Touch, Travel, and the Tenderness of Coming Home

Recently, I had the incredible opportunity to travel with the Sexual Health Alliance to Prague, Czech Republic. This beautiful, vibrant city held more than just stunning architecture and rich history—it offered an invitation to expand my understanding of touch, consent, and cultural intimacy.

As a sex therapist, it’s easy to get swept up in theory, techniques, or academic conversations about pleasure and consent. But there’s something uniquely alive about being immersed in a culture where sensuality, curiosity, and embodied presence are woven into the day-to-day. While walking cobbled streets, tasting plant-based dishes, and engaging in deep, often playful conversations, I found myself lit up—not in a youthful, sex-crazed way, but in the way that whispers, you’re still deeply alive.

There was a kind of slow burn in me—an appreciation for coyness, humor, intelligent flirtation, mutual respect, and curiosity. I felt my own aliveness again, not for anyone else, but for me. That was the unexpected intimacy Prague offered.

And then—I came home.

My wife and I usually travel together, so this solo trip had its own tenderness. But what met me when I returned home made my heart feel as full as the Vltava River. I was greeted not only by her embrace, but by an intimate language of love expressed in our space.

The garage—cleaned, reorganized, a safe space once again to enter and exit with ease (something I’d named years ago as feeling foundational to my safety). The knobs I’d purchased—finally installed on the cabinets, easing the strain my fingers feel more often these days. The laundry room—renovated so I no longer need to climb, stretch, or struggle. And the bird cam we once talked about? Ready, waiting, so I can sip my tea and catch moments of nature from home.

But most touching of all? As soon as I saw her, she reached for my hand. She held it—not hidden, not tentative, but fully, publicly, beautifully. In Texas, that means something. And it had been a long time since we’d walked like that: side by side, fingers interlaced, gentle and generous with each other in public.

And in that moment, I felt the same thing I did in Prague. Alive.

Not because of who she is (though she’s magnificent), but because of who I am. Because I’m aware. Because I look for these moments. Because I show up. And I see her show up, too—in the way she holds my hand, installs a knob, or brings back the intimacy of something as simple as a shared project.

What I realized on this trip wasn’t just about sex, touch, or culture. It was about presence. It was about all the quiet, erotic, powerful ways we say, I see you. I remember you. I choose you. And how, over time, that intimacy—built, rebuilt, and redefined—becomes its own kind of burn.

So I’ll keep showing up. For myself. For us. For the parts of me that are aging and aching and stretching into new phases. Because joy is found not just in faraway cities, but in our kitchens, garages, and sidewalks.

The erotic is everywhere—if we pay attention.

Much respect,

Melinda

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