. Continuing my destiny lead walk, I round the corner and spot a tattoo studio. Why not? An hour later, I leave with my membership to the Self Love Club.

A long time ago, my friend and I discussed that some people have to get cut down before they learn to get up again. She and I however, need to get cut down, spit on, trampled by elephants, and pissed on by an alley cat before we realise we need to GET UP.

This was my moment.

I was stinking of alley-cat-piss and I was ready to take a fuckin shower. My hair and my tattoo, as cliche as it may sound, filled me with a deep knowing that a time for CHANGE had arrived.

When I returned to my surprised friends and my iPad, I saw that a woman from Lagos had messaged me saying that she’d seen my call for help on FB. She was a healer and held personalised one-day retreats to work on blockages such as my heart chakra. It was too good to be true. I scrolled to her her pricing and the traveller in me gave a cough cough,
Hey gal, I know you wanna make a change but you just spent a lot of money on your visual transformation. Now you wanna travel all the way to Lagos and spend 150 euros as well? I don’t think so.

So, I pushed the brakes on change.


After the rest of the crew had departed Zimbabwia, North Star and I took ourselves to a calm hostel with a pool. There, we simply took much needed recovery time. I spent a lot of time on my own feeling there was an unreachable rift between Zimbabwia and I. Finally one night the girls confessed how they were both still suffering from the Another Visit to the Stars experience. They needed time, but they wanted to make sure that I was okay?

It was horrible. Like something from the movies where you’re the unstable friend everyone has their eye on, waiting for shit to go down. After some days of rest, an event came up in Lisbon with a DJ we all knew and liked. Maybe some good old dancing will shake off this discomfort, we thought, and bought tickets.

Dressed up, I feel like my normal self again, until Zimbabwia says,
You’re not going to take anything today are you?
It is a completely understandable question on her end; she’s just seen me in a state that even I don’t remember. She spent hours bringing me back to reality and she doesn’t want to do it again.

Regardless of the ocean of emotions the question has triggered inside me I tell her
I’ll be fine. I slap on a cute outfit and away we go.

Back once more in a humming techno crowd I just can’t get into the vibe. Taking a break from the dancefloor I bump into a Melbourne sister — Star Sister — she immediately senses that I am emotional and asks if I want to sit down. I hardly know this girl yet suddenly I am telling her all about my recent, fucked up, experiences of turning into a star, becoming the whole universe and believing that most likely I am going insane.

Hey, she says beaming, You are not crazy! You are having an awakening, you are a star, we all are. All human beings are made of stardust. I know because I’ve had the same experience, I’ve experienced what it feels like to be the infinite nothingness. We are all one and you are completely extraordinary.

Her words are like a river of angels singing into my ears, this cannot be true. Tears stream down my face as she reaches over to pull me in. For the first time in weeks, I feel safe, seen, and sane.

As Star Sister holds me, I sense someone coming towards us. Becoming self-aware of my dance floor crying, I release the embrace and find a woman standing over us,
I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Chloe?

Yes? I stammer. I have no recollection of this curly haired, witchy-looking Portuguese woman. I’m Mayatitta, I wrote to you on Facebook about having a healing, I live in Lagos but this morning I woke up and felt a call to come to this event.

Star Sister grabs me by the shoulders laughing, Do you see now?! This is no coincidence you are not crazy, you are magical!

The tears are erupting now, Mayatitta holds me and gives me an ointment from her bag — This is a heart chakra oil that I always carry with me, take it. All three of us are embracing and I’m sobbing when North Star and Zimbabwaia come over to see what the hell is happening.

While I explain the days ‘coincidence’ meetings their pent up stress, fear and trauma turns to disbelief, then disbelief gives way to belief. Belief that every fucked up thing that has happened, just might be true.

I turn to Mayatitta. What are you doing tomorrow? I think it’s time for heart healing.


Thank you to my friends for always believing in me, even when it’s been pretty fucking scary.

Photo by @abundantlilly

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Down With Expectations — Including Facebooks Expectation that I will Go Away Quietly

A hard but important lesson on sex:

This morning during an intimate experience with a partner we both managed to trigger one another.

I gave him sensual touch which I felt like giving, but once I had had enough I stopped.

My partner was triggered as enjoying the experience he had expected my touch was leading to intercourse / orgasm.

Being tantric he expressed that he was feeling triggered and needed a way to release the anger he now felt in his body from lack of release…. cue my trigger.

I was furious. ‘How RIDICULOUS’ I shouted to him. How dare you have expectations.

We sat down and talked and it became clear. Pornography and male standards had led my partner to having the belief that sexual touch from a woman will, and SHOULD lead somewhere.

Now in tears I explained how this expectation had lead to me having unwanted sex in my past, more times than I can say.

You see men and women are trapped in this vicious cycle TOGETHER. Young BOYS and MEN are continuing to receive information from society and the media that sexual expectations of women are standard.

Meanwhile WOMEN have not been told that they are FREE from expectations. That their body is THEIR OWN. That any sexual touch they choose to give STOPS when they want it to stop. That it’s OKAY to change your mind DURING sexual interaction / intercourse. Women have not been made aware OR made to feel safe to SPEAK THEIR TRUTH.

Imagine this, you’re a man having sex and suddenly your dick goes soft — for whatever reason. What happens now? The sexual intercourse stops, you cannot continue.

Well if a woman’s vagina turns ‘off’ — for whatever reason there is no GATE that suddenly closes and shoves the penis / fingers / tongue (you get my point) out. There are NO gates in a woman, there are only her WORDS.

Once I explained this to my partner he was speechless. He thanked me so much for teaching him this and promised to teach the men in his life this vital lesson. I walked downstairs grabbed my iPad and typed this.

Now it’s your turn. Spread this message men AND women together need to create a new sex culture. And I ain’t fucking stopping till we get there.

How have you experienced expectations in sexuality?

Artist unknown — please comment if you do ❣


This was posted posted onto facebook the morning of November 4th 2019. By nighttime it had reached 12 000 people I was flooded with private messages from MEN and WOMEN about how this issue had touched them, reminding them of their own painful experiences of engaging in sexual experiences that were NOT a full YES from their yoni / lingum.

Without notification, email, any form of contact my post was deleted the next morning.

Facebooks filtration of vital content perpetuates a world were men and women are refused the basic human right to sex education that can literally transform the way we relate and can even REDUCE even sex violence.

Creating a change for sex culture will be harder without major platforms like Facebook, but that ain’t gonna fucking stop me.

And to YOU: comment below on how you feel about my original post, about deleted content, and please if this resonates SHARE IT!

Sisterhood

More and more often these days I am meeting women who tell me that it’s easier for them to connect with men than women:

‘Women are bitchy.’
‘Women are judgemental.’
‘Women are so deceiving.’

Oh boy, does it hurt me to hear these things.

You see, it isn’t this way for me. I am, well as a cis person, I’m kind of a womaniser.

I’ve been surrounded by women my entire life. I was raised by a single mother and her many clucky, mostly Irish, nurse friends — ‘Oh you wee pet!’

I grew up alongside my two female Australian cousins — playing naked barbies.

In primary school, my girlfriends and I put ourselves in charge of telling off the boys for looking up girls skirts.

Entering high school my girlfriends and I entered puberty together and had daily discussions about how best to kiss with the mouth open and if putting a tampon in mean you’ve lost your virginity.

Girlfriends from uni, girlfriends from travel, cafe jobs, girlfriends of girlfriends, girlfriends of boyfriends…even dancefloor girlfriends. It just keeps expanding!

I seem to have a natural talent for befriending women and further to that I have a talent for connecting them together.

The more women I connected with around the world, the more I realised I couldn’t possibly see them on a regular basis so instead I started to link them with one another. Now today many of my girlfriends have formed strong and long lasting bonds.

And that’s okay with me. In fact, it’s wonderful! I am not jealous — I am happy that the global sisterhood has extended and is strengthened through their connections.

So here inside my big, harmonious, bubble of women it never even occurred to me that some women out there find it hard to connect with other women.

I got to thinking — Where has this come from? I mean, if we go way back when, in ancient times, there was the Matriarchy. There was the Red Tent where on the new moon women congregated together to bleed, support and share stories. Women danced beneath the full moon, held ceremonies, helped each other give birth — they were magical; they were fucking witchy sisters.

But then somewhere along the line the Patriarchy started to rise forth, and what was the best way to break the strong ties of women? Turn them against each other. Burn the witches and threaten — unless you surrender a witch to us, you’ll burn.
Women were cornered into turning against each other. If you outed a witch sister, you were a bitch, if you didn’t, you paid the price.

Okay, okay, I realise I may have lost some of you there but I’m serious. This really resonates with me. I simply DO NOT believe that backstabbing, dishonesty, fear, betrayal, jealousy and catty behaviour is at the core of who women are. It’s a result of years of distrust, disconnection and isolation.

Today, many of us are disconnected from the females around us, even the ones who gave birth to us, or the ones who gave birth to them. I know I would certainly feel uncomfortable having a conversation about menstruation with my grandmother, let alone my sexuality.

For many it really feels like the Sisterhood has been lost.

And so I believe it is my mission to help resurrect the Sisterhood and have started holding women’s circles on the road and online.

The women who tell me that they cannot connect with other women, who then join me in a women’s circle, feel the feminine energy, feel what it’s like to be heard, feel the womb love. That’s when the sisterhood healing begins and their usually ain’t a dry eye in the circle (bless the ability to feel true emotion with your TEARS!)

Sisterhood comes first. We are meant to tell each other face-to-face the things that have been whispered behind backs and feel safe in doing so: ‘You let me down when you….’ ‘I’m jealous of your job.’ ‘I feel intimidated around you.’ I get the feeling you really don’t like me, is this true?’ ‘I’ve been connecting with your ex-boyfriend and I just wanted to check with you if it’s okay that I pursue the connection?’

I have seen these conversations happen. I have started these conversations. These conversations have been started with me! And no, I didn’t mind that the girl started hooking up with my ex, I was just fucking delighted that she had asked!

Yes, it is confronting, unusual, a new way of communicating with sisters — but actually, it’s an ancient, witchy way of communicating. And it’s fucking magical.


Women’s circles are an ancient ritual to connect sisters of all ages, to share stories of womanhood, to be witnessed, to be gifted true presence — no advice. To be mirrored and met, 100% in whatever shape you come.

Click here to join a circle


Thank you to Margo and Cim ek for this beautiful photo journey


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Hard Core Soil Porn

Deeper, deeper into the darkness

Stronger, growing to the light

More deeply rooted in the darkness

Opening wider to the light

Like the tree grounded in the soil

Reaching with its branches higher, higher up

How many times did I touch the dead-end?

Close observation leads me to the conclusion that all life comes from the destruction, and without destruction, there is no life.

Let’s take the hummus – black soil — as an example. What else is soil, or so called Mother Earth, giving birth to all life, if not a product of the decomposition of something else, that existed before?

Annihilation and transformation of life into matter…

In nature everything is eating one another…Constantly.

There is nothing stable, and balance is simply an equilibrium between eating and being eaten. Being born, giving birth and returning to the earth.

Soil represents the entire natural world.

So, given the example, I am not so sure where to place all the good intentions…

It may or may not sound very Buddhist to you, but without death, there is no life.

Without soil there is no life.

I am the soil. Maybe not quite yet, but I am sure, quite soon I will be.

I am the water. The air. The temperature. The Fire.

Spirit?

Earth is soulful.

“When we walk, we are aware that the Earth is holding our steps. But Mother Earth is not just below us, under our feet, Mother Earth is inside of us. To think that Mother Earth is only environment outside of us, around us, is wrong. Mother Earth is inside of us. We don’t need to die to go back to Mother Earth. We are already in Mother Earth. That is why we have to learn how to take refuge in her.”

Thich Nhat Hanh

I take refuge in the bacteria that live in the soil and live inside my gut because I know that without destruction and decomposition, without transformation, there is no life.

Soil always brings me back to whatever is.

You can take all your good intentions, all your forgiveness, rightfulness and all your cleaning detergents, but they will not help you, because without destruction, there is no life.

The hell with good intentions!

Soil IS DIRTY. Soil is dirt. And I like it this way. My pussy is just the same way. Dirty giver to the life.

I am part of it. And I can’t ever be apart. I am human child, humble, hummus.

Soil gives me a better chance than your clean Gods, therefore I am, and my body is, speaking only for the soil. I don’t want anything else, do not show me the greater Path. Do not preach to me about change other than the one I can observe in my aging body and in my nearest environment – the soil that is always just below, like a gentle reminder about my final destination.

How many times do you touch the soil?

Body we can kiss, hug, touch and admire, but we can not touch the Soul, unless we slow down and close our eyes. Soil is the outer landscape, and Soul, the inner landscape.

What we do to soil we do in fact to ourselves.

Kali, be with us.

Violence,destruction, receive our homage.

Help us to bring darkness into the light,

To lift out the pain, the anger,

Where it can be seen for what it is-

The balance -wheel for our vulnerable, aching love.

Put the wild hunger where it belongs,

Within the act of creation,

Crude power that forges a balance

Between hate and love.

Help us to be the always hopeful,

Gardeners of the spirit

Who know that without darkness

Nothing comes to birth

As without light

Nothing flowers.

Bear the roots in mind,

You, the dark one, Kali Ma.

Hard Core Soil Porn is a collaboration captured by the amazing Cim Ek, lived and written by Margo and shared by me.

Margo was going through an extremely challenging time and instead of hiding herself away in her pain she decided to have her pain captured with Cim’s gentle lense and write about the process.

Her ability to dive daringly into the depths of her shadows was inspirational. Her ability to turn it into a work of art is pure beauty. Thank you Margo for letting me share your words so that all women may see that even pain is beauty and needs not to be hidden away. Let our fertile soil continue to bear truth in this world.

Have you given space for your pain and shadows lately? Would you do as Margo did and capture it through image and words?

Get in contact with me if you feel a calling, or share your story for all to see in the comments below.


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The Lover and The Prowler

So I’m a Gemini. For those who know anything about astrology it’s commonly known as ‘the twin’ — the dualistic persona. When it comes to sex, my louder persona — The Prowler, loves the freedom and empowerment of a one night stand. For years I’ve loved going to events, prowling a crowd, picking my mark and ending the night in bed with said chosen.

However, there is another side of my sex story. A side who has not had as much time in the spotlight — The Lover. She loves sex that is meaningful, and with a person whom she feels a deep connection to. Someone she can truly blossom with.

In this tale both the twins come out to have their say.


I will forever regard Windhoek as being the home to the world’s best couchsurfing-host-women, ever. Twerk Queen and her five sister’s humble home gives us our first glimpse of what it would be like to be a true local. Tucked away in the heart of Katutura Township, the thrum of music drifts from the numerous bars, children play freely on the street, prowling cats and dogs seeking scraps of food and with the right with a waft of the Single Quarters meat market fills the air.

The girls give us their bed, their food, their company, and even attempt teaching us how to Twerk (previously concluded by our tiny white asses as a physical impossibility).

The sisters are taking us into town with a group of their friends. Walking into a bar I am gobsmacked. It feels like we’ve walked into a Melbourne bar, the most obvious difference being our glowing skin, standing out amongst the dark chocolate crowd. Everyone is trendy as fuck and all walks of life are represented; there are hipsters, glam girls, gangsters, suits, you name it.

I’m positioned at the bar waiting for my GnTs and peering out at the sea of people, when the beat takes on a different nature. Oozing out of the speaker is a combination of jazz, soul and funk — I instantly feel my hips organically sway to the rhythm. It’s not just me; everyone around me is transformed by this music. Booties are shaking, hips are grinding, they’re fully immersed in dance, full of confidence, full of pride in their varying body shapes. And they are showing the fuck off. I froff this place.

Still grinning from this sight, a 6ft tall woman passes by. I recognise that she is a transvestite. Apprehensively, I look ahead to see what the reactions towards her will be… nothing.

This city is seriously blowing me away! There’s a transvestite and no one batting an eyelid! She is safe and accepted HALLELUJAH!

Let me explain. I’ve been travelling through parts of Africa e.g. Tanzania where being homosexual is still punishable by imprisonment. So now, coming to Namibia and seeing humans of all gender identifications, wearing whatever the fuck they like, dancing however the fuck they want; brings me pure joy.

GnTs in hand, I make my way outside to sit with Twerk Queen and her gang of guy friends. Somehow we get onto the topic of anal sex.

No no. That is only for gay people,’ declared one of the male friends.

I look over at his normally loud buddies and they are silent —not daring to disagree. Filled with confidence from this progressive place, I decide that this is a topic we can safely debate. And so that’s what we do; Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia and I proudly share our views of how men can enjoying all parts of a woman’s body and it does not make them gay.

As the silent friends start to find their voice and agree with what we are saying, I catch the eye of a beautiful man. He’s well over 6ft tall, wearing a bright yellow hoodie, and he’s looking directly at me. I feel myself instantly blush. He waves me over and I excuse myself from the conversation which has now evolved to tips for anal play.

Attendee introduces himself. Besides his strong facial features, impressive height, and stylish get up, he is also beautifully spoken and sophisticated. He’s effortlessly wooing me and The Prowler is letting him.

I’m here with my flight attendant friends,’ he boasts.

He introduces me to his glamourous colleagues. They tell tales of stop offs to Berlin; nights out in the Bergine; ocean dips in Lisbon and attending concerts in London. They come from another world and I am whisked away by Attendee’s stories.

Meanwhile, my gang’s night has come to an end and they are ready to to hit the road.

Are you coming with us?’ questions a suggestive Zimbabawia.

I turn to Attendee, uncharacteristically shy, and he replies:

You’re staying at mine aren’t you?

At this point Twerk Queen steps in and tells him:

She is under my supervision and YOU had better look after her. Give me your number. What’s your address? Call me when you get home AND call me in the morning!

Yes mam! She turns to leave but not before striking him one last watch it glare.

So that’s it. I’m going home with Attendee. Jumping into the taxi I hear the tiny voice of my The Lover protesting. I decide it’s just nervousness, this is my first one night stand, outside of the desert since Durban Boy.

We detour to get late night Nandos and take it back to his living room where the sharing of greasy food allows me to relax. As if a segway into the events ahead — we lick the chicken salt off our fingers and he invites me into his bedroom.

Again the nerves in my belly flare up. I sit awkwardly on his bed waffling on about the cool clothes in his wardrobe. Half listening, he pulls off his jumper to reveal a body I will never forget.

The nerves start to dissipate. This is what we’re here for. We’re not here to make friends. Not here to get to know each other. No. We are here for sex.

As he comes towards me I instinctively reach out my hand to caress this new, beautiful skin. Clearly wanting to do the same he yanks my top over my head to reveal my bra free (always) breasts.

Laying between my legs he takes each breast into his hands and tenderly kisses my erect nipples. He twirls my nipple ring with his tongue and I watch like a voyeur feeling the warmth grow in my body.

I gently put my hands on his spongy hair and encourage him to come up to face me. Finally, we kiss. Oh. My. God. My instant thought is to feel my own lips. Are my lips really that small?

Kissing him again I am in heaven. It’s like kissing the softest, most moist, beautiful black pillows. I’m only just getting started on his pillows when he lifts them off my mouth and moves them down along me; down, down, down, to pussy town.

I am wet with anticipation, if those lips felt like that on my mouth then… OMG he has arrived. He parts me with his tongue and moves his lips around my outer lips. His tongue gently strokes along my clit making me moan.

Because I find it hard to orgasm while the attention is solely on me, I swivel around so that I come face to face with his erection.

His dick; oh my gosh his dick. By now you probably realise I haven’t been with a man whose darker than my breakfast cinnamon. And now, as I take this beauty in my mouth, I am wondering, Why the hell haven’t I?

As usual the distraction of a cock in my mouth allows me to fully relax and come to orgasm. We come back to eye level and marvel at one another’s skin. Running our hands along each other we joke about our differences and then he enters me and colours are forgotten.

We are one union of pleasure, grinding down onto him I feel full of life, lust, and freedom — freedom to explore my sexuality while I travel this amazing continent. With this thought in mind Attendee climaxes and I drift off to sleep in his soft arms.

Yes, yes she’s asleep. Oh no, here she is, she woke up.’

My morning lay in is disturbed by Attendee handing me his phone.

Hello?’ I ask, quite confused. Twerk Queens commanding voice comes through ‘Girl you alright? I told him he has to bring you home’.

The phone call finally finishes with Attendee swearing that he is bringing me home soon. And then, silence falls between us.

We have nothing more to say to one another. Fascinating. How can there be so much language without words when our clothes are off. But when the morning comes it’s like we are strangers again.

When I jump out of his car I look at Attendee in his rather sexy uniform, yet I feel nothing. For the first time it dawns on me that although I love and respect my sexual freedom, The Lover, the connection seeking persona in me, simply isn’t satisfied with just penetration.

At this realisation, The Lover seems to be getting louder; ‘I tried to tell you!

I think it’s about time this twin had some time in the spotlight. I wonder who she’ll meet next?



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Artwork by @_monadoma_


Mother Nature and her Women

Quiz time! Which country is so wild that it has free-roaming wildlife; is the size of Alaska, yet has a population of only 2.5 million; and is home to the world’s largest sand dune?

Don’t know? It’s Namibia, of course!

If you and your pals want to be independent, badass explorers; if you can surrender to mother nature and be prepared to tackle anything she throws your way… then make Namibia your next holiday destination.


Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia, Impy, Rocks – our new Russian delight – and I have decided that the best way to get over our Afrikaburn hangovers is to get our asses back into the desert.

After picking up our bakkie (Namibian / South African slang for a ute or pickup-car) we bid farewell to our South African friends. Upon hearing our adventure plans, they bombard us with advice for Namibia:

Make sure the car is packed with food and water.’

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

‘It can be days before you pass a shop or other humans on the road!’

‘You can wild camp* in the South but NOT in the North – the whole cast of the Lion King roams freely up there!’

Really, I think — how hard can it be?

The officers at the Namibian border crossing decide to make it hard immediately.

‘Excuse me, Officer,’ I ask in my sweetest voice, ‘but we notice you have written different exit dates for each of us and we are travelling together.’

Once we finally convince the grumpy officer to give us the SAME exit dates, Impy revs up the bakkie and we roll on in to the mysterious Namibia.

As we navigate our way towards Fish River Canyon, everyone’s eyes are fixed out the window. ‘Woahh,’ we breathe simultaneously. The road ahead is dead straight as far as the eye can see. Splayed across the horizon are layers upon layers of mountains.

‘SO many layers!’ Impy shouts, and the cameras begin to click. It takes another hour of the endless magnificent scenery before it sinks in — This. Is. It!

With the sun now setting, and not having seen a car since we crossed the border, we stop the car in the middle of the. Pumping up the one and only ‘Africa’ by Toto, we fling the doors open and dance deliriously on the road. Completely alone, utterly enraptured to be here — together — on what feels like a distant planet.

Carrying on, Impy’s happiness is magnified when she gets her first glimpse of African wildlife. Prancing alongside the car are a herd of springbok — the antelope not the rugby team.

But before she has a chance to appreciate the moment, a suicidal springbok decides to make a beeline for our bakkie. Now, as Aussies, growing up with kangaroos we are taught to slow down and hit them, NEVER to swerve. Impy, with her boss-bitch driving skills, steadily eases the breaks and — thump.

As we watch the springbok struggle back to its feet and limp away, we feel a mixture of relief and irony that the first animal we’ve seen — we’ve hit.

Fearing the appearance of more suicidal animals, we decide that now is as good a time as any to try our hand at wild camping. Finding a spot to pitch a tent in an empty desert is quite unnerving. Never have any of us been so alone, so isolated, on such an equal playing field with nature. Mustering up courage, we bravely reassure one another:

‘We’ve got this.’

With the smell of canned pineapple and chickpeas filling the air we sit on our camping chairs, rugged up against the cold night ready to eat our first gas cooker meal. Above us a spectacle of stars brightly. Total bliss. Unaware of the time, we simply follow the signal of nature’s darkness and soon slip into our sleeping bags.

Mumma Africa cooking up a storm

The next morning, we are already up and packing as the dawn pushes its way through the darkness. There’s a sense of triumph within the group at surviving our first solo night in the desert, but this is rudely interrupted when a motherfucking SCORPION scurries out from under the tent.

‘Arghhhhhhh!’

I guess the deadly arachnid decided to use our warmth as its home for the night. Cautiously, we shake out our shoes and shove them onto our naked feet.

But we won’t be deterred by an arse loving scorpion and a suicidal springbok. As we start up the bakkie and continue on our way to Fish River Canyon, we’re met with a glorious sunrise.


Impy pondering the canyon

Colour changes on the canyon

As a gas station appears, we remember our friends’ warning:

‘Top up your petrol at EVERY opportunity.’

Pulling up, we’re greeted by a perplexed gas station attendant.

‘Where the man?’ he asks.

‘Ladies only!’ we grin.

Driving away from our entertained servo man, our conversation turns to females travelling Africa solo. Why is it that Africa is viewed as such a ‘hard-core’ continent to travel? I mean, plenty of 20-somethings have been to India, South America and South East Asia. Why is it that when you tell someone that you’re travelling to Africa, you’re met with comments like:

‘Wow, you’re brave! Aren’t you worried about rabies?’

Or the most common:

‘But isn’t that unsafe for a woman?’

Our now hotly passionate conversation is put on hold as we veer off road for another night of wild camping. Unbeknown to us our evening is about to get…hard-core.

Hopping out, we each begin our nightly jobs: Mumma Africa and Rocks make the dinner, Zimbabawia and I put up the tent, and Impy lights the fire. All is well, and then we hear it… the spine-chilling yelp of a nearby creature.

‘Kinda sounded like a hyena,’ whispers Rocks.

‘WTF! It is not a hyena, they’re not in the south!’ I bark, horrified to hear her express my own terrified thought.

We’re all frozen. Barely moving, we point our torches into the darkness, looking for the source of the sound. Suddenly, the night is pierced by another yelp, this time behind us. Whatever the creatures are, they’ve got us surrounded.

Impy, Rocks and Zimbabawia sprint towards the car.

‘HONK THE HORN!’ I scream from the fire, too paralysed by fear to leave its flickering protection. The horn rings out and we wait.

The silence seems to last forever. Eventually, we decide a safe amount of time has passed. Totally rattled, we conclude that it was just a jackal (a fox-like creature) enticed by the smell of food.

‘What were you doing to protect yourself?’ I ask Mumma Africa.

‘Mmm, I held up the salt shaker?’

Our laughter manages to cut through the lingering fear and we find our way to bed — though we sleep with one eye open.

Morning comes and we drift down the sandy road towards Sossusvlei. For the first time in days we’re surrounded by humans — tourist humans. They’re all here for the same thing as us: to climb the famous red sand dunes and see the deadveli skeleton trees.

Looking up at the 325m high Big Daddy Dune, I wish with all my manifestation might that we will be alone when we get to the top — so we can take the most epic naked pics.

It’s a gruelling climb, but an hour later we are all willing our sandy socks to take the last few steps. As we reach the summit, our jaws drop in unison. The most glorious spectacle we have ever witnessed pierces its way into our retinas: kilometre after kilometre of red and white mountains meet the brilliantly blue sky. THIS. IS. IT!

‘Mmm, guys.. are we alone up here?’ I say in disbelief.

Looking down below we burst into laughter. ALL the cars and tour buses have miraculously disappeared. We are ENTIRELY alone. How’s that for manifesting? Without a word, we each strip off our kits, and what follows is, well… this!

Because I couldn’t not!

Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. Still, at the end of the day we are primal beings, made to co-exist with her. None of us will ever forget the feeling Namibia gave us of sheer human vulnerability. But we will also never forget nature’s reminder that we are powerful women — hear us fucking ROAR!

*Wild camp – camping in nature away from organised campsites for free!


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More pictures because there were too many stories to tell!

Bullsport gorge hike — pants optional
Impy freaks out over baboon handprints in the dust — ‘It’s like a human hand but a monkey!’

I discover a gnawed off zebra leg in the Bullsport gorge…yikes!

Road side discovery –suitcase filled with letters and other random items from desert explorers.

Kolmanskop; ghost town of Namibia abandoned and invaded by the dunes of time

A Feminist Man’s Adventure Into the Red Temple

The burn is over. My masculine energy wishing to fuck everything, has subsided. Now a softer, more feminine energy, desiring tenderness and affection has slipped in to take its place. I wonder if there’s anyone left in this desert who can fulfil such a need before my bus departs tomorrow!?


It’s time for our desert decompression; the festival goers have gone leaving a trail of us dusty volunteers behind to MOOP* the Tankwa desert. After a day of picking up glittery gems in the scorching heat, I plonk down on a sofa, swearing to myself that I will never again decorate my face with pretty plastic. Unknowingly, I have sat next to a familiar face. I had been a distant admirer of Wizard Sleeve as I watched him building an instillation, but never managed to forge a connection. Now sitting by his side I tell him My fringe needs a trim. He kindly offers I can do it? Closing my eyes, I surrender while this handsome stranger cuts my hair with weed trimming scissors.

The dinner bell rings and Wizard Sleeve and I depart together. Cutting my bangin’ new bangs has established a flirtatious bond, and as we walk past his tent we fight playfully ending up literally and figuratively, somersaulting into his tent. Landing face-to-face, our laughter ceases as our energy shifts from playful to lustful. Leaning in we connect for a long, deep kiss. My body responds to his gentle, yet firm caress, becoming aroused by the sexy spontaneity of the situation. My womb space is tingling as we break away agreeing without words that this will be continued later. But for now, dinner is beckoning.

Our final meal is small and sad; it feels so wrong. How can we be leaving our desert family? The farewell turns into a giant cuddle puddle* as I hold Wizard Sleeves hand amongst the bodies until he whispers Do you want to go back to my tent?

Walking hand in hand, I’m feeling giddy for the events ahead until my inner voice rears her head to interrupt — Isn’t it probably time you told him you’re on your period?? Yes. I have been selectively omitting this fact but Fuck it. I seriously do not believe that being on your period should mean you don’t get to be intimate. In fact, the first days that I bleed are bloody (haha) hornyyyy days.

Horniness aside, I accept that it is potentially quite rude not to inform a lover that my temple is currently red. So while he kisses my neck and grinds himself harder against my throbbing sex I finally utter I’m on my period…

Okay, well I don’t mind if you don’t?

Ohhhhh fuck yes! This tall, eccentric, talented man just got himself a gold star. There is nothing sexier than a man who understands and accepts that menstruation is a natural part of being a woman. That we experience this 13 times a year. And that some of those times we are bound to want to jump on a dick.

I explain that I have the menstrual cup in, I’ve had sex with it in before.*
As he slowly enters me, I gasp from the intensity of the sensation I am soaking wet with my own arousal and blood, plus the combination of my cup and his cock is like a double penetration. My senses are in overdrive and every thrust makes me moan in hot, messy, pleasure. We hold onto each other until one last liquid bursts out and joins the party. After baby wiping our bits to clean up our juicy mess, I drift off to sleep snuggled in his arms. I can’t help but feel disappointed that I don’t get at least one more night of this loving.

The next morning, it seems that the the Universe was listening to my plea. There has been a miscalculation of numbers and the bus is overfilled! We’ll have to wait until tomorrow night for the next one. YAHOOOO.

Having seen me miss the bus, Wizard Sleeve asks to hang out again. I tell him that I really want to spend the last night with my kitchen crew Great! Can I join? It disappoints me to say, but this request surprises me. The men I’ve been intimate with in the desert, other than Hawk Eyes, haven’t continued their affection towards me the day after. Wizard Sleeve is filling me up in ways more holistic than penetration. Blithely I respond — Of course you can.

After a movie, a cuddle puddle, and lots of treats from Dreadlock Pixie Queen, Wizard Sleeve and I migrate to my tent. This time I tell him that my period is really heavy now and I don’t want to have sex. Of course, he doesn’t mind at all, only asks Are you okay? Can I hold you like this? Wrapping his arms around me, he gently cradles my womb space, and transfers his genuine care into me. This unconditional kindness, seeps all the way up to my heart. I’ve never experienced a male lover, who not only respects and fulfils my desire for tenderness, but does so through his own embodiment of feminine energy.

Boarding the bus, I am now utterly serene and ready to depart. I love my masculine energy and the fun experiences it conjures. But just for a change, allowing my feminine energy to rise showed me that I also have the power to attract beautiful men, like Wizard Sleeve.

I can’t wait for more.


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*MOOP – Matter out of place. One of the guiding principles of all Burns is ‘Leave NO Trace’. MOOP is any object which does not naturally occur in the environment you have occupied. Working in the MOOP team gave me a disturbing insight into the enormous array of man made items we leave in our wake. If you spent some hours picking up glitter, plastic gems, baggies, feathers, gum etc off mother earth’s surface, you too may change some habits.

*Cuddle puddle – a comfortable area which becomes filled with 3+ humans intertwining limbs, eventually becoming a giant human hug. Ideal when feeling lonely, craving affectionate touch, or wishing to begin an orgy.

*Sex with a menstrual cup – Yes I have done this twice, both times it has been completely fine. No the cup cannot get lost, there is only one exit. It may however become difficult to remove — I once helped a friend remove her ‘lost’ cup.
For this tales interaction I kept the cup in as I wanted to reduce the mess. I now believe that emptying, and removing the cup before sex is a more logical method as there’s going to be blood regardless!