My 15-Year Deep Dive into the Underworld of Spirituality

Let’s get one thing clear.

Spirituality isn’t a f**king hashtag. It’s not about collecting feathers on a retreat in Ubud or pretending you’re enlightened after one ayahuasca ceremony and a half-read copy of The Power of Now.

It’s raw. It’s dark. It’s ecstatic. And it’s often messy as hell.

Over the past 14 years, I’ve walked barefoot across more than a few spiritual minefields. Most of which had smiling facilitators in white linen waiting at the other side, ready to upsell me a €1,999 “tantric ascension mentorship.”

I’ve lived it. All of it.

From a run-down, neon-lit house in San Francisco known as “The 1080 House,” where I dove headfirst into Orgasmic Meditation with Nicole Daedone’s OneTaste tribe (yes, the infamous one), to the streets of London doing “day-game” with pick-up artists who could seduce a brick wall—I’ve gone places most men only dare to lurk on Reddit forums.

And it wasn’t all spiritual fluff. It was gritty. Real. Sometimes beautiful. Often cringe. Always revealing.

Orgasm as Prayer

At OneTaste, they talked about orgasm the way monks talk about God. I witnessed women weep, convulse, scream, and melt sometimes from pain, sometimes from years of not being seen. And occasionally, yeah, because the guy had decent finger dexterity.

The 1080 House was a vortex of raw intensity. Vulnerability was currency. Shame was currency. And underneath all of it—this intense hunger to connect, to feel, to remember the body as sacred.

It taught me this: orgasm isn’t a peak, it’s a portal. But if you mistake the orgasm for the point, you’ll miss the deeper transmission.

The Pick-Up Playground

On the flip side, I trained in “daygame” with world-class seduction tacticians in London in 2010 and 2011. These were men who had studied social dynamics with more rigour than most PhDs study molecular biology.

I learned to talk to women anywhere. Airports. Cafés. Tesco Express.

But eventually, I realised this: most of these men weren’t looking for women. They were looking for validation. But, there were some men who used women as a tool for self-growth and went on self-exploration journeys to expand their minds. I found these men very interesting and we got along well and even went to do Ayahuasca together. It was a beautiful experience.

The good Daygame men taught me how to face rejection and build up that muscle and ultimately, as long as you were always being polite, none of the rejection really mattered to much. Wish them a good day and get on with your day. It also taught me that performance without presence is like eating plastic sushi. Looks good, tastes like ****.

Tantric Temples & Sham-Shamans

Tantra workshops are usually a lot of crying and masturbation. Sometimes at the same time. Naked bodies, burning hearts, and enough “eye-gazing” to make you question whether you’re about to fall in love or be recruited into a cult.

I infiltrated most of the big names. ISTA (they love carrots), Neo-tantra, classical tantra, pop-up tantra festivals with DJs playing ecstatic bass drops while couples dry-hump each other on pillows imported from India.

And don’t get me started on the “shamans.” I met men who claimed to channel jaguars but couldn’t hold eye contact without snorting ketamine. Women who sold “womb clearing” ceremonies that were essentially overpriced therapy with better lighting.

But somewhere in the madness… I found truth.

Not THE truth. But slivers of it. Glimpses. Glimmers.

I found it in a cacao ceremony in Guatemala, where I wept in the arms of a man I’d just met. I found it in a dark room in London, breathing my way into a 25-minute full-body orgasm or all around the world with my third eye licking brain orgasms. I found it in silence, after the noise stopped.

So What Was It All For?

This journey wasn’t about finding “the answer.” It was about shedding what wasn’t true. The ego, the masks, the spiritual cosplay.

I learned to trust my body again. I learned to feel. To really f**king feel.

And if you’re reading this thinking, “Should I go down this path of knowing who I am when I am faced of shoving a carrot up my ass in a room of 65 people?”

Here’s my advice:

Only if you’re willing to lose everything you think you already are.

Real spirituality doesn’t stroke your ego. It guts it. It rips off the mask and shows you the trembling child underneath. And if you’re lucky, it hands you a mirror and whispers:

“This. This is where it begins.”