Dear Listener,

 

There was a time when I thought the messier it was, the more real it must be. The more I cried, the more I wanted. The more unpredictable they were, the more desirable they became.

 

I didn’t just chase chaos, I confused it with chemistry. I craved that dizzying, head-spinning feeling that came not from being held, but from being destabilized. And I called that love.

 

So many of my clients at The Pleasure Practice bring this same ache into the room. They describe feeling high on the intensity of new love, addicted to the thrill of not knowing where they stand. They say, “I know it’s bad for me, but I can’t stop going back.” Or, “The sex is incredible, but the rest of it makes me anxious all the time.”

 

And what I always say first is this:

You are not broken.

You are conditioned.

 

Because when someone’s affection is unpredictable, when love feels like a game of emotional roulette, your brain gets caught in what’s called the intermittent reward system.

 

It’s one of the most powerful behavioral reinforcements we know. It’s the same system that casinos use to keep people pulling the lever. If the reward was predictable, you’d stop. But when it’s unpredictable, your brain keeps chasing.

 

Waiting. Hoping. Obsessing.

 

Every time they text after days of silence… dopamine.

Every time they pull you close after pushing you away… dopamine.

Every time you “make up” after a rupture… dopamine.

 

And not just a little. You actually experience more dopamine than if the reward was consistent.

 

It’s not love. It’s a neurological jackpot.

 

But here’s the problem: the same pattern that creates those intense highs also creates the deepest lows. The more inconsistent the reward, the more volatile the emotional cycle. And eventually, the crash becomes unbearable. You’re left questioning your worth. Your needs feel too big. And the sex, even when hot, starts to feel hollow.

 

I know because I’ve lived it.

I’ve wept in the arms of someone who only saw my tears after I’d begged to be seen.

I’ve performed desire like a dance I hoped would earn me affection.

I’ve whispered “I’m okay” when my body was anything but okay.

 

And in the quiet after those lovers left, I began to wonder, what if the aliveness I feel in chaos isn’t proof of connection, but a sign that my nervous system is stuck in a loop?

 

What if safety, not intensity, is the real portal to pleasure?

 

That question changed everything.

 

At The Pleasure Practice, I see this shift happen over and over again. A client comes in saying, “I’ve never had sex without anxiety.” Another tells me, “I don’t know what it’s like to feel truly safe with someone.”

 

Slowly, gently, we start to unwind the script. Not by pathologizing desire. Not by blaming the body. But by honoring the truth of what it has learned.

 

Because the body doesn’t lie. It remembers every rupture. It stores every ache. And when it’s been taught that love equals longing, it will reach for longing even when it hurts.

 

But the body can relearn.

 

With presence. With slowness. With new kinds of touch. With partners who don’t make us prove we’re worthy of care.

 

And when that relearning happens, oh, pleasure blooms.

 

Not because we’ve chased it. But because we’ve softened into it.

 

I think about one client who told me, “I didn’t know I could want someone this much without the fear of losing them.” They had spent decades in relationships fueled by conflict and collapse. And now? They’re exploring play, fantasy, and vulnerability in ways they never imagined because their nervous system isn’t in survival mode anymore. It’s safe enough to open.

 

That’s what erotic safety looks like.

 

And let me be clear, it’s not boring.

It’s the beginning of full-body aliveness.

 

Because when you know you won’t be punished for your truth, you speak more freely.

When you trust you won’t be abandoned for your no, your yes becomes more powerful.

When you feel held without conditions, your desire can actually breathe.

 

In my own life, I now measure the quality of my relationships not by how high the highs are but by how safe I feel when I’m scared. By how easily I can say no. By whether I laugh during sex. By how often I don’t have to ask for reassurance, because it’s already built into the way we love.

 

And yes, the sex is still electric.

 

But it’s electric because I feel safe. Because my body is fully online. Because I’m not chasing. I’m choosing.

 

Pleasure Practice:
1. Where have you mistaken instability for intensity in your own love life?
2. Can you recall a time when sex felt the most thrilling after rupture? What were you feeling underneath the high?
3. Imagine a relationship where affection is steady and predictable. What parts of you would relax? What new desires might surface in that safety?

 

There’s no shame in having chased the chaos. For many of us, it was the only version of love we knew. It was the only thing modeled. And when we experience pleasure in those dynamics, it can feel impossible to let them go.

 

But let me offer this: your most turned-on self may be waiting in the steadiness.
Not the stillness of apathy, but the stability of devotion.

 

There is a kind of lover who will kiss your tears without disappearing.

There is a kind of partner who will hold you, not because you begged, but because you’re already enough.

 

You don’t have to earn your pleasure through pain.

You don’t have to survive love to be worthy of it.

You are allowed to want the kind of intimacy that doesn’t play games with your heart.

 

That’s not naive.

That’s not settling.

That’s the revolution we’re writing together.

 

Sending All My Love,
Nicole

 

Nicole Thompson, M.A.

Sex and Relationship Psychotherapist

Clinical Psychology

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