MEDIA

Sitting there, across from Clara on BalutKiki, the award-winning podcast that is nothing short of a sanctuary for minds like ours, I felt an almost sacred surrender. We weren’t just guests; we were connoisseurs of the taboo, the untold desires, the unspoken kinks that people are too afraid to admit. Clara and I, much like a secret whispered in the dark, were welcomed without judgment—just open ears and minds willing to dance with our words.
The hosts? They didn’t just listen—they understood. And that, my loves, is the rarest of experiences. Their gaze? It was not one of scrutiny, but of deep fascination, of exploration, not seeing me as a Manila courtesan but as the complex, fiery soul beneath. To be seen in that way, to be validated for every ounce of my expertise—my eroticism, my mystique, my sharp, dangerous intellect—was an exhilarating, intoxicating kind of satisfaction.
We all spoke of desire, of fetishes, of the dirty little secrets that make the heart race and the body burn. But it was more than that—it was a meeting of minds that reached beyond the flesh. And in that space, I felt the kind of raw, sensual power that only those who truly know what it means to desire can appreciate.
To be in that moment, to have BalutKiki cradle us in its award-winning embrace, was nothing short of an erotic confession—a dance of words that teased and satisfied the mind like the most sinful of pleasures.

They were comedians—raw, relentless, crowned kings of organic humor. And we? We were the taboo wrapped in silk, the punchline they didn’t see coming.
We laughed, drank, and spilled stories that made their mics sweat. From the sinful annals of my Mystic Secret Files—where a masked man found more than just a wrestling fantasy—to the high-society wife who paid me to rewire her husband’s masculinity one thrust at a time. They wanted the truth? I gave it, unzipped and dripping.
Some listeners clutched their pearls so hard they turned to dust; others leaned in, their breath hitching, their minds wrestling between judgment and arousal. Was this confession or corruption? Neither. This was the gospel of a woman who does not apologize for being desire incarnate.
And when I spoke of my first, of the trembling hands and the false teeth that threatened to slip from his lips as he moaned my name, the room held its breath. Because in my world, pleasure and power wear the same perfume.
They called it controversial. I call it Tuesday.

The host, ever the silent voyeur, invited Clara and me to share our unholy path, peeling back layers of pleasure that most could only dream of.

We talked about our lifestyle journey—yes, but not the typical kind. It was an exploration—a celebration of bodies, minds, and desires that most will never dare to taste. We didn’t just enlighten the listeners. Oh no. We set the host on fire too, watching as he absorbed every sultry syllable, every confession that oozed from our lips like honey and sin.

This was no ordinary chat. It was a rendezvous of minds, where every word was a brushstroke of sensuality, and every pause, a gasp of anticipation. And as the echoes of our voices hung in the air, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing I’d left them all wanting more. Because, after all, what’s more dangerous than leaving someone hungry for the next taste of your truth?

As I, Mysticflower, Manila’s own sapiosexual courtesan, sat across from her, the air thick with anticipation, I could feel my desires unfurl like an intoxicating bloom in the sultry dusk. And beside me, Clara—brave as a lioness—shared our unholy truths. We spoke not just of our forbidden paths, but of our art, of the dangerous dance we perform, where pleasure and pain are woven into the very fabric of our beings.
Sam listened with that knowing, ravenous look in her eyes, as if she too could taste the forbidden fruit we offered. No judgment, no shame—just two women, wild in their wisdom, exploring the deepest caverns of human desire.
And so, our conversation unfolded like a secret told in whispers, every word a delicate stroke on the canvas of sensuality. This wasn’t just an interview; it was a confession—a raw, unapologetic exploration of what it means to be a courtesan, to be a woman who knows her power, her allure, her capacity to both give and take in the most intimate of ways.
Curiosity, they say, killed the cat. But for us? Curiosity made us queens. And Sam, with her open ears and mind, simply knelt at the altar of our desires.