Yoni Masseur Story Sharing - How Yoni Massage Rekindled My Sex Life (and No, He’s Not My Boyfriend)
- Kenneth
- Jan 30
- 2 min read
Updated: Feb 6
I teach women how to arch their spines into Crescent Moons and Dragon Tails at a pole studio above Newtown Station. But last year, my own passion flatlined. My boyfriend Kyle—sweet, predictable Kyle who works in IT and always picks up Thai on Fridays—started touching me like he was clocking overtime. I’d catch him staring at my hips mid-activity with… guilt? Resentment? We’d finish, silent, while the neon “Pho Fitness” sign across our Erskineville balcony blinked like a bad omen.
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It happened mid-pose: Butterfly Twist, 9pm class. My favorite student—a 45-year-old nurse from RPA Hospital—whispered, “You make desire look effortless,” after nailing a move. My smile stayed plastered as my gut lurched. Effortless. That night I Googled until 3am: “Sydney couple sex therapist”… “Lost libido pole dancer”…
Then I found it: a Chatswood yoni massage service. Reviews mentioned “gentle heat” and “relearning your skin.” I booked, then canceled twice.
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The room smelled like sandalwood and silence. Kenneth (the therapist) began with his hands warming oil over my lower belly—slow, counter-clockwise circles radiating heat deeper than my IUD. This is just therapeutic, I told myself. Until…
- Hip Crease: His thumb grazed the taut line where thigh meets pelvis. A shiver coiled under my skin—not arousal, but recognition. Oh. I’m still here.
- Inner Thighs: Fingertips skated upward, stopping just shy of privacy. Pressure firm but unhurried. My breath hitched. Not from shame. From relief.
- Lower Back: Palms pressed the dip above my tailbone, unraveling knots I’d carried since my first pub shift in Newtown. “You’ve been bracing here,” he murmured.
When his knuckles brushed the crease beneath my hip bone, my jaw unclenched. For the first time in years, my body wasn’t something to sell—it was something to inhabit.
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The real shift? Came three Mondays later. Kyle reached for me post-dinner, automatic, already rolling toward his phone. But instead of acquiescing, I straddled him. Not a pole move—just… lingering. His hands froze.
“Wait, you’re… interested?”
Turns out, the massage didn’t “fix” me. It just reminded me I could want again.
That night:
- We didn’t follow our old script.
- We didn’t finish.
- We laughed until 1am, tangled in sheets from Kmart, ordering Messina delivery like uni students.
Now? Kyle trades Among Us memes for massaging the tense spot behind my knees. And last week, when I taught him how to trace my actual hip flexors (not the ones I Instagram), he whispered: “So this is what you’ve been talking about.”
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I still teach pole. But now, when students ask how to “feel sexier,” I say: “Stop trying to. Just… feel.”
Sydney sells us quick fixes—IV drips in Double Bay, CBD yoga sculpt. But rekindling desire? It starts with surrendering the performance. And maybe letting a stranger’s hands remind you where your edges blur from steel to skin.
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“If you’re reading this while side-eyeing your partner’s Spotify sleep playlists, Kenneth studio in Chatswood won’t make you Insta-sexy. But it might teach you how to want again.
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Yoni Massage Sydney
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