Your body is 75% water.
Imagine if you could infuse your fluidity with sensuality, confidence, vitality or pure, unadulterated love.
According to Japanese researcher Masaro Enoto you can.
Enoto’s book, The Hidden Messages in Water, was all the new-age rage years ago. But it’s worth re-visiting for our sexy purposes.
His research explored water’s susceptibility to human words, thoughts and emotions. Through photographs, Dr. Emoto demonstrated that water exposed to positive influences produced beautiful, perfectly formed crystals, while water exposed to negativity produced ugly, malformed crystals
Emoto claimed that positive changes to water crystals could be achieved through prayer, music, or by attaching written words to a container of water.
So in the spirit of this blog, I put a piece of masking tape on my Pur water filter pitcher and wrote the word Sexy on it with a black Sharpie pen.
That night when my man came home from chasing cougars, he picked up the pitcher and held it at arm’s length to get a read on my physician-like handwriting.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I’m infusing our water with sexy,” I said.
He filled a glass and downed the entire thing in one gulp, a skill he perfected drinking beer in college. He poured another and extended it to me with a sly grin.
For the past week, I’ve been steeping my green tea in sexy; simmering shitake mushrooms and vegetables into a sensuous broth; absorbing sexuality into my brown rice; and pausing between songs in my Zumba and Nia dance classes for big, hydrating gulps of sexiness.
I imagine my interstitial fluid is totally infused with sexy by now.
What are you going to write on your water bottle?
Click here to read more about Dr. Enoto’s research.
Yoga is officially sexy.
I had two articles forwarded to me last month. They both were about yoga. They both mentioned sex.
Because the two are as intertwined as your arms and legs in Eagle Pose.
I’ve attached the links below for your reading pleasure, but I’ll go ahead and extract some of the juicy parts for you.
The first link is from an NPR Fresh Air show featuring William J. Broad the author of the recently published book “The Science of Yoga: The Risks and Rewards.” There’s lots of great information in the story, but of course I honed in on this quote from Broad about yoga practitioners:
“…people see rises in sex hormones — particularly in testosterone — brain waves getting zipped up in the same way that lovers' brains look when they're in deep pleasure."
And this one:
“…recently, there were studies in India where they looked at married couples who took up yoga and surveyed them before and after. Across the board, it's improvement in desire, arousal, orgasm, overall satisfaction. Men have better erections. Women feel more emotional closeness with partners. It definitely does lots of good stuff."
The second link is from a New York Times article written by Broad that discussed the latest sex scandal in the yoga world and why it keeps happening.
Turns out the marriage of yoga and sex goes back to its origins in Tantra. Even though the founders of modern yoga tried to shift the focus towards health and fitness, evidently the ancient eroticism inherent in the practice just keeps rising.
Like an erection.
“…many have discovered from personal experience that the practice can fan the sexual flames. Pelvic regions can feel more sensitive and orgasms more intense.
…scientists are investigating how yoga and related practices can foster autoerotic bliss. It turns out that some individuals can think themselves into states of sexual ecstasy — a phenomenon known clinically as spontaneous orgasm and popularly as “thinking off.”
I’ve been practicing yoga for twelve years.
It’s all true.
Now that I think about it, I started writing erotica about the same time I started practicing yoga regularly. Yoga not only quieted my inner critic and my inner Catholic girl, it awakened my clitoris and my erotic voice.
So if your mat has been rolled up in the corner of your living room for a while, now you have one more very compelling reason to roll it out.
Transcript of Bond's interview on NPR.
Bond's New York Times article.
You've heard of the inner child.
I have an inner stripper.
I imagine that psychologically they are intimately related. One feels invisible so the other begs to be seen or something like that.
When I learned, through yoga and meditation, to embrace my clingy little self, I unknowingly empowered her sexually-confident alter ego. It’s a fascinating dichotomy, especially since my inner child was raised Catholic.
I tend to attract friendships with women who are in touch with their inner stripper. Two of them worked in clubs and made a lot of money fully embracing their erotic-dancing selves. I sense there are quite a few of us in the front two rows of Zumba class who are one marimba step away from ripping off our sweaty clothes.
Paradoxically, my inner stripper is kind of shy and hard to coax out. But once she steps out in her stiletto heels she loves to be center stage. She’s had three performances so far: only for my man and only at our cabin in Colorado which is one of the sexiest places ever. The bi-level, wood-floor structure creates the perfect stage and the log beam support under the loft doubles as a makeshift stripper pole.
I haven’t stripped for my man in way too long. I’m not sure why. I’ve had a song picked out for months and I have a pair of fabulous feather earrings that would look great with a pair of heels and nothing else.
It could be because we haven’t been at our cabin since September. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been channeling a lot of my inner stripper energy into this blog.
I’ve been baring myself here, through my words, for you.
I’ll be traveling through Portland and Boston later this month.
I believe it is time for a new pair of elbow-length feather gloves.
This video will ignite your inner stripper.
After two weeks apart, my man is less than an hour away.
I have to break the bad news before he gets here. I dial his cell and when he picks up, I blurt it out quickly, like pulling off a bandage.
“I have not one, but two cold sores on my lower lip.”
“Oh no,” he says.
“It sucks,” I say.
“Well, actually, no, it doesn’t suck.”
We share a disappointed laugh. We both know this translates to no kissing and no oral sex.
Our sexy reunion has just suffered a serious blow, or lack thereof.
But my kayaker has been flirting with the Colorado River for the past twelve days. He’s mastered the art of going with the flow.
When he is above me, inside me, our foreheads touch instead of our lips. My third eye is pressed against his. His brown eyes gaze down into mine with the intensity of a raptor.
I can feel the presence, the power, of the river in him. The two of them are flowing into me, between my thighs, between my brows. A confluence.
My eyes want to close, pause, and shy away from the intensity.
I won’t let them.
I meet my man and the river head on and press my forehead even harder to his. I bring my blue irises mere millimeters from his that shimmer green with her at this proximity.
They move slowly, rhythmically, into me.
I feel like I could drown as my breath starts coming in short gasps.
My body starts to quiver, arching my spine and driving them even deeper.
There is no stopping it this time.
My eyes roll back, like a breaking wave, under fluttering lids.
Explore the intensity of sustained eye contact while you are making love.
Rivers have lots of class.
I go for the cute, flirty Class II and III rivers. My man can’t resist the femme fatale Class IV-V types.
He assured me that for experienced kayakers, paddling the Grand Canyon is big water, Class III. No worries.
At first I imagined a cheerleader, one of those sweet ones with a ponytail and pom-poms.
But it’s February and he went solo, in an extra-long, weighted down kayak.
This cheerleader wears bright red lipstick, a matching thong and a leather jacket with a flask of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket.
The kind you would never trust alone with your boyfriend.
So when I wake up from a nap to the sound of chirping crickets, I fly out of bed looking for my phone.
Only one person has that ringtone.
When I answer it, the sound of my man’s voice after not hearing it for two weeks is pure bliss. He’s off the river and heading home.
The cell coverage isn’t great and doesn’t last long. His voice sounds as smooth as river rock and happier than I’ve heard it in months. The trip was mind blowing, he says. He had the canyon to himself much of the time.
“It was more of a Class IV-IV+ trip with that heavy, long boat,” he says. I make out that he can’t wait to see me and something about a big juicy burger before we lose our connection.
I go upstairs and light the candles on my meditation altar. I’ve been meditating a lot since he left, trying to disperse degenerate cheerleader thoughts with my May he be safe mantra. But I didn’t fool my body. I have a cold, two cold sores on my lower lip and a lovely display of acne across the right side of my face.
I wondered if maybe I was just out of practice and had forgotten how to be alone in love. I’ve felt so damn vulnerable and raw this time
He just confirmed why.
I inhale deeply and sink fully into the realization that he is safe and coming home. I send out waves of gratitude as I exhale. My shoulders melt down my back and I feel myself relax fully for the first time since he left.
It’s as if I’ve taken my finger out of the dike.
I fold forward and start sobbing.
Loving a whitewater kayaker is so Class V.