Communion

Something happens in the nervous system when hiding stops.

The body has been bracing for decades. In every interaction, a subtle tension lives just beneath the surface. The question always present: will this part of me be received? And so certain hungers stay unnamed. Certain fantasies go unspoken. The flesh learns to perform a version of itself rather than simply be.

Then comes the encounter where the mask is no longer needed.

One person shows the thing they’ve hidden. The other meets it with recognition instead of recoil. And in that meeting, something ancient relaxes. The body remembers a state it may not have known since infancy: the absence of vigilance.

This is why certain couples remain in eros decade after decade while others calcify into habit. The difference has nothing to do with technique or novelty. It has everything to do with the ongoing willingness to be seen.

When two people stop performing for each other, the erotic becomes regenerative. Each encounter is discovery because each person arrives as whoever they actually are today. The flesh that was hidden yesterday becomes the flesh that is worshipped today. The frontier keeps moving.

The traditions speak of this as communion. Two bodies in genuine meeting. The worship that asks only presence.