For most of my adult life, I was in the business of creating experiences for other people.

Twenty-eight years of live event production. Concerts, festivals, large-scale theatrical productions. The kind of work where every decision is made in service of an audience: what will they feel, where will they look, what will they remember? I was good at it. I was, by most measures, built for it. And then, in 2018, the thing that had structured my life came undone.

I won't tell you it handled gracefully. It didn't. I handled it the way most people handle the sudden collapse of a thirty-year identity: badly, and then slowly better. What I will tell you is that what came next arrived, as most important things do, sideways.

I read about touch therapy. Something in me was fascinated, then curious, then got certified.

I walked in not knowing what I was looking for. I found, among other things, a calling.

What I discovered in that program, and in the eight years of practice since, is that men are carrying enormous amounts of unspoken material. Not because they're broken, but because no one has ever offered them a container for it. Most of us were raised in cultures that conflate emotional openness with weakness, physical touch with sexuality, and vulnerability with loss of control. The result is a particular kind of loneliness: the kind you can't quite name, because naming it would require the very language no one ever gave you.

I've worked with hundreds of men, across sessions, workshops, and retreats. What I see, over and over, is not pathology. It's hunger. Hunger for honest contact, for bodies that feel inhabited rather than merely functional, for connection that isn't transactional or performative or conditional on how well you hold yourself together.

That hunger is not a flaw. It's information. And it's exactly where our work begins.

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I'm a certified touch and intimacy therapist, trained in somatic practices, Tantra, and sacred sexuality traditions. My practice is trauma-informed and consent-forward, which means every session and every coaching exchange is built on clarity, choice, and genuine safety. I work with men of all sexual orientations: gay, bisexual, straight, and questioning. I don't believe in a hierarchy of need.

What I'm not: a sex therapist, an escort, or a guru. What I am: a practitioner who takes this work seriously, who has studied it formally and continues to, and who has sat with enough men to know that what you're carrying is both more common and more workable than you think.

Men find their way here a few different ways. Some arrive with something specific: a body that feels numb, a relationship that has lost its warmth, a sexuality they've never had the space to examine honestly. Others arrive with just a sense, that something is missing, that they're not quite inhabiting their own lives, that they keep almost getting somewhere and then stopping short.

Both are the right reason to reach out.

I'm based in West Hollywood and work by appointment. If you're not sure where to start, the Clarity Call exists for exactly that.

Book a free 15-minute Clarity Call