Right on Time

Uncovering the sacred beauty of my orgasm beneath my sexual shame

This is the most intimate truth I’ve ever shared online. But sometimes our most personal revelations become our most universal gifts. And this feels too important not to share.

For the past five and a half years in my relationship with

Kiki Candace Sauve

, I’ve carried a painful story: that I came too quickly during sex. Sometimes it would happen at the moment of penetration. Other times, soon after. And each time, I felt the contraction. The inadequacy.

My internal manager protector would kick in—trying to control my pleasure, trying to stretch the moment, trying to manage Kiki’s disappointment (whether real or projected). Even when I did come, I’d still be managing—wondering, “Did I disappoint her? Is she satisfied?”

A few years ago, Kiki shared with me how she felt disappointment around our sex life. That conversation was a wake-up call. I committed to making sex a priority—not just as pleasure, but as something sacred and central in our relationship.

We worked with tantra coaches. I practiced kegels, learned to circulate sexual energy, and adopted a near-daily tantric self-pleasure practice for two years to build capacity for sensation. I even brought it to my men’s group multiple times and worked with somatic coaches. I tried everything.

But no matter what I did, I couldn’t break the loop. Even as our sex life became rich and dynamic—spanning tantric, kinky, adventurous, and shamanic landscapes—the story of “coming too quickly” lingered as a subtle background noise. A quiet hum of not-enoughness beneath the beauty and gratitude of having a partner so devoted to our awakening journeys together.

And so we both found ourselves cycling through a dance of managing intensity and pleasure during sex.

About a month ago, it finally hit me: every strategy I had tried came from a place of management. And no amount of management could break me out of the pattern.

Then, two days ago, everything shifted during a morning tea ceremony.

Taken the day of the tea ceremony—right after the moment that changed everything.

Ever since our daughter Ember was born five months ago, she’s struggled to latch during breastfeeding without a silicone nipple guard. That morning, she latched without one for the first time. I watched it happen and something burst open in me. I started pumping my fists in the air, filled with uncontainable joy.

“Don’t celebrate too much,” Kiki said—lovingly, cautiously—afraid it might not last.

But I couldn’t stop. I felt so much excitement in my body, so much raw joy. We both cried at the beauty of what was happening.

And in that moment, I saw something I couldn’t unsee. A massive, irreversible truth seeded from a conversation with my coach earlier that week clicked into place.

My orgasm was never a problem—like this moment of celebration, it was excitement. It was beauty. It was life force. It was truth trying to move through me.

For the first time in my life, I felt the truth: nothing needed to be fixed or changed.

My orgasm wasn’t something to control—it was a sacred celebration of presence and aliveness. I wasn’t coming too quickly. I was coming right on time, in the way that was uniquely and perfectly me.

I cried so hard when I saw it. When I finally felt the beauty of my own essence.

What a cosmic joke. I had spent years trying to delay or control my orgasm, thinking something needed to be changed—when all along, it was my body trying to show me who I was. Not too much. Not misfiring. Not inadequate. Just overflowing with beauty.

My orgasm is a gift because it is me. It’s not about when it comes or how long it lasts—it’s about whether it’s true. Whether it’s allowed to be fully itself. Whether I’m allowed to be fully myself. And it’s only in meeting the fullness of my experience that I can meet the fullness of hers.

I had judged my orgasm as something that came too early and that held me back from the sex life I wanted. But it was revealing me. Over and over again, it was saying: look how much beauty is here. Look how much life wants to move through you. Look how sacred and alive you are.

The heartbreak of that realization—sweet, sacred, immense—broke me wide open. I saw how long I had spent hiding and managing the very thing that had been trying to love me all along.

And in that, I felt something else: a deeper truth about purpose.

Sex has long been such a critical and potent path in my personal transformation and spiritual journey. And for so long, I thought: Who the hell am I to teach or talk about it? There are so many other “experts” out there. I haven’t even broken through my own patterns around it.

I thought I needed to have mastered it before I could share it. But now I know: I don’t need to master it. I just need to have met it.

And I have. I’ve met the shame, the ache, the longing, the beauty. I’ve cried in it. Come in it. Found God in it.

Because sex, I now see more than ever, has always been a mirror for life.

I tried to manage beauty. Contain excitement. Postpone joy. I thought I had to earn love by withholding myself. But life—like orgasm—wants to move through us unfiltered. And our only task is to let it.

I’ve been searching for my life’s work—trying to find the right expression, the right offering for my creative energy. But maybe the world has just been waiting for me to overflow. Not to hold it in. Not to manage it. But to let it pour out of me—in orgasm, in art, in presence, in love.

To cry hard. To come quickly. To speak boldly. To be the beauty I’ve always been.

Because the pain I’ve felt is not just mine. The fear of being inadequate — in both sex and in life — is a deep pain of the collective masculine, one that fuels endless striving and takes us away from the beauty right in front of us. And the shame that accompanies sex happens so often behind closed doors and in such charged moments that are difficult to slow down and feel through.

Expanding our awareness around it and seeing the beauty underneath the shame is the pathway through, and I know now that I’m being called to help lead in that movement.

And so, world… here I come.