Confession of Dr. Massage Lisa — Your Temporary Wife, Honest Courtesan, Real Geisha and Poet of Passion.
This Temporary Husband from Seychelles 🇸🇨-The Psychiatrist Who Read My Soul.
He came once a week for five years.
Same hour. Same soft voice. The kind of presence that rearranged the air before he spoke.
At first, he was simply a client—polite, punctual, predictable. But time, that sly architect of fate, revised the script. He became something far rarer: my temporary husband.
Not a lover. Not a legal partner. The kind of man destiny lends—not to keep, but to wake what refuses to die inside you.
He was seventeen years older—half African, half Indian—born under the sun-drenched skies of the Seychelles, carrying salt in his spirit and island-calm in his breath.
A psychologist by profession; by essence, a reader of the unseen. Calm eyes that undressed excuses, a smile fluent in silence, a voice that turned chaos into confession.
His stillness wasn’t emptiness; it was gravity. You didn’t approach him—you orbited.
Proverb: Still water doesn’t boast of its depth; it lets the foolish discover it.
The Ritual
Each week, he lay on my table—still, deliberate, fully present.
Beneath his calm I sensed weather: tides, winds, tempests.
My hands met tension; my intuition met truth.
What began as treatment became rite: a choreography of breath and faith, of silence and knowing. The ordinary grew sacred; the sacred revealed itself shockingly human.
“You come more faithfully than a husband,” I teased.
“That’s because you perform miracles,” he answered, smiling like a dangerous philosopher.
He thought it was flirtation. I suspected prophecy.
Then one afternoon he invited me to church—casual on his tongue, inevitable in my bones.
Proverb: When the bell rings inside you, the door is already open.
The Awakening
No candles. No oils. No whispers. Only stillness.
We stood side by side, eyes closed. Then his hand found mine.
The moment our fingers intertwined, the world exhaled and tilted.
A current—pure, merciless, divine—surged through us both.
It wasn’t desire. It wasn’t romance. It was recognition: as though the universe finally remembered our names.
Two souls, one perimeter. No edge. No exit.
Energy flooded us like light confessing itself to darkness. Words fled; meaning arrived.
Prayer blushed like passion; passion knelt like prayer—a holy wildfire disguised as calm.
Proverb: When the heart kneels, the body stands taller.
The Connection
He became what language cannot cage: confidant, mirror, tutor, almost brother—the kind of man who teaches you the texture of your own soul.
Between us, the border between flesh and faith blurred into rumor.
When the oils cooled and the room sighed, the sacred turned carnal and the carnal turned sacred.
We did not “have sex.”
We made love—the kind that erases clocks and cancels commandments.
Bodies spoke fluent spirit; souls rediscovered flesh. Each encounter felt like the first—and the last.
He knew the rhythm of my breath and the grammar of my skin.
When he touched me, my body surrendered and my soul confessed.
The world stepped back, respectfully. We became one heartbeat conducting its own symphony.
We laughed between the lightning.
“You’ll kill me today,” I whispered.
“Not before I resurrect you,” he grinned—then proved it, every single time.
It wasn’t only chemistry; it was physics.
The air vibrated with the fact of us. We surrendered—not merely to each other, but to the Larger Thing that had borrowed our hands.
Proverb: Water takes the shape of its cup; love takes the shape of its courage.
The Creation
Beyond pleasure, there was making.
Heaven borrowed our bodies for rehearsal; the universe paused to hear its echo.
He was the psychologist who read my soul.
I was the courtesan who treatments soul and reminded him he still had one.
Together, we were a collision of Eros and eternity—an experiment in divine electricity.
It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t love. It was both—and beyond: oneness.
Our mysticism felt like spiritual orgasm—not metaphor but current.
Love prayed; prayer loved. Sinner and saint exchanged masks and bowed to the same altar.
Proverb: God hides in what makes you tremble.
He was no longer just my client; he was more: my spiritual mirror.
“You think too much,” I’d jab.
“You feel too much,” he’d parry.
We were both 100% right!
The Mystery
What bound us was ethereal and gloriously human.
Prayer felt like lovemaking under stained glass; touch became a psalm with a pulse.
Each silence was a sermon. Each breath, a confession.
He was my temporary husband—psychologist, sinner, saint, muse.
I, his temporary wife—no vows, only recognition.
Two souls that met, remembered, and refused release.
Between laughter and stillness, flesh and faith, we learned an impolite truth:
the purest pleasures are not of the body,
but of the soul brave enough to feel everything,
and the heart reckless enough to love without permission.
Proverb: Hold lightly, or the miracle breaks.
Eternal Love
Even now, as I write, my hands tremble— from memory and voltage.
My fingers still remember the touch in church: the hush, the charge, the blush of heaven.
Maybe In another century I have been Veronica Franco—courtesan-poet of Venice—making intellect erotic and passion articulate. Probably this story wandered in from her century and refused to leave. Like her, I am a paradox wrapped in silk and scripture: a Naughty erotic intimacy healer who sins kindly, a lover who prays too much.
With him, the gates of the trinity of love swung wide:
Eros (fire and body), Philia (loyalty and laughter), Agape (the giving that measures itself by nothing).
Three rivers, one sea: God is Love.
And it doesn’t matter what religion you profess: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, religion is just a form, the content is the same.
Call Him Christ, Allah, Adonai—the accent changes; the truth does not.
Love is not metaphor. It is law!
Proverb: What is divine doesn’t demand belief—only recognition.
Epilogue — The Philosophy of a Temporary Wife
Love, at its highest frequency, isn’t ownership; it’s permission.
It arrives uninvited, edits your story, and leaves you a wiser draft with beautiful scars:)
Every encounter is a sacred assignment; every goodbye, an unannounced exam.
The sacred and the sensual? Two dialects of the same language.
This is my creed as a Temporary Wife:
Love fully. Give freely. Remain gloriously unowned.
Let prayer and passion share a single breath.
Trust that one honest touch can echo across lifetimes.
I don’t bargain with forever. I speak of now—the only eternity mortals can hold without burning.
If someone makes you tremble—not from hunger, but recognition—take their hand.
It may be God winking through mortal disguise, reminding you that love, in any form, is still divine.
Proverb: Eternity doesn’t start in heaven; it begins when you stop pretending not to feel.
The Courtesan’s Truth
Sometimes I think God was playful when He made me—too much curiosity, too much empathy, an indecent surplus of intuition and wise .I call it my divine flaw; he called it “your most perfect imperfection.”
So yes—I am that woman:
the one who heals with her hands, sins with laughter, and writes trembling truths about holiness disguised as a spiritual hunger.
He once held my hand in church and, without trying, plugged me into eternity—to eternal love, to that bright province the mystics call paradise. Since then I have lived like a woman who tasted both heaven and hysteria and learned they share a border.At times I feel like Nitta Sayuri from Memoirs of a Geisha: disciplined, devoted, secretly on fire.
Perhaps we will remain friends forever — or perhaps we will never see each other again.That is all right.
Some souls are meant to meet, not to remain.
This is my thank-you—to the man who came to me for five years, in any time day and night any day a week always ready help. like an angel, and opened a country of spiritual passion inside me that only gods ever visit.
Thank you—for the love that taught its own definition, for the mercy, and for the spiritual mirror.
Proverb: Old wine, old prayers, old love—pour them slowly; they burn better.
Final Line
“Love is not what we find in others—it’s what awakens within us when they touch our soul.”
— Dr. Massage Lisa
Your Temporary Wife, Honest Courtesan, Real Geisha and Poet of Passion.
