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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Pussy Pride

Your Pussy is the portal to your radiance.

Ermmm, what in the fuck does that mean Chloe?

I have a newsflash for you, your Pussy is so, SO, much more than a pissing, bleeding, penetrable, birthing piece of anatomy!

Your Pussy is the place where the divine manifests. Your pussy is: Intuitive. Wise. Playful. Sensitive. Cosmic. Ancient. and Transcendental.

And yes, I know that may sound like a whole lot of fluffy woo woo fluff, but let me convince you further.

I know your Pussy wants me to. 


All those with a Pussy, put your hand up if you were encouraged to look at, explore, play with and pleasure your pussy as a youngin’…

Now put your hand up if you were told little to nothing about your Pussy, if it was referred to by an anatomically incorrect name*, if you were shamed or ashamed to touch your Pussy, and if upon discovering your Pussy’s capacity for pleasure: indulged in hurried held breath secrecy.

I cannot see your hands but my assumption is the vast majority of you were raised for the later of the childhood Pussy experiences.

And that is no surprise. You see, before you, there were generations of Mothers being taught to hide and feel ashamed of their Pussy. Pussy shame.

Religion taught our Mothers that Eve’s Pussy led to Adam’s downfall. Culture taught our Mothers that the sacred blood of Pussy was dirty and unholy. Modesty taught our Mothers never to talk to their daughters about their Pussy.

Pussy was once called ‘vagina’ meaning sheath – the place where a sword goes.

It was determined that unlike a proud external cock, the Pussy hid up inside the body because even Pussy anatomy itself was ashamed of itself…

Is there any wonder shame manifested and multiplied in our Mother’s, Mother’s, Mothers – and bled its way down into us?

Shame.

What is shame?

Shame signifies that our original radiance has been disrupted. Shame is born from outside ourselves when another person or circumstance triggers us, when we fail to meet the standards or ideals we have been raised with.

We are born whole and shame leads us to feel contrary; flawed, bad, excluded – and thus motivates us to hide or save face.

In other words, the shame you feel about your Pussy is not yours. It was bred into you. It was a pill you and generations before you were fed, for one reason.

To squash womxn. To make them forget the truth about their Pussy, that it is the place where the divine manifests. That it is: Intuitive. Wise. Playful. Sensitive. Cosmic. Ancient and Transcendental.

Your Pussy knows.

You know.

Connecting with your Pussy is opening yourself up to the full experience of being a womxn. Womxn are fucking magical. Holy shit.

If tomorrow every womxn on this planet woke up and connected with their pussy the world as we know it would come crumbling down, in the most radiant way.

Orgasms would ripple through far and wide.

Patriarchy would end.

Shame. Self depreciation. Body Dysmorphia. Bulimia. Depression. Anxiety. Self Hate. Self Loathing. Suicide. Racism. Homophobia. Transphobia.

It would all come crumbling the fuck down.

And an era of Goddess and Goddexxs would rise and radiate with their Pussies proud.
Their ability recognised to listen to their own inner wisdom. Their cosmic connection held in reverence. Their ability to play, more light and joyful than imaginable.

But we have a lot of work to do before we reach that idyllic world.

We have to recognise that building connection, love, and trust in our own Pussy is our own responsibility.

It was taught to us to shame Pussy, and now we must teach ourselves to love pussy and feel proud.

Love Pussy by talking to Pussy, looking at Pussy, dancing from Pussy, listening to Pussy, pleasuring for Pussy, asking Pussy advice, painting Pussy, honouring Pussy, allowing Pussy to be. Flowing, creating, manifesting from Pussy.

This is my divine work. I have and continue, every day, to deepen my connection with Pussy.

Pussy has radically radiated my fucking life.

There is nothing else I want to do than to teach other womxn and other Pussy owners to love their Pussy.

To feel the pain and injustice of the shame that was born into you, and then to let it the fuck go, and flow back home into what you always were. Radiant as fuck.

Melbournians! I Invite you to my end of lockdown event Pussy Pride. This will be an exclusive event for a limited number for beings with a Pussy who desire true connection, an injection of pussy Radiance before the New Year!

*Let’s stop calling a Pussy a hooha, thingy, down there, privates. This is the beginning of shame. Call a Pussy what it is. Not a vagina, that is the internal anatomy (and a shit name as you learnt). You choose the name: Pussy, Yoni, Vulva, Cunt. Whatever, choose one that makes you feel empowered, choose one consciously, and change the world.

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XX Chloe Adriana – Radical Radiance Coach

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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We are the witches they forgot to burn

I am a Witch. And I believe, if you have a pussy, you are one too. 

So what the hell is a Witch?

In pagan times a Witch was a womxn who was tapped into their innate wisdom, they had a deep connection to the natural world, to the spirit world, they had nurturing and healing capacities, they knew how to dance with darkness as deeply light, and above all, they believed in magic. 

When the church came to rise, the story of Jesus taught the world and Mary became the idyllic womxn. Faithful, trusting, loving… a virgin.

The qualities of the Witch did not align with the church’s ideals, in fact, Witches scared the shit out of the church, out of men who sought total power. 

And nothing scared man more than the Witches capacity to thrive in the shadows. So they used the only tool they had left. Violence and manipulation.

Manipulation:

The ancient Celtic festival, once known as Samhain, was held at the beginning of every winter.

On this night the Crone Goddess would mourn the loss of the Elder God, Summer, and the boundary between the world of the living and the dead became it’s thinnest. People would dress in costumes to ward off evil spirits and candles were lit to welcome spirits of departed loved ones.

This Pagan tradition was deeply sentimental and the church knew they couldn’t deter the people from celebrating and so instead created another celebration, All Saints’ Day, also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas. 


Violence. After years of the church’s legal and theological attacks on the heretics of Witches / witchcraft / sorcery / devil worship – irrational fear and a persecution, mentality was born.

Witches (womxn) were blamed for misfortunes of illness, crop failure, storms, rivalry, family feuds, livestock, politics, death, even sexual dysfunction.

The words ‘wit’ once meaning wise, ‘hag’ once meaning holy womxn, and ‘whore’ once meaning priestess were slowly contorted by venomous tongues to become blasphemous, dirty, shame-mongering words.

Witches helplessly watched as darkness encapsulated ‘man’ and soon, the Witch hunts began.

Witches were outed by the thousands. Womxn (Witches) were forced to turn on one another to save their own lives. And thus was born the word ‘bitch.’

With quick trials they were sentenced, burned and hung.

Fear was born and Witches went underground. And their legacy was left tainted in shame.

Oh yes, they did a very good job at changing an entire culture with fear, extermination, and indoctrination so embedded that children walked around the streets dressed up and receiving candy with absolutely no comprehension as to why.

Witches faded into the darkness of society’s mind.

But within all light there is darkness, and within all darkness there is light. 

Those of us who were not burned. Not hung. Lived on. Those who were hung or burned were reincarnated. Generations of little Witches kept on being born. And those little Witches kept on feeling that something about them was a little bit… different. A little bit …. magic. 

But it was scary to be different, especially among womxn, you see womxn – bitches, had been the biggest betrayal. For no betrayal is greater than that of a sister.

And yet throughout the centuries, as the little Witches grew more brave  they started to confide in their sisters. ‘This is something about me.’ he little sister would reply, ‘Me too’. 

Sistahood returned me to my realisation that I am a Witch. That I always knew I was.

I remembered the whole of my truth. The darkness to my light. 

You see light doesn’t mean ‘good’. And dark doesn’t mean ‘bad’. They both exist equally in a world of polarities. 

We are born from darkness, the depths of the womb is where we were created, where we grew. Beneath the soil is black and that is where a seed takes root. In the darkness of someone’s pain is where you find their true light. 

To practice witchcraft is to say:

Yes, I am powerful. 

Yes, I am a sovereign being. 

Yes, I can manifest my reality. 

Yes, nature is where I truly feel at home. 

Yes, all the answers I seek are within me. 

I trust my intuition. 

I know my existence is pure magic. 

So, Witch, are you ready to make magic again?

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Your pussy is not dead

Your Pussy is not Dead, said Lin as she stood with her finger hovering outside the entrance of my vagina.

Lin Holmquist is a well known Swedish Tantrica,  while l living in Sweden I was lucky enough to attend her Tantric Dating Master Class retreat co-lead by Aaron Kleinerman, and Australian tantra teacher.

I positively adored the 3 day retreat. I’d learnt about my serious lack of boundaries, how to rebuild them, I’d fucked someone’s third eye with my energetic cock, I’d learnt to dance with my pussy and I’d discovered how far my energetic body extended. 

But at the end of the retreat I was more sure than ever of a deep fear I’d been harbouring…That my pussy was dead.

You see before I’d arrived to Sweden I had taken a vow of celibacy, I’ll share more about that adventure another day. When the vow had been completed I promptly found a beautiful Swedish man to fuck.

He was a sweet and kind man, but there was a problem. I didn’t actually like him, and neither did my pussy. This was a habit I’d been in for years; fucking whomever I chose for the sake of fucking. 

Don’t get me wrong it was FUN. I loved how much liberation I felt in being able to own my inner slut.

But while my slut was having a great time there were other parts of me that were suffering. 

The parts of me that were soft, that were shy, that craved for love, and to really really  feel safe  before I let someone enter Pussy.

And so at the end of Lin and Aaron’s retreat when Lin shared that she offered Tantric Yoni Massages, I was a hell yes. If anyone could bring Pussy back to life I was sure it would be Lin.

We met in a private room, she welcomed me in and asked me to share what I desired from the session. 

I want to feel pleasure in my pussy again. I want her to wake up. I want to know she’s not dead. That I didn’t kill her by fucking too much.

She asked me to slowly undress in front of her, I had no problem with my body or nudity, yet my breath was shallow and my heart was beginning to race.

She came around behind me and used her pelvis to move mine, in a rocking motion so that I would relax… she sensed I was on edge. 

Once I was set up on the bed she told me, I’m going to go very slow, if at any point you want me to stop you must say. Once I get to the entrance of your vagina I will ask you if I can enter,

You must say no if you feel even the slightest no

I took a breath and willed my body to relax, I wanted this, I wanted her to reawaken Pussy. I wouldn’t let my stupid nerves ruin this. All these thoughts were zooming through my head and I wasn’t at all present as her hand made it’s way towards Pussy.

Then suddenly she was hovering at the entrance. May I enter?

My head way shouting yes yes, say yes! But A Force bigger than my thoughts took over..

No! 

No erupted from me before my mind could stop it.

What was I saying! I wanted this, I wanted my pleasure back! Didn’t I? As my mind reeled I looked up and Lin and she was smiling.

Why the fuck is she smiling I thought venomously. Do you feel it? She asked. 

Feel what there’s no bloody finger in me, but as I let the anger in me quieten down everything began to quieten down. And then I felt it.

From deep within me there was the undeniable electromagnetic pulsation extending it’s way out from the depths of my pussy and making a tendril of contact with Lin’s hovering finger.

It was like one of those galactic orbs I used to play with as a child, where you’d press your finger the lightening would connect with you.

Your pussy is not dead Chloe. She is very much alive. And I have a feeling this pulsation is a sign of gratitude for your no.

BOOM. My mind erupted. Of course. Of course! My pussy had gone offline because I belligerently let her be entered without her consent, without her true yes. And hiring Lin to enter her no matter how lovingly was not the answer. 

Saying NO for her was the answer. Proving that I had learnt her boundaries and I would uphold them was the answer. I was crying again but this time they were tears of JOY.

Learning the language of my Pussy has been a long, challenging and beautiful journey. Along that journey Pussy asked me if I would teach other womxn to communicate with their pussys just I had learnt. And I said yes.

Whatever your relationship with your Pussy I hope this story has landed right where it needed too.
If you want to hear me sharing about it live I’ll be on IGTV at 8pm AEST tonight – I would love to have you there with me.

Love Chloe Adriana

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Another Visit to the Stars

It was hard for me to write this tale.

Though it was more than one year ago, it still feels so fresh, so scary. I can feel my chest constricting as I revisit the memories. But writing is my form of
reflection, and reflection enables my growth. So here I go…


Boom week is over and yet instead of having a much needed week off, Zimbabawia, North Star and I are heading to the coast of Portugal.

It’s a feat to organise a group holiday this cosmopolitan: friends from Australia, Afrikaburn, Finland, and two new girls are all rolling into our Airbnb. This will no doubt be another week of madness.

We are a sea of energetic accents sitting upon the balcony and by the time the sun is setting a party is brewing. Every nook and cranny of the enormous house is beginning to transform into a melting pot of euphoria. Zimbabwia is face-painting tessellations in the kitchen, strangers are puffing giant joints on the balcony, tanned Aussies are doing lines on bathroom surfaces.

Danny Dishes, our personal DJ, sets up UEBooms in the living room and his deep-dirty beats intensifies the sticky heat on the dancefloor. The floor is littered with clothing and sweaty bodies gyrate with abandon.

I speculate that I may not be in for the best Airbnb rating but, Oh well. This is a once in a lifetime reunion — nothing could ruin this moment.

Or so I thought.

Having partied all night, the first morning light blemishes the black sky. We stumble our way to the balcony for one last group gathering before winding down and going to bed. Someone rolls a joint that gets passed around the circle. I’m exhausted but wired and happily take two tokes to help calm my chemical drenched brain — but before I can even pass the blunt to North Star, I am gone.

If you’ve read It’s Burn Time Baby then you will be familiar with the split in this tale. What I experience in my mind, and what is experienced on solid earth.

Suddenly, I am being pulled back into the fifth dimension and sitting in the front row of a live theatre performance of my past. In the opening scene, I’m a child running through the vibrant green fields of Northern Ireland, where I grew up. Scene two, I’m on a plane leaving my family behind. I start to cry and guardian angels whisper to me: ‘We’re doing this again because you didn’t quite understand our last message. You’re not from the stars, you are a star on earth.’

‘I don’t understand!’ I wail. So they show me.

I’m suspended in nothingness and I feel with absolute clarity that I’m no longer a body, but instead, I’m a million particles. I’m every cell of the universe, of air, of water, of sound, of energy. I am music — I am space — I am infinite.

Then solid earth pulls me back and in shock I realise I am not suspended in nothingness, I am in Portugal with my friends, and then the panic sets in: What is my human body is doing?

I open my eyes and I’m in the living room. How did I get in the living room? Familiar faces are close by. North Star is sobbing with a look of terror in her eyes, Zimbabwia whispers soothingly, ‘Shhh you’re here, you’re in Portugal. We’ve got you.’ Nameless faces stand back too scared to help, too terrified to look away.

I am humiliated. My instinct tells me to escape. I begin running towards the stairs but feel my feet lift off the ground, my body now cradled by Bear, a loving friend. But before he can soothe me, I am sucked back into the fifth dimension once again.

I cry out to my guardian angels: ‘Why?! Why are you doing this to me? I don’t want it!’

‘Now that all your friends see you this way you won’t be able to pretend anymore. We’re sorry it had to be this way, but we‘re helping you get back on your path.’

‘Doing what!?’ It’s North Star’s voice. ‘Hunny we’re not doing anything! We want to help you. How can we help you?!’

I’m back on earth again, and to my horror realise that this conversation is taking place aloud in both worlds. I am tourmented by how fucking insane I look… am?

In a desperate plea for dignity, I demand to be taken to my room. Zimbabwia and North Star escort me and for the next three hours they do their best to support me with meditative chanting while I thrash in-between two worlds.

I see visions of my past, my future. I beg the angels to let me go back to solid earth. I feel that only once they believe I’ve received ‘the message’ do they begin to relinquish their grip on me.

The sound of Zimbabawia chanting becomes more and more audible, and real, and I know I’ll stay back in their company this time. With a glimmer of hope, I seize my last change and beg: ‘Will you please let all of this have been a dream? Turn back time, whatever you have to do — I promise I won’t forget my lesson.’

‘Okay, we will,’ they whisper. However something in their tone sounds like an empty promise. But for my exhausted mind and body it is enough to finally surrender me to Zimbabwias healing. She hovers above me, speaking grounding words and smearing me with healing aromas.

When I wake up, this will all have been a dream…

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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Love, Lust and Desire

I believe that the universe places certain people on our path at certain times to gift us lessons to learn from.

With women I learn these lessons easily. Mumma Africa, an environmental warrior, came onto my path when I was ready to learn about how I might make sustainable changes in my lifestyle. My mentor, Caroline, came onto my path in the last months of my degree and challenged me to think about how I would step into a career and keep my outer passions alive. Zimbabawia came onto my path, and onto this journey, so that I have always had someone deeply grounded to help plant my feet on the ground when I lifted off.

But when the universe has placed certain men on my path, these lessons have often become tangled up and lost in my deep desire to find my ‘one’, my mate.


I was doing it again, I’d found something shiny and beautiful in the universe from which there was a lesson to be learnt and instead I was trying to turn it into my love story.

North Star and I have been at Boom’s Alchemy Circle stage for hours, shaking our tooshies and lapping up the energy from the Boom crowd.

The music suddenly ends and we look up at the decks to see the next DJ take over, but no one arrives and everyone starts leaving the dancefloor entirely unfazed.

‘What the shit is happening?’ I ask a volunteer, who’s busy collecting abandoned items from the dancefloor.

He explains that this stage has a break during the hottest part of the day so that people will rest, drink some water and swim. Pretty much so people don’t cook themselves.

Fucking genius. The amount of times I’ve been at Australian festivals and simply not left the dancefloor because of FOMO… well, I can’t even count. My friends and I usually take turns going back to camp for supplies and along the way always spot a couple of humans being carried away from the stage — unconscious — because, well, they’ve literally over cooked it.

Accepting this new reality, we are about to walk away when I spot a curious looking fellow stumbling about the deserted dance floor. He’s as pale as snow, dressed in a floral shirt which he’s tucked into bright orange shorts, and is donning a wicker sun hat that flops over big blue glasses. Is this man a cartoon character?

His devastated face tells me that he too is baffled. ‘Don’t worry the music will be back in a few hours! They’re trying to stop us from cookin’ ourselves,’ I shout and start making my way towards him.

‘But I want to danceeeeeee!’ he blurts out in the most hilarious accent.

‘Where are you from?’ I quiz.

‘Brazil,’ he replies while handing me a silver plate he finds on top of the sandy floor.

‘Gee, for me? Thanks! Well then, Brazil, come with us and we’ll find some more dancing.’

I didn’t know then that this would be my most brilliantly intuitive invitation of the whole festival. Brazil was literally a cartoon character.

He had North Star and I stumbling around and wetting ourselves with laughter for hours. I asked what he was on?

‘Nothing…’

WOW. This is a straight up human justbeinghim.com — to the maximum.

We simply needed him in our crew. Or was it that I simply needed him in our crew? I noticed the all too familiar lust trickling through my system again. I invited him to join us for the night, already too attached to let him go.

On my walk to camp for my evening outfit change, I pondered — Am I doing it again? Am I falling into a man?

At nine-thirty I stood upon the dancefloor podium and strained my eyes for a floral shirt and blue glasses. Then through the techno beat came his unmatched voice shouting:

‘Ohhh my gawddddd — it’s party time!’

Elated I leapt onto his back and he piggybacked me all the way to the crew. They cheered at his return.

From that evening on we would meet Brazil everyday. On the dancefloor, at Funky Beach, at our campsite. He never changed his quirky outfit making him easy to spot. Everyday he would have our whole crew in stitches with his raucous behaviour — screaming ‘the crewww’ intermittently and whipping off his shorts and helicoptering them in the air.

Everyone loved the guy. And I mean everyone. I would watch strangers approach him for a high five and ask, ‘What are you on man?’ then I’d laugh when they gawked at his reply, ‘Nothing!’

I too felt like I was falling in love with him. I’d never met someone so absolutely themselves, so unaffected by the gaze of those upon him. While he was giving free piggy-back rides to strangers I told North Star – ‘I think I’m in love with Brazil.’ What!? she laughed, ‘You’re joking right?’

But I was not joking, I was deep in the desire that this could be my mate.

With this resolution of love in my mind I changed my behaviour from that of a new friend to a flirtatious admirer. He felt this change and soon we kissed. It was sloppy and rushed but this didn’t change my mind. We went back to my campsite and had quick, heartless sex, but this still didn’t change my mind. Everything was telling me that this was not going to be my love, but I ignored all these potential lessons to better fit my narrative — the best was ahead of us.

By the time the final day came North Star and I danced in an utterly twisted state beneath the lunar eclipse and I felt a deep sense of peace. I was in love with Brazil and we would probably end up travelling in our own van together around Europe.

It wasn’t until after the festival, when I met up with Brazil and his French friends in Lisbon, and saw him kissing a French girl that I realised he wasn’t my love story. And I was devastated.

I didn’t understand it. And I certainly didn’t yet understand my lesson.

Do you?



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Lover Nature

The sexuality of nature.

The tangible memory of fucking in nature stays with you long after. Your arousal at the risk of getting caught, your vulnerability in the borderless outdoors.

It’s a newly discovered kind of sexuality to be naked outside like the thrill of skinny dipping for the first time — rule breaking, body liberating, addictive.

It’s the surface upon which you fuck; soft sand that gives way to the curves of your body, the bark of a tree that scratches pleasingly against your back as you are thrust deeply, the sound of lapping water that synchronises with the sound of your moist sex.

But is it more primal than this?

Could it be possible that in these moments nature herself is playing a part in arousing us, secretly loving to be involved in our sexual adventures? Like a voyeur, giving in to temptation when it becomes too much.

If this is the case then I wonder, if I let her, would nature have her own way with me?


Cim encourages me to walk towards any spot that I feel drawn to.

Cim is a Swedish photographer who empowers and liberates women with the lens of her camera. Her latest project, ‘Body Love’, explores and honours the female body in all its beauty.

Naked, I obey her request and begin to follow my internal compass. I feel my bare feet sink into the forest floor, the fresh smell of moss being released with every curious step. A gentle wind tickles the parts of my body normally kept from public view as I allow myself to be drawn forwards. Through the birch trees I see a shower of light streaming down upon a large rock — my throne.

I mount my throne like a wild pixie and Cim lets out an excited gasp, encouraging me to proceed as though she wasn’t there, as though I was entirely alone, in my own world.

As the wandering pixie I stand tall and present myself to the sun shower. Arching the back of my neck I begin to bathe — allowing my skin to be kissed by the rays. I feel the heat intensify as though the sun is pleased by my surrender — my nipples harden.

I dismount and kneel down to wrap myself around my throne absorbing its beautiful textures of moss, leaves and coarse, cold stone. My breath quickens as my senses start to salivate and I feel my buttocks clench — how to bring my yoni closer?

My mind has left me and my body is taking over. I fall back into the moss and am held by a bed of foliage. I pick up a cone, it’s lingam appearance makes my yoni instantly pulsate. Yielding it I dreamily caress my breasts, my navel, down to my own foliage.

Cim squeals, unable to contain her excitement — we are enchanted and barely speak a word as I drift dreamily through the forest following my compass once more. As I edge the forest a field of lupine call my name — their alluring perfume, vibrant purple petals, and tall proud stalks make me smirk — Nature you are a show off.

This time I need no encouragement, I am intoxicated with nature’s sexuality and immediately present my arse to a lupin, grinding up along its firm stalk. I pluck one from the earth and begin to caress my wanting skin — the soft texture like a tender lover.

By the time we wrap up the shoot Cim is ecstatic and I am riding what seriously feels like a post coital high — I am beaming from ear to ear, my skin is flushed pink and a deep sensation of relaxation washes over me.

I hadn’t intended or imagined that my naked nature shoot would become erotosicm, or that I would be so aroused by Mother Nature. Yet it felt so natural.

Nature is a sexual being. Flowers are the sexual organs displaying themselves to the bee so that they will be pollinated and continue their existence. The wind is the unpredictable passion that awakens us to our wanting. Moss is the bed for the forest to mate upon. The sun is the dominant master, who we all depend upon. Water is wet flowing nectar that signals surrender.

I don’t need a lover, a camera, a cause or the thrill of being caught to enjoy nature in its sexual form. Nature is a sexual being and we should let her enjoy us just as much as we enjoy her.

When I die I will decompose and become a part of nature, maybe she is always calling me home. I am under no illusion that right now in this humanly body I am not also a part of nature. I am. Maybe I don’t want to call her Mother Nature anymore. After all, I wouldn’t do the things I’ve been thinking about doing with nature, with my Mum.


Images by the power house woman herself, Cim Ek

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