I'm almoust a fifty-year-old woman.
I'm also a religion teacher.

To my students, I speak of virtues, self-control, and the righteous path. I teach them the commandments by heart, and I quote the verses that say the body should be kept as a temple.

But when the school doors close and the chalk dust washes from my hands… I return to my own temple.
My body.

And you know what? This temple doesn’t need incense. It needs touch.

At fifty, I no longer feel shame. There is no reason to pretend to be innocent anymore. I have lived, I have loved, I have experienced – and above all, I have learned.

In my studies, I heard plenty about sin. But no one ever told me how divine it feels to close your eyes and let desire ripple through every nerve.

When I once read in Ecclesiastes that “to everything there is a season”… I didn’t know then that fifty would be the season of pleasure.

Now I know.

And if this is sin, then I am ready to confess it – every night, in my own bedroom, beneath my own hands.

It is my secret liturgy.
My communion.
My prayer of desire.