Chapter 7: Mojo & Froyo

You set off for a distant country - part exploration, part pilgrimage - thinking it’s about the views, the silence, the rest.

But somewhere between the tang of mango froyo melting on your tongue, the warm tide kissing your ankles, the breeze loosening your grip on everything tight, and music drifting from café speakers like a slow exhale - you find something else entirely.

A flicker.
A feeling.
A slow, radiant remembering of everything that once made you feel most alive.

And with that quiet return to self, something ancient stirs.
Pleasure.
Desire.
Connection.

Not like fireworks, but like old friends slipping in through the back door unannounced, laughing too loudly, a little late, a little wilder, still scandalously fun.
Older now.
Wiser.
But oh, still so capable of lighting up the room.

It began quietly.
Not with a look.
Not with a touch.
But with the stroking of sun-warmed skin, the heat that spread over her cold bones, a flame once frozen between her thighs, now open and free below soft flowing silk. Her whole beautiful brown being was humming with new electricity.
She sat wrapped in her silk caftan, thighs bare, hair wild on pavements outside restaurants listening to live jazz music and remembered she once slow danced at The Galaxy with him swaying slowly not a breath between them.

And she felt it... that ancient pulse, that deep throb that reminds us that we are alive.
“Welcome back, old friend…” she whispered sending thanks into the night sky.

She didn’t rush it, she sat with all the sensations, her flesh prickly and sensitive, readily aroused and greedy once more.
Just noticed it, the goosebumps, the heavy lids, the quickening breath, and felt her pulse racing at the warm water giving her a warm hug, or the breeze caressing her tired face…

Like a long-lost language returning to her tongue.
A heat rising, not just in her body, but behind her ribs. In her breath.
Her imagination cracked open. Her pen got bold again.
And not all of it was lyrical.
Some of it was downright filthy.
She didn’t judge.

She wrote.

---

When She Got Back

She didn’t come home with a detox glow or a size-down bikini body, no she came back ripe.
She dropped her bags on the floor, kicked off her shoes and let them land in a heap on the floor beside his.

She walked into her home like she owned it again.
Not just the space, but her place inside it.

He noticed.
Of course, he did.
The quiet certainty.
The glisten on her skin.
The way she moved:  barefoot, unbothered, unapologetically delicious.

She looked him deep in his eyes and with a wicked grin said, “Feed me…”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, so he gestured to the kitchen, but she nodded her head in the opposite direction.

He gulped down fast, not saying a word, knowing when to obey.

That first night she didn’t say much.
Just climbed into bed, lavender oil behind her ears, a smirk on her lips.
She slid her leg over his with ease. Like it had always belonged there.

No drama.
No buildup.
Just... want.

And he didn’t ask questions.
He simply met her there. On the patch of mattress where fatigue and resentment used to sleep... now replaced by something soft, tender, and electric.

---

Mama & her mojo

In her home, she was sex, she owned her sexuality, and her sexiness:

Not performative.
Not curated.
But hungry.
Radiant.
Wild.

She moaned without shame, guided his hands with boldness, and teased him relentlessly about his gray hair while tangled up in him. They laughed like children never having known hurt or betrayal. And he once again looked at her in awe, with love, in amazement and he could use those sacred words with her again - “honey”, “baby”, “love”, reclaiming the endearments for their love story.

And with her freedom, came his…

Romance was different for the free:

Sometimes it was candlelit.
Sometimes it was morning breath and mismatched socks.
Sometimes they barely made it past the kiss and dissolved into laughter.

It wasn’t about fireworks anymore.
It was about spark.
And they had it.
Crackling quietly.
Always there, simmering beneath the skin, in the prayers and soft glances exchanged as parents, bonded by their love and pride for their son.

---

And Maybe That’s What This Chapter’s Really About

Not just sex.
But aliveness.
Not just orgasm.
But accountability.

The kind of joy that doesn’t need permission.
The kind of touch that starts with your own fingertips.
The kind of love that begins by turning inward,
and spills over everything around you in love.

And when she came
(sometimes softly, sometimes like a storm) 
she did so not just in pleasure
but in presence.

Not for him.
Not for show.
But because she wanted to.