Maintenance is housework.
Maintenance is rhythm.
Maintenance is what keeps the system flowing.
Sex is something else entirely.
I don’t prepare for maintenance.
I don’t dress up for maintenance.
I don’t light candles for maintenance.
Maintenance is not for him.
Maintenance is for us.
Maintenance is a woman’s craft.
Not because she does everything herself.
But because everything moves by her standard.
Systems follow her rhythm.
Objects stay where she places them.
Energy flows where she directs it.
Maintenance is invisible, until it isn’t.
Until something is off.
Until friction shows.
Until flow is interrupted.
This is why I keep my tools ready.
Lubricant in the drawer.
Tissues on the nightstand.
Instructions in my voice.
Presence in my body.
Maintenance takes five minutes.
Sometimes ten.
Rarely more.
Because it’s not sex.
It’s not for show.
It’s not about seduction.
Sex is sacred.
Sex is play.
Sex is full-body energy.
Sex is what happens because the system is tuned.
Because the connection is clear.
Because nothing is clogged or backed up.[1]
Maintenance removes friction.
Maintenance creates space.
Maintenance lets desire rise naturally.
