Hormones? All over the place. Calendar? Overflowing. But halfway in the 30’s Days of the Pleasure Project we still made time to touch in (and touch ourselves). From quickies between meetings to sneaky solo sessions next to a snoring partner, this week was about adapting pleasure into the chaos. Because even when life’s a mess, your orgasm doesn’t have to be.
We’re halfway in and turning further inward. This week, it’s all about setting softer, deeper, intentions - where pleasure meets presence. Less performative, more personal. We’re slowing down, tuning in, and letting our bodies lead the way.
Some days begin with chaos. Others begin with calm. Mine started with an alarm, a dog walk, and a soul-crushing inbox. You know, the usual coronation ceremony of modern adulthood.
But by mid-afternoon, the sun was calling me through the windows, and I decided to heed the call. I slipped into a new bikini - bold print, cheeky cut, zero apologies - and headed poolside to recharge, not just from the emails, but from the weight of “getting things done.” Because let’s face it: pleasure is productive too.
After a week of flirtations with Le Petit Jardin (a pocket-sized Casanova, really), I decided it was time to level up - cue Le Jardin Royale, the velvet scepter of self-satisfaction. A little thicker, a little bolder, and just holding it made me feel like I was about to knight myself. Lady of the Tub. Duchess of the O. High Priestess of Vibration.
Post-pool and properly sun-soaked, I slipped into the shower. The kind of shower where the steam clings to your skin and possibilities fog up the glass. I let the water run, but it wasn’t just about getting clean - it was about getting clear. I grabbed Le Jardin Royale, fully charged and vibrating with promise, and let the pleasure begin.
Level 1 was a tease. A warm-up lap. Instead of diving straight into the main event, I let it dance along my things, trailing pulses up and down like a lover with a secret. The grip was firm, but the touch? Luxuriously soft. Like a wave you could ride all the way to shore without ever wiping out.
Soon, I found myself horizontal in the empty tub, letting this regal wonder explore me like new terrain. I wasn’t chasing climax - I was chasing curiosity. And somewhere along the way, curiosity climaxed. A long, rolling rush swept over me. It wasn’t just an orgasm - it was exhale. Release. Renewal.
Here’s the thing about trying something new: it can feel intimidating. Bigger, lounger, unfamiliar. Le Jardin Royale wasn’t my usual type. But I didn’t let size or setting stop me from exploring. And in doing so, I discovered not just a new favorite toy - but a new part of me.
Sometimes we avoid new experiences because we think we won’t know what to do, or worse, that we won’t enjoy them. But what if exploring new sensations is actually a gateway to unlocking power we’ve tucked away? Hidden under routine. Under shame. Under the assumption that what we’ve known is all there is.
So here’s to new thrones, new toys, and new pleasures. Because when we crown ourselves with confidence - and maybe just a little vibration - we remember that pleasure isn’t a luxury. It's right. And today I ruled.
This morning, the world felt… off. Despite it being Friday (hello, happy hour on the horizon), I woke up with that familiar, sinking sense of dread. A stiffness in my lower back, a faint ache behind my right hip, a general fog of bloat and blah. I didn’t need confirmation, but there it was - my period had arrived. Right on schedule, and right on cute to dampen my mood and my plans.
Normally, this is where I reach for the red-labeled bottle, pop a few pills, and power through. But this month is about exploring a different kind of medicine - the kind that comes with no side effects, no pharmacy trip, and no shame. So instead of reaching out to the cabinet, I reached into my bedroom drawer… and met Le Jardin Royale halfway.
With the house quiet, I slipped into my bedroom, locked the door, and sank into the comfort of my bed - soft sheets, no waiting room, and absolutely no paper gown. I took Le Jardin Royale in hand - my larger-than-life little scepter - and pressed it to the tension in my lower back. Gentle vibrations hummed along my spine, the pulsing sensation acting like a deep tissue massage with a wink.
I let the rhythm guide me, gliding the ribbed, velvety body across my body, around my hips, and eventually - inevitably - between my thighs. At Level 4, my body started to soften. Not just relax, but release. With each breath, the pain receded, replaced by something warmer. A wave. A flood. A long, slow curl of pleasure that sent every cramp running for cover.
And here’s where the science swoops in to support the vibe: During orgasm, the uterus contracts and releases, which can help reduce menstrual cramps. Add in the body’s natural flood of endorphins and oxytocin, and suddenly you’ve got a chemical cocktail of calm - no pills required.
I won’t pretend the cramps vanished forever. But the mood? Transformed. The tension? Melted. The heaviness I woke up with was suddenly… lighter. And honestly, I felt better than I do after two Tylenols and a heating pad - because this time, the remedy was made for me, by me.
Sometimes, healing looks like hot tea and rest. Other times, it looks like locking the bedroom door, turning up the vibrations, and letting your body lead the way. And today? I chose the O over the OTC meds… because maybe self-pleasure isn’t just self-care - it’s self-medicine. And this doctor’s order? Come first - no prescription needed.
The weekend rolled in on a wave of cramps, cluttered counters, and an overflowing to-do list of house chores. I wasn’t feeling sexy. Or sensual. Or even mildly flirtatious with myself. I felt… like a bloated hot water bottle in a swimsuit. And while I had every intention to “stay committed” to my Pleasure Project, I’ll admit it - getting in the mood felt like trying to light a match in a thunderstorm.
After errand-running, laundry-folding, and a quick plunge in the pool, I made dinner, played catch-up with family, and finally excused myself earlier than usual for a Saturday. Not for a night of climax and chaos - but for the kind of quiet intimacy we rarely give ourselves permission to enjoy.
Alone in my room, soft candle flickering, dog gentle snoring at the foot of the bed, I didn’t reach for the highest setting or aim for a firework finish. I grabbed Le Jardin Royale, turned it to Level1 - a barely-there hum - and let it rest between my thighs like a warm compress with a pulse.
It wasn’t about orgasm. It was about presence. About soothing instead of seducing. Comfort over climax.
I let Le Jardin Royale linger there for about ten minutes, maybe more. No goals. No pressure. Just the steady lull of vibration grounding me back into my body - a body that spent all day in service to others, now finally tended to something sacred.
Because here’s the thing: menstruation doesn’t just mess with our bodies - it messes with our minds. Hormonal fluctuations during your period can lead to mood swings, anxiety, and metal fog. But studies show that gentle sensual stimulation can counteract that. The release of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin through pleasure - even without orgasm - can help reduce stress, ease pain, and improve emotional regulation. Who knew a bedtime buzz could be a lullaby for both the brain and the body?
So while I didn’t “finish,” I definitely rested. And sometimes, especially on days when we’re bleeding and burnt out, pleasure doesn’t need to be loud or sweaty or cinematic. Sometimes, it’s soft. Still. Subtle.
And so tonight, I drifted off with a calm body and a quiet little smile - as if my period had tucked me in herself. Because showing up for yourself doesn’t always need to end in fireworks… sometimes it’s just a pulse, a breath, a gentle reminder that pleasure can be soft, slow, and just as sacred.
There was a time when the arrival of my period felt like a betrayal. My body turned moody, bloated, and achy - my sex drive usually left the building, and I’d resign myself to baggy sweatpants, heating pads, and whispered curses under my breath. But lately? I’ve started treating my period not as a punishment, but as a permission slip - to slow down, to tune in, and to feel in ways I usually rush past. And yes, that includes feeling pleasure.
This week, I traded in the Midol and martyrdom for a ritual that was part spa day, part slow seduction. I lit candles (violets and lemongrass), poured a bath that would make Cleopatra jealous, and brought along Le Jardin Royale - my waterproof wand of choice for moments when I want to feel both held and wrecked in the best possible way.
The trick? I didn’t rush it. I let the water warm me. I massaged essential oils across my abdomen while I traced my Zigu stimulator along my inner thighs long before letting it reach its final destination.
Because of your period, every nerve feels a little closer to the surface. And if you allow yourself to lean into that - not power through it, not numb it, but sensualize it - you might be surprised what you can uncover.
Let’s get something straight: orgasms during your period aren’t just allowed - they’re medically magical. Uterine contractions during climax can actually relieve cramps. Orgasm releases oxytocin and endorphins - nature’s very own painkillers and mood elevators. And for many of us, arousal is actually heightened thanks to hormonal shifts in the first few days of menstruation.
So why do we still treat menstruation like a red stop sign instead of a soft velvet rope into deeper connections with ourselves? Here’s what I know: pleasure is not a reward we earn for having a “perfect” body, or a PMS-free week. Pleasure is a tool, a balm, a language. And when I carve out time for it - even (especially) during my period - I don’t just feel good… I feel whole.
So the next time your cycle comes calling, don’t just reach for the heating pad and hide under the covers. Light the candles. Run the bath. Invite pleasure in - not in spite of your bleeding body, but because of it. Because menstruation isn’t a mess to clean up - it’s a rhythm to honor. A reminder that your body is alive, cyclical, and aching (sometimes literally) for softness, slowness, and sensation.
And when we treat our periods not as a pause, but as a portal - to comfort, to connection, to climax - we reclaim a power no pill can promise: our own. So here’s to turning PMS into pleasure-made sacred. Because if you’re going to bleed once a month.. You might as well come with it.
It’s Monday. Again. The alarm screamed, the dog needed walking, the inbox loomed, and my iced chai barely had time to melt before I was neck-deep in unanswered emails. Just another beginning-of-the-week juggle - until I hear the front door. It’s also housekeeper day.
She comes once a week to sweep the weekend chaos into neat lines and lemony freshness. And while I adore her and the calm she brings to my space, I couldn’t help but freeze mid-email when I remembered something: my little collection of Zigu toys were not in their drawers.
Le Petit Jardin was still resting like royalty on my nightstand. Le Jardin Royale? Tucked confidently in the shower nook. And suddenly, despite everything I’ve learned and leaned into during this pleasure project, I felt… mortified. Not because they were out. But because they were seen. My immediate thought was: Did she notice? Was she uncomfortable? Did I just commit the adult version of leaving your diary open on your bed?
They weren’t touched. Not an inch moved. Still, the feeling lingered. And here’s the thing - why is it that at 42, I can still feel that pang of shame over something so beautifully human? Why do vibrators still feel more like secrets than self-care?
There’s science behind this: researchers have long pointed to what’s called the “moral incongruence” of masturbation - when something that gives pleasure is simultaneously loaded with messages of guilt, embarrassment, or perceived immortality. Cultural conditioning plays a heavy hand, especially for women. We’re taught to hide desire, to treat pleasure as private at best and taboo at worst.
Masturbation isn’t exactly dinner party conversation (yet). And while we’ve come a long way, there’s still that whisper that says: This is for behind closed doors - and definitely behind drawers. But the truth? My toys weren’t “left out.” They were where I left them. Like my face cream. My toothpaste. My supplements. They’re tools of care and connection - just with a little more vibration.
So maybe the point isn’t to feel guilty for feeling exposed, but to notice the reaction…. And lovingly challenge it. Because if this project has taught me anything, it’s that claiming your pleasure isn’t always about orgasms - it’s about ownership.
No matter our age, our background, or who’s doing the dusting that day, pleasure is ours to honor, unapologetically. So if Le Jardin Royale and Le Petit Jardin are out in the open, it’s not an oversight --it’s a statement. This is what owning your pleasure looks like: not like a dirty secret but proudly on display.
There’s something about early mornings that make everything feel softer. The kind of soft where the sheets still cradle your body, the air feels hushed, and your skin has quite shaken off sleep yet. That's where I found myself this morning - my partner lay next to me, still wrapped in sleep. Steady breath. Warm skin. Close - but far from the fire quietly building inside me.
And that’s what made it even more thrilling. Because even though he was right there, I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want to involve him. This moment was about us. It was mine.
No toys today - too loud, too much, too soon. It was just my hands. My breath. My body waking itself up. A quiet exploration. A pulse building behind closed eyes and tight lips.
There’s something undeniably sexy about choosing yourself. About slipping beneath the covers and claiming your pleasure, quietly, deliberately, while someone else sleeps beside you unaware. It’s not about secrets or shame. It’s about sovereignty.
Because self-pleasure doesn’t have to disappear when you share your bed. It doesn’t vanish with partnership or commitment. Sometimes the boldest, most electric thing you can do is remind yourself that your pleasure belongs to you. Always.
And so, today, I didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t wait. I reached out to myself like I already belonged to me. No grand finale. No elaborate fantasy. Just the gentle, grounding reminder that I don’t need a reason, a mood, or a man to turn myself on. Sometimes, the most radical intimacy is the one you give yourself - especially with someone right beside you. And that? That was enough to start my day glowing.
This morning was nothing special. I got up, did my usual - slid into leggings, went to Pilates, came home with hair still damp at the roots and arms shaking in that deliciously sore way. The next step should’ve been coffee, a protein shake, or emails. But instead, I veered left.
I had exactly 14 minutes before my first call. So I gave myself five. No candles. No breathwork. No moody playlist or silk robe. Just me, on my bed, the sun peeking through the window and Le Jardin Royale on Level 4. Strong. Steady. Sensual. No foreplay nor fantasies. Just focus.
It felt mechanical - transactional even. The way I imagine a man might do it. Fast. Efficient. A quick release. A box checked off before the day begins. And for a moment, I judged it. I thought: Was that even worth it? Shouldn’t there be flowers, flirtation, feelings? But then I caught myself.
Because here’s the truth: I did it for me. I didn’t wait until the mood struck. I didn’t negotiate my way out of it. I didn’t let it roll over onto tomorrow’s to-do list, like pleasure so often does. Instead, I claimed it - like brushing my teeth, like making my bed. But this time, with a pulse - with power. Because the truth is: there’s no perfect time. No someday. No when-the-mood-is-right. There’s only now. And this morning I took it.
Pleasure? Checked. Power? Reclaimed. Emails? Coming next.
Because there’s no time like the present - and I’m done saving the good stuff for later.
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So here we are: two weeks deep into desire. We’ve navigated mood swings, tight schedules, rogue emotions, and new toys, and still, we’ve made space for pleasure. Not always perfect, not always poetic, but always ours. If Week Two was about intention, maybe Week Three is about indulgence. Let’s see what unfolds when we stop fitting pleasure in… and start building around it.
Ready or not, Week Three - we’re coming!
