The WORLD is YOURZ, so is your body.

Sex: Never Take Candies From Strangers—Or Do, But...

There is a side of sex we rarely speak of. Not the sacred. Not shameful. But the in-between. The aching, empty, frantic space. The one you stumble into when you’re not seeking love but just a moment where someone might want you enough to stay—and that’s super rare.

Not even stay, really. Just see you. Just make you forget the quiet voice that says you’re not worth it—think how many of those you had.

We live in a world where sex has become both the final boss—and I mean in a bad way, not in a way “destroying” it and completing the task. A commodity, a punishment, a distraction. It’s everywhere and nowhere. Talked about endlessly. Understood rarely. We confuse desire with validation. Performance with connection. There is so much content about sex that it’s just nonsense—people talking about their fetish, kinks, etc. (There is beauty in being vulnerable and open about those things, but not on podcasts and other content that can mislead the audience.)

Promiscuity, they call it. They throw the word around like it’s a pair of Nike. Some are Air Force fans—I guess that’s the a-sexual community in this case. For others, it’s Air Max—I don’t know what that means, but you get the idea. But almost always they go for Nike—no matter what the model is.

Now, back to the real world. Behind the countless names and nights and numbers, there’s usually a wound. One that didn’t start in the bedroom, but somewhere far deeper. Somewhere, you stopped being chosen for who you were and started being accepted only for what you could give.

Sex becomes a transaction: attention in exchange for silence—and not the long-lasting, pleasurable silence. Affection in exchange for identity—that one sucks. Your body becomes a negotiation table—or more specifically, your private part. Sometimes you win. Most times, you lose—like being in a casino (everybody wants to brag about it, but nobody really likes it after they’re done.)

You undress in front of someone, hoping it might strip away the loneliness, too. But it never does. If anything, it amplifies it. Because the body knows. It remembers being touched without tenderness. It remembers being praised but not understood. It remembers being taken, but never truly held—sex is another of the many mirrors showing who you are.

You can be kissed and still feel invisibl,e and that’s probably one of the worst feelings. You push yourself to experience something that you are supposed to have pleasure, fun, good vibes, etc., and instead you receive nothing but some pleasure—if any (and at what cost?).

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing inherently wrong with sex—it’s actually a pretty cool thing. That’s the tragic irony. Sex, in its purest form, is sacred—at least in the romantic way around it. It’s not just flesh meeting flesh—it’s the breath before the kiss. The eye contact during. The laughter after. It’s vulnerability wrapped in trust, in rhythm, in timing. But strip it of safety and it becomes something else. Not evil. Just empty.

And the more you repeat it—without meaning—the more it starts to scrape against your soul. You wonder why you feel more hollow after. Why the walk of shame never really ends. Why, no matter how many bodies you lie next to, you always return to the same question: What’s wrong with me?

I guess there’s nothing wrong with you. It’s not that you are not wanted. It’s not that you are mistaking sex for intimacy. It’s not that you are weak for needing closeness, even when you don’t know how to ask for it.

You were never taught the language of your own body. And more precisely, before learning the language of the body, you gotta learn the language of the mind—without the second one, you can’t have anything in your life experienced fully (read that again).

There are always certain rules that people repeat:
• Be sexy, but not too sexual.
• Be desired, but not “easy.”
• Be in control, but let yourself go.
• Be open, but don’t catch feelings.
• Enjoy it, but don’t want it too much.

And if you’re a man, it’s:
• Take what you want.
• Want it all the time.
• You’re worthless if you’re not wanted.
• Your value is your performance.
• Your emotions are irrelevant.

And if you’re a woman, it’s:
• Please, but don’t ask.
• Seduce, but don’t own it.
• Say no, but not too often.
• Your body is a currency you’re born owing.

(I may be wrong or miss points, but I think what I said pretty much sums up everything.)

So no wonder we’re confused. No wonder we perform. We live in a culture of fake pleasure and emotional detachment—everything is inspired either by money or fame. We swipe through people, and we try to justify that calling it a connection.

But underneath it all, there’s a real hunger. A beautiful, honest, terrifying hunger—for touch, for truth, for real intimacy (I know, all that gay stuff). And if that hunger isn’t seen, it starts driving you to fill yourself with that fake attention and everything that follows.

And that’s not sex. That’s escape.

Ask yourself—why are you doing it?

Is it because you’re full of joy or you’re truly present? Or because you’re tired, sad, bored, angry, drunk, high or lonely? Are you there because you want it—or because it’s easier than being alone?

That answer will tell you everything.

And if you’ve lost yourself somewhere in this spiral, know this: you can come home.

Everybody deserves a “he is risen” story. Your body is yours, not as a thing to be used, but a place to be inhabited. You can say no—not as rejection, but as revelation. You can say yes with clarity, not guilt. You can decide that your pleasure is not shameful—but it is yours. (The world is YOURZ.)

Sex should never be a substitute for worth. It should never be the only way someone knows how to be close to you.

You are allowed to start over. To pause. To choose slowness. (To do as you wish—with integrity… or not.)

You are allowed to be loved for your stillness, not your skills.

You are allowed to rewrite what sex means to you. Not what society says. Not what your ex expected. Not what your trauma taught you. You and only YOU.

So take your time returning to it. Give it back its voice. It's “no.” It's “yes.” It's “not tonight.” It's “not with you.” It's “not like this.” (This also means not playing games with others because you have power over them. You do as you wish while being fully open about why you want what you want.)

Let sex be what it always should have been: honest. Tender. Consensual. Aligned. Awake.

And when it’s not—walk away.

Because nothing is lonelier than being touched by someone who doesn’t know how to hold you.

And nothing is more healing than finally being touched by someone who does.

Starting with you.

The bloke next door,
Ivaniel “The Shameless” Georgiev

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