Open Legs, Open Portals

Sex is the most overlooked instrument of spiritual consequence—an unregulated exchange of memory, karma, and ancestral unrest, often performed with people we wouldn’t trust to guard our names, let alone our souls.

Your body may rationalize. Your mind may forgive.
But your field—the unseen imprint of your spirit—remembers every entrance.
And some spirits don’t pull out.

We were taught to protect ourselves from pregnancy, from infection, from scandal.
But who taught you to protect your energy?

Modern sex education emphasizes physical health and consent, yet often overlooks protection from psychic residue. It does not address what psychological studies have shown: that sex, especially when not aligned with one's internal values or emotional needs, can lead to anxiety, regret, even identity confusion. It’s not just about condoms. It’s about consciousness.

A seven-minute encounter can tattoo your field for seven years. Did you know?

That orgasm is not release—it’s ritual.
That climax is not the end—it’s a contract.
And every time you say yes to someone you don’t trust, you are giving them the key to your altar.

This world will teach you how to seduce.
It will not teach you how to cleanse.
It will teach you how to get naked.
It will not teach you what it means to be spiritually exposed.

You can’t decolonize your life and still fuck like a settler.
You can’t reclaim your power if you don’t reclaim your portals.
Because your sexuality is not a social construct. It’s an inheritance.
And somewhere buried beneath purity myths and pleasure capitalism, beneath hookup culture and patriarchal repression, is a truth so ancient it scares us:

Sex is sacred. Always has been. Always will be.

Before tantra was severed from its sacred roots and rebranded as erotic self-care for disembodied consumers, before sacred sensuality was emptied of Spirit and sold as wellness for the spiritually disengaged, we were fucking to remember God.
We were invoking Spirit through sweat and ceremony.
We were merging bodies to decode time.

In precolonial African societies, sex was revered as a sacred act integral to spiritual and communal life. Among the Baganda of Uganda, elder women known as Ssenga guided young women into embodied erotic education without shame or condemnation. In East-Central Africa, sexual practices were interwoven with spiritual cosmologies and fertility rituals, offering a holistic and unashamed approach to pleasure and power (De Gruyter).

Monogamy wasn’t the rule. Neither was polyamory.
The rule was reverence.
Who you shared your body with wasn’t dictated by religion.
It was governed by the understanding that sex is spiritual architecture.
And every lover is an architect.

But colonialism turned sacred lovers into sluts.
Turned spirit-work into sin.
Turned pleasure into punishment.

Now we lay with people whose names we forget but whose energy we can’t shake.
We wake up drained, not from orgasm, but from possession.
Because sex isn’t dirty—but some of your lovers are.
Not their bodies. Their karma.

This is a blueprint for those building temples inside themselves—and asking why they keep collapsing.

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Sex has never been the problem.
It’s who enters your body without knowing what they awaken.

Because not all penetration is physical.
Some slip past the cervix and into the subconscious.
Some enter through the pelvis and rearrange the memory of who you are.
Some unzip something older than you—older than them—and leave it gaping.

We don’t talk enough about the distortion.
How intimacy without integration leaves your nervous system haunted.
How arousal without alignment reprograms your desire to chase what hurts you.
How sex, when misused, doesn’t just leave residue—it leaves splinters.
Small psychic fragments of other people’s grief, ambition, addiction, shame—lodged in the folds of your psyche.
And when enough of them accumulate, you start mistaking them for your own.

This is psychological displacement disguised as connection—an unregulated transfer of memory, pattern, and pain that rewires you at the level of Spirit.

Psychologists have long explored how our sense of self is shaped by external interactions. In Charles Cooley’s “looking-glass self” theory, the idea that we internalize how we believe others perceive us becomes especially potent during sexual intimacy. When you allow someone into your body, you also invite in their projections, their wounds, their chaos. And if you’re not grounded in your own reflection, you begin to morph into the fractured mirror they hold up to you.

Because the body is porous. The field is mutable. And the self?
The self is not fixed.
It’s responsive.
It molds to what it merges with.

You merge with someone whose soul is at war—and now you’re tired all the time.
You merge with someone who lies for sport—and now you’re second-guessing your own truth.
You merge with someone whose lineage is still processing violence—and now your joy feels unsafe.

There are names for this in many cultures. But English doesn’t carry them.
So we say “vibe.”
We say “drained.”
We say “off.”
What we mean is:
”I mistook proximity for connection—and now I carry the spiritual consequences of someone else’s crisis.”

Because consent is not discernment.
Chemistry is not compatibility.
And pleasure is not proof that someone belongs in your energy field.

And still, the wellness world calls it freedom. Still, culture calls it empowerment. But the truth is, more and more people are left feeling depleted and fragmented in the wake of sexual encounters that promised liberation and delivered something else entirely. As explored in The Love Central’s research, casual sex, when misaligned with emotional readiness, often results in unintended emotional attachment, spiritual confusion, and deep energetic withdrawal.

We give people the key to our most sacred chamber without checking if they know how to walk through a holy space without tracking blood on the floors.

And when the collapse happens—when your voice gets softer, your boundaries get looser, your sense of self gets foggier— you think it’s heartbreak.
But it’s not.
It’s energetic fragmentation.

You didn’t lose a partner.
You lost pieces of yourself that fused with someone unequipped to carry them.
And when those pieces return, they don’t always come back clean.

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This is the price of mistaking chemistry for compatibility, and calling it liberation before reading the fine print.

You don’t need another bath in rose petals.
You need an exorcism.

What you are entering now is a sacred act of repossession.
An intimate recalibration of selfhood.
A psychic disentanglement from energies that have claimed squatters’ rights in your field.

A calling back of every version of you that got left behind in someone else's mouth.

That lover wasn't just a phase—they were a portal.
That "situationship" wasn't casual—it was karmic.
And your intuition knew.
But your trauma craved attention.
Your body yearned for softness.
Your loneliness longed to be held.

Not every climax brings you closer to Divinity.
Some bring you closer to grief.

This is energetic sovereignty in motion.
The severing of cords entangled with moments you’ve mistaken for meaning.
The nullification of agreements made in moments of ache.

What’s required now is the audacity to stop spiritualizing dysfunction.
To stop mistaking intensity for intimacy.
To stop calling unresolved karma a lesson.
And to fucking end it—with intention.

You are summoning yourself back from everywhere you've been scattered.
It’s a clean break in the direction of your own power, a split so precise it erodes your DNA.

You are the altar.
You are the gatekeeper.
You are the authority.

You are standing in the mirror, looking into your own eyes, and saying:

“I’m yours again.”

This is the new agreement: nothing enters without reverence. Nothing remains without reciprocity.

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This is the return of conscious sex—the kind that expands you, not empties you.

You are not dirty for wanting.
You are not broken for enjoying.
But you are accountable for what you anchor into your field through that wanting.
Because some bodies feed you.
And others feed off you.

To rise is not to deny the body.
It is to return to it as a sovereign terrain.
To know that pleasure is not a sin—it is a living code.
The archive, the alchemy, and the authority.

This is when you stop mistaking erosion for electricity.
When you stop laying down to be devoured and start rising to be met.
When your need no longer negotiates entry, and your pleasure stops entertaining the unqualified.

This is sacred selection—because every body is a carrier, and not all energies are non-toxic, fair trade, or ethically sourced.

Choosing with awareness, not absence.
With presence, not projection.
With the knowledge that sex is not just sensation—it’s an initiation.
Because pleasure is power, and what you let inside helps shape what you become.

“Every time we claim our pleasure, we interrupt a system that seeks to erase us.”
— Alexis Pauline Gumbs

One love, ESS xo

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References

• Psychological Impact of Casual Sex – Verywell Mind

• Sexual Pleasure in Precolonial Africa – IPPF

• East-Central African Sexual Cosmologies – De Gruyter

• Mental Health Effects of Casual Sex – The Love Central

• Alexis Pauline Gumbs – alexispauline.com