Pleasure That Isn’t a Performance

Pleasure That Isn’t a Performance

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For a long time, I mistook performance for pleasure.
I learned how to arch my back just right,
how to moan at the right time,
how to turn my body into something to be watched, rather than felt.

I wasn’t taught to ask myself what I wanted—only how to give what was wanted of me.

So I became a shape. A show.
Not a person in pleasure, but a woman playing the part of one.
Eyes open, thinking of angles.
Mind elsewhere, narrating how I must look, not how I feel.

And when it was over, I wondered why I felt so hollow—
even when they said I was amazing.
Even when they reached for me again.

Because I wasn’t in my body. I was observing it, controlling it, offering it.

But pleasure—real pleasure—doesn’t live in performance.

It lives in presence.

It’s in the places that don’t make it into movies.
The unedited breath. The stumble. The awkwardness.
The laugh that bursts out unexpectedly. The slowness. The stillness. The surrender.

Real pleasure doesn’t ask how it looks.
It asks, How does this feel?

It’s not about proving anything.
It’s not about being desirable—it’s about being alive.
It’s not about earning love through beauty or compliance.
It’s about reclaiming the body as a source of truth, not a stage for approval.

I am learning to make pleasure mine again.

To pause and ask: Do I want this?
To follow sensation, not expectation.
To stop performing intimacy and start inhabiting it.
To trust that I don’t have to be graceful or perfect to be worthy of joy.

And when I do—when I let go of the act—
I come home to something that was always mine.

A kind of softness that doesn’t collapse.
A kind of fire that doesn’t need applause.
A kind of pleasure that doesn’t perform,
because it finally belongs to me.

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