or the shaking hands of priests—but in the way she looks at me right before she goes down. That moment—God—it feels like kneeling at the edge of some great truth. Her hands spread my thighs and I forget every lesson they ever tried to teach me about shame. She doesn’t fuck me like she wants something. She fucks me like she’s searching for something. Like the answer to a question lives inside me, buried in flesh and tremor and heat, and she’s willing to learn me until the world makes sense.

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Her mouth is slow, patient, devastating. I can feel her breathing into me like she’s praying between my legs, as though every flick of her tongue is a kind of reverence. She doesn’t perform. She believes. And that’s what undoes me—that her love doesn’t ask to be forgiven. That her devotion doesn’t flinch from the mess. She drinks it in. She praises it. She calls it beautiful. Calls me beautiful. And I don’t remember the last time someone said that to me with their whole body.

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I used to beg God for softness. For someone to hold me without asking what I could give in return. I didn’t expect Him to send me a woman. But here she is. Between my legs, trembling with the weight of how much she wants to understand me—not just my body, but my being. She fucks like she’s translating a sacred language, one only women are born fluent in. The kind you don’t speak, only feel.

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And when she presses her fingers into me—slow at first, then deeper, curling like a question—I think: this is the real scripture. Not the Bible, not the sermons, not the sanctified shame. Her. Her fingers, her mouth, her voice whispering my name like it’s something holy. She doesn’t just bring me to orgasm. She brings me to revelation. To the part of myself I thought I’d buried beneath years of silence, of pretending I didn’t need to be loved this way.

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There’s a moment—right before I fall apart—where I stop thinking altogether. There’s no theory left. No logic. Just her hand tightening around my thigh and her mouth pulling a moan out of me that feels older than language. Like my body is remembering something it was never taught. And when I come, I’m not ashamed. I’m alive. I am Lazarus with her tongue on me. I am creation and destruction all at once.

She lifts her head, face wet, eyes soft, and I swear I see God. Not in heaven, but here. Between my thighs. In the hands of a woman who never asked me to apologize for being this hungry.

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And all I can think is: God, I love women. I love the way we touch. The way we ache. The way we never ask for permission to feel this deeply—we just do. And in that, there is no sin. Only grace.

( Note: If you are wondering what is the meaning of ‘Shekinah’ it is the feminine presence of god in Jewish mysticism. Divine womanhood. I wrote this piece for women who loves women.)