Woman to Woman
On desires, safe words, and what happens when we finally let ourselves be seen.
This past weekend, I had the privilege of spending time with a couple whose entire intention for the weekend was beautifully simple: make space for her.
Not for the fantasy. Not for the experience. For her – for what she actually wants, beneath the layers of messages we absorb as women growing up. The quiet, persistent voice that says: that’s naughty, so you can’t enjoy it.
We collect those messages. From childhood. From church. From offhand comments made by people who thought they were protecting us. And slowly, without even noticing, we start letting those voices stand guard at the door of our own desire. It’s not a conscious choice. It just becomes habit. It becomes us.
“Her guard wasn’t protecting her from the world. It was protecting the world from knowing what she wanted.”
When I arrived at the hotel – one of those places where the lobby alone makes you stand up a little straighter – she was at the bar alone. Her husband had stepped upstairs for a moment. I was earlier than expected.
I saw it on her face the second she looked up. That look that says: oh. This is real now.
We found a quiet corner and began to talk. And as she started sharing one experience she’d had in the swinging world, her eyes filled with tears. Not from trauma – but from something more complicated than that. From recognizing something in herself she hadn’t had language for yet.
My mind immediately went through everything I know about consent, about coercion, about the importance of being able to say no without consequence. I’ve seen the difference, and I take it seriously. So we talked about it – gently, honestly.
And what became clear was this: she hadn’t wanted to say no. Her history had been saying no for her. There’s an important difference. One is protection. The other is a cage dressed up as protection.
So I gave her something to hold onto. Something that was entirely hers.
“Your safe word,” I told her, “can be Bible Camp.”
She burst out laughing. Full, real, relieved laughter. We both did. We agreed on it — and in that moment, something shifted. She had a word that was hers. A line only she could draw.
Eventually we made our way upstairs. Her husband settled into the chair across the room. He didn’t come to the bed unless she invited him. That was the whole point – she was in charge of the room, maybe for the first time.
I stayed on her other side and made quiet promises. I won’t touch inside yet. Please kiss me – we can keep our mouths closed, but please soften to my mouth. Small, specific, unhurried. No assumptions. No rushing toward anything.
As the weight of all those old restrictions began to fall away, she breathed with a beautiful catch in her throat. Achingly sweet. That sound you can’t fake.
We explored – or more honestly, I explored, and she softly, occasionally touched my side, my breast, met my mouth with hers. Tentative and present at the same time. That’s its own kind of courage.
“We didn’t quite ‘get there’ — but we did.”
With women, it’s not always the grand explosion. Sometimes it’s the quiet trust you allow yourself to feel. The moment you stop bracing and just breathe. That counts. That’s real.
I let myself out. I have no doubt that the two of them had quite the evening after I left – and that her husband gave her an incredible gift by making the whole day about her discovering herself.
That’s what this kind of work looks like when it’s done right. Not performance. Not pressure. Just enough safety for someone to finally meet themselves.