The Disappearance of Eroticism: What We Lose When We Stop Seeing Intimacy as Sacred

Eroticism was once worshipped, painted, sung, and prayed through. Now it’s swiped, ghosted, and forgotten. But in a world that numbs instead of feels, what happens to those of us who still long for depth?

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When I first opened The Perfumed Garden, I didn’t expect to cry. And I’m only halfway through.

But even in the first chapters, it felt like a sacred text had been placed in my hands—a love letter to the erotic written in a time before shame, before sex was stripped of its magic. The book treats intimacy like prayer. Erotic connection is something to revere: a devotional act where presence becomes the altar and the body becomes a living scripture.

Reading it didn’t just move me—it validated me. Because I have felt that kind of holiness before. And in those moments, I have seen God.

Not metaphorically—literally. I’ve seen the mandorla—that black oval halo painted behind saints and deities. I’ve seen it appear in moments of real erotic surrender. Not because someone “turned me on,” but because I turned inward. I finally learned what it means to meet someone—not just with my body, but with my soul.

And once you’ve touched that space—once you’ve known that kind of intimacy—you can never go back to pretending friction is enough.

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Somewhere along the way, we began treating “erotic” and “sexual” like synonyms. But they are not the same.

Sexuality is rooted in drive, release, orientation. It’s instinctual. Eroticism, as Audre Lorde so beautifully wrote, is a source of deep feminine power—a wellspring of knowing and connection that goes far beyond the bedroom. It is sensory. Spiritual.

Eroticism is not the act. It’s the awareness.

It’s the way a bead of sweat forms on the bridge of someone’s nose, trembling before it slides down past the top of their lip. It’s the way someone reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear and lingers—like that tiny gesture might hold a universe.

It’s also this: You’re standing outside. There’s a breeze—gentle but insistent—and it lifts a few strands of hair across her face. She’s speaking, and as you listen, you notice the intensity in her gaze. Not performative. Just present. You see the way her lips flush slightly. How her neck subtly shifts while she talks. How her entire being responds like a wave to the conversation itself.

And you’re not thinking about kissing her. You’re feeling her.

Soul merging, without ever touching.

That’s eroticism.

Sexuality can be performative. Eroticism is felt.

And we are starving for it.

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 I’ve spent my entire adult life searching for connection. Long-term relationships. Short-term ones. One-night stands. Two-night stands. Brief flings that lasted too long, and long flings that ended too fast.

At the time, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew I wanted to feel something. To kiss someone’s mind like static down the spine. To remember them in the body long after they left the room, like the sillage of one’s perfume. 

But now? Some parts of me has quietly succumbed to a feeling of resignation— to what is, to what might never be. 

This longing has embedded itself in my own personal life—this aching absence of slow-burn courtship.

The kind where presence builds like heat in a room.

Where eye contact stretches past the polite, and intention lingers between words.

It’s rare now. Most interactions feel like scripts—rushed, flattened, or purely functional.

Especially with men, there’s often no trace of the erotic.

Not seduction. Not sex.

Eroticism.

That sacred tension. That delicious restraint.

The way someone’s curiosity can kiss your skin before they ever touch you.

And it’s safe to say I’ve perhaps given up on the fantasy I once held so close. That kind of knowing—the soul-deep, eyes-wide-open, sacred kind—Perhaps we are too far gone.

And I’ve come to grieve that.

Not just for myself, but for all of us.

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Eroticism once belonged to the poets, the mystics, the healers. But over time, it was erased.

Religion taught us to fear the body—to view desire as sin and pleasure as punishment.

Consumerism taught us to commodify it—to strip intimacy of spirit and sell it back to ourselves in dating apps, porn categories, and filtered content.

And misogyny? Misogyny taught us that a woman’s pleasure was irrelevant. That her power was dangerous. That her eroticism was something to be contained or consumed—but never honored.

In her book The Will to Change, bell hooks warned that patriarchy disconnects men from their emotions, their tenderness, their capacity to love.

And in doing so, it disconnects all of us—from each other, from ourselves, from the language of vulnerability that true intimacy requires.

Now, we live in a culture that treats eroticism like a transaction. It’s performance. Clickbait. A language most have forgotten how to speak.

Eroticism has been chopped up, reduced, stripped of its nutrients, then pumped full of preservatives and filler ingredients.

What was once sacred has been processed for mass consumption—packaged, stamped, labeled, and sent down a conveyor belt to be sold back to us as fantasy.

It no longer nourishes. It overstimulates.

It’s not meant to feed the soul—it’s meant to keep us hungry.

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Why Sex Work Was Never the Problem—But Power Was

Here’s my theory:

Sex work became taboo the moment it became untaxable.

The moment it couldn’t be controlled, monetized, or confined to patriarchal systems. Not because it was immoral, but because it was powerful.

In ancient civilizations—from Egypt to Mesopotamia to India—sex work wasn’t shamed. It was sacred. Courtesans, temple workers, and erotic companions weren’t seen as broken or dangerous.

They were healers. Guides. Vessels for transformation.

And yes—there are levels.

There’s a difference between a street-based worker and a courtesan or escort.

Not in worth. Not in dignity. But in form. In intention.

One might be rooted in survival. Another in ritual.

Both are sex work. Both deserve safety and respect. But the experience is not the same.

Some of us bring years of study into what we do—trauma education, spiritual practice, somatic training, erotic arts.

We aren’t just providing a service. We’re creating an experience. An energetic container. A temporary temple.

Sex, in its truest form, is a portal.

A way to regulate the nervous system.

To manifest.

To alchemize grief.

To charge energy into movement, clarity, action.

When done with reverence, sex is not a transaction.

It’s a transmission.

Sex work became illegal not because it was dangerous, but because it was uncontrollable.

Because it offered something capitalism couldn’t replicate: healing through pleasure.

Even If No One Returns—I’ll Still Be Here

Sometimes I fantasize about a world that still knows how to touch with reverence.

One where eroticism isn’t lost. Where people still take their time.

And then I look around—and I ache.

Patriarchy taught us to fear feminine erotic power.

Consumerism turned intimacy into content.

Religion told us to shrink our bodies and hide our pleasure.

Even science is catching up to what many of us already know in our bones:

our attention spans are shortening.

The slow burn is fading.

Real eroticism—the kind that requires presence, patience, curiosity—feels almost impossible in a world built for speed.

And yet—I’m still here.

Even if most people settle for friction over depth,

Even if swiping replaces sacredness,

Even if desire gets outsourced to machines—

I will still romanticize the mundane.

I will still kiss someone’s mind like it matters.

I will still move like my body is holy.

Because this isn’t woo-woo. This isn’t fluff.

This is science.

This is trauma-informed intimacy.

This is somatic truth.

This is knowing.

And if you know, you know.

I don’t expect everyone to understand what I do.

Or why I do it.

But I hope something I write, or say, or offer, reminds someone else that it’s possible to feel more.

To feel deeply.

To feel on purpose.

Because even if eroticism feels like a lost art—

some of us are still painting.