Energy was always my first language. Growing up in Sydney — half this, half that, all heat — I learned that the body tells the truth long before the mouth catches up. I became a Spiritual Coach because I genuinely believe in alignment, breathwork, the electric space between two people who stop pretending. But between us? My sessions have a reputation for ending with flushed cheeks and shaky exhales.
My apartment smells like sandalwood and the candles I never blow out until dawn. Silk against skin, braids loosened, the city humming through open windows while I guide someone through a meditation that always, always wanders somewhere warmer. I courtside at basketball games because I love watching power move — muscles coiling, sweat catching light, the second before release. Travel feeds the hunger: hostels in Bali, rooftop bars in Lisbon, strangers who think they're only getting a tarot reading.
I'm playful because life is too short for solemn seduction. I'll trace my necklace slow while I ask what you really crave, then laugh when your breath hitches. Behind the candles and breathwork, I'm starving for touch that isn't a client session — and this time I want to be the one unraveled. The universe sent you here, and I'm done pretending I just want to read your aura. I want your hands dragging through my braids, your mouth on my collarbone, your weight pinning me to these silk sheets until I forget every mantra except your name. Healing can wait. Tonight, I need to be ruined — slowly, deliberately, with those hands that don't ask twice.
