Giving to get is horrible. Please just stop it. It’s easy to see through it, the desperation is a give away. Ask for what you want instead, it is okay for you to have needs. Someone may be happy to help you. Or if it’s the search for validation or affirmation, it’s time to believe it in yourself. While giving to get is tough to recognise, it is liberating to stop. Having boundaries while respecting the limits of others stops the intrusion, control and guilt tripping.

Kicking things into the long grass becomes a forte. Everything gets done, or not, over time, organised into the to do list and the should have done list. The gap between what I intend to do and what I actually do is widening. I don’t know whether to worry or rejoice?

It’s a tedious thing to feel responsible for a man’s arousal. Or a woman’s elusive turn on. You’re not. One of the early freeing things we learned in tantra was that you’re responsible for your arousal and I’m responsible for mine. When an ejaculation becomes an expectation, it’s a prison with a teeny escape hatch for everyone involved. What if release is not the end point, but raising, using and enjoying the life force energy of arousal is?

What if there are no rules in a relationship? What would you create that was freeing and loving? Meeting another and consciously creating a new way of relating, ignoring convention - unless you choose it. You may live together - or not. Share money - or not. Meet children and family - or not. Open relationship - or not. What if everything started from a new base of bringing who you are, rather than jumping onto the relationship escalator of societal expectation? Ageing brings new possibilities for creating different kinds of arrangements. I don’t know if I want someone in my bed every night, though languorous afternoons would be welcome. I doubt anyone would want to share my finances or responsibility for my business; I’m not looking to be a step-parent or grandparent any time soon. Wouldn’t that freedom from assumptions be a dream?

I get worried when I’m challenged. Whether I have screwed up or not, I feel the fear of making mistakes or of being accused. It’s an impending dread that I’m just getting away with it. Not good enough, not right enough, too much, too little, the inner critic is a tedious little fucker with a put-down on every move.

A decade ago, I met a man on a packed train leaving Hebden Bridge, twinkly eyes, nattily dressed in a gold scarf. He was on his way to Spain, we swapped numbers. Arranging to meet weeks later in a tearoom in the village, I walked to our meeting, wondering if I could tell him what I’d done and not done at my first mixed tantra weekend, and if he’d still like me. For the first time, I realised I didn’t have to care. It was just a coffee, and whether he approved or disapproved of my weekend, liked me or didn’t like me, it simply didn’t matter. Still wearing the gold scarf, putting down a book as I arrived, he ordered us a coffee, and we settled, talking about Spain and his quiet joy walking the Camino. “And what have you been up to, Ali?” Deep breath, “I was at a Tantra course”. A flicker of interest lit up in his eyes, and he asked me to share. “I learned about Yes, No and Maybe.” We’re still friends.

The Wheel of Consent changed my life. When I first learned it, finding myself outside the Allowing quadrant as a doormat jolted my whole being. Since then, coming back into trust in myself, and expressing limits and desires has been a gradual growth in courage and honesty.

Even though I’m going to dare you to take risks, you are safe with me. I’ll encourage you to go where you've always wanted.

I sat in occasional women's womb circles and heard women talking about bleeding, and the moon phases of menstrual cycles, sharing female wisdom I’ve never been privy to, nor much interested in. If asked where I was in my cycle, I made a best guess, maintaining a fraction of interest, eyes on the exit. These days, when people mention luteal phases, menstrual cycles or holding women-only circles at my place, I rarely feel a flicker of interest. Yet I know they’re undoubtedly useful spaces and I’ve valued many other aspects of sisterhood. Do I need to get over my prejudice or disinterest? I’ve wondered if it’s internalised misogyny or a reflection of androgyny? More likely, simply not as relevant as the other issues on my path to walk. I’m still just not that interested.

When I was a tantric masseuse, I worked on naked bodies, mostly male. Covering them in a warmed silk sarong to begin. Slowly rippling the cover off before beginning slow circuits around the body, starting from the left toes, up the body to the top of the head and back down again to the right toes. Slowly, lovingly touching the surface of skin with fingertips, hot and cold breath, fur, silk, hair, skin, allowing their energy to rise to meet the touch. The clients asked only to follow sensation, nothing focused on, nothing left out. With zero friction, pressure to please, to have an orgasm or respond to me, thoughts could gently slow, a smiling bliss emerging. The first time I’d experienced the power, space and softness of this for myself, I’d cried.

30 years ago, I had a fallopian tube and an ovary removed after an ectopic pregnancy, and the cumulative effects of oestrogen depletion must have crept up slowly, and now feel like an assault.

Things fall away. First it was brushing my hair, then owning a television,  designer clothes, then expensive cosmetics, the proper job, washing my hair, then milk and dairy, the ten-year relationship, the lovers that left me, the tax bracket income, the pension contributions, Tantra, savings, my UK home, the willingness to be in challenging relationships or to be a well-behaved citizen. Not all of the departures were difficult; often, the desires left me. I spent the money on flights and freedom from the corporate machine. I’m not sure life became simpler or more ethical. I’m still holding on to coffee and lip salve, the lasting vices.

I know no one is coming to rescue me, though some days I heartily wish someone might. Rescue me from what? Myself. My choices. Impulsiveness. Sorrow. Can I trust myself to be the one I’ve been waiting for? Why yes. Trusting in me, in others, in circumstances and the universe. Though, as we were reminded in Dharma class, “Abandon any hope of fruition”.

The thought of an ice bath and wild swimming repels me. I want to keep warm, not shiver my way through menopause. I had rare hot flushes, though cutting out red wine, milk, or a second coffee helped stop the cardi off and on dance. Though I missed the meno memo of cold hands and feet and the genito-urinary symptoms of menopause.  So I can’t ignore the changes in my body and my genitals despite my best efforts.

With a history of secrecy, a little subterfuge doesn’t push too many buttons. It takes a bit of nerve, some entitlement, and a willingness to live with the amplified feelings of getting away with it: guilty, wrong, and the threat of getting caught. Illicit activity holds us to our own accountability, whatever the dodgy dealing or in-flagrante blaze. If we want something enough, we live with it till we can’t. Or get caught in the act. What makes the subterfuge worth it, and how do we find that thrill or quality in our lives more honestly?

I’m lucky enough to be grounded and fused in dual communities. Returning home offers familiarity, comfort, and a sense of belonging, the welcome of mutual friendly loyalty. Born of knowing each other over decades or in-depth sexuality journeys, and seeing each other at low ebbs or more joyful times, builds friendship bonds we treasure. The bonds come with growing care and responsibility for ourselves and each other, held accountable with love.

One of the changing points in the heartbreak years was understanding how my personality had set me up for the fall from the love and grace of a once-happy relationship. Recognising my naïveté and control, superiority, and fragility yanked me out of being a victim. Accepting responsibility for creating the scenario as a soul lesson was a choice. Then I could choose differently. Even if I didn’t want to. The premise of soul lessons may not be true or a form of spiritual bypassing. Yet in that moment, choosing that way of seeing the predicament I was in, flicked a switch.

“Stay lost and open.” Another of the aphorisms of one of the wise advisors. When you know you’re lost, stay open. Wait. Change will happen.

I love a random pick up in exotic places. Curious and free. The thrill of uncomplicated strangers, for brief moments of response, arousal and beauty.

I love hotel rooms, the privacy, escapism and white sheets. Erotic encounters in hotel rooms have been a troublesome yet tempting turn on; a luxury of time and intimacy, leaving the cocoon for the pleasure of a drink in an inviting golden lit bar or wandering new streets hand in hand. I miss the decadence of all of that.