Page 25 of Unclench Me Softly

He’s probably already sitting in his dome meditating in expensive boxer briefs and perfect posture while his skincare routine calculates my death.

I adjust a candle. Then adjust it again. Then nearly knock over the quartz tower I precariously perched on top of an upside-down salad bowl I’ve labeled“The Offering Vessel.”

Ritual prep is supposed to be sacred. Quiet. An intentional grounding of energy.

Mine is 75% panic, 20% improvisation, and 5% hoping no one notices the “holy herbs” are just dried Trader Joe’s rosemary.

I try to center myself. Breathe. Feel the aura of the space.

Instead, I think about the men.

Jax, rage wrapped in muscle, currently chopping wood like he’s fighting generational trauma with every swing. He’s not going to sit still in a ritual unless I glue him to the cushion and sedate him with moon tea. Or... straddle him. Which is not in the program. Yet.

Asher, sensitive, skittish, emotionally damp in a way that makes me want to hug him and maybe cry into his hoodie. He’ll over-participate. I’ll have to stop him from trauma-dumping during the breathwork.

Seb, silent, bearded, and built like a cabin that smells like regret and pine. He’ll sit through the entire thing saying nothing and still somehow make me question my entire personality with a single, broody glance.

Miles, pristine, punctual, and so tightly wound he probably color-coded his trauma. I don’t know what scares me more, his control or the way he said I look like I’m pretending to be in control.

And then there’s Jonah Vale.

Or rather, there isn’t.

I don’t know much about him except that he signed up through a private invite link and paid the full amount in crypto. His profile said he was a “self-made investor seeking post-capitalist spiritual integration.” Which honestly could mean anything from “tech bro burnout” to “wants to do ayahuasca and yell at a tree.”

I was going to put him in the Dome of Initiation, which is just the laundry dome with a salt lamp and a bean bag chair, but now I’m wondering if he’s even going to show.

Maybe it’s a good thing.

Five men felt ambitious. Four I can handle.

Maybe. Possibly. Okay no I can’t.

I light the final candle, inhale deeply, and whisper to the space, “Please don’t let any of them cry, fight, or flirt with me during the sacred release circle.”

The candle flickers like it knows better.

They arrive like omens.

First is Asher who stumbles in five minutes early, holding a reusable water bottle, a crystal journal, and what looks like an apple he bit once and forgot to finish.

“Hey,” he whispers, sitting cross-legged and already pulling out his pen, “I made a list of mantras for the unclenching process. I also blocked out the hour afterward for reflective journaling in case anyone wants to share. Should we sync schedules?”

I stare at him.

He stares back, hopeful, like a golden retriever with a trauma minor.

“Just... breathe, Asher,” I say gently. “Maybe... don’t speak for a little bit.”

He nods rapidly and immediately starts writing that down.

Second is Miles, of course. Precisely on time. He walks into the dome like it’s a surgical suite, nods once at the setup, and sits exactly on the cushion I intended for him. He adjusts it by half an inch to center it perfectly and then places his hands neatly on his knees, eyes closed.

I want to punch him and/or ask what kind of moisturizer he uses.

Next is Seb, silent as always, emerging from the trees like a haunted forest god. He doesn’t look at anyone. Just sits. Still. Like he’s prepping for an emotional seance that will summon all his unresolved pain.

I internally scream and tell myself it’s fine. This is fine. Everyone is seated. They’re breathing. No one’s…

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