Sovereign Rot | Descent of Gate 5
An offering of sacred smut & somatic myths.
Hey, I’m Ro. This is where I write from the liminal body of shadow, eros, myth. A resting place for gnawing on fragments, unfurling scrolls, and side‑ways transmissions that spiral through desire, grief, rupture, and becoming.
Some pieces are the sacred smut I craved in my own un/becoming—devotional, messy, and alive. Others spelunk through curiosities and rituals stitched from the body’s remembering: micro‑fragments of somatic myths and mussel‑memory, slipping between flesh and story.
I’m here to explore and share, casting seeds to the winds. Perhaps you’ll tell me what roots. So if this piece lands, let it ripple out! Show your heart, offer a question, or send it along to someone who might need it.
I keep this work open because pleasure, grief, and reclamation belong to all of us. If you want to help sustain the fire, you can share a gift to keep these offerings moving.
This is a glossal devotion— beyond commentary, breath and flesh— a slow spiralling slide into the darkness of personal mythology.
It includes my own take on the descent of Inanna, an entrail invocation (myth retold through the eroticism of guts), a scar sermon (personal myth fragment), a guttural ritual (erotic practice), and a closing echo to leave trembling in your own gut.
Over seven weeks, we’ll follow the gates not as lessons, but as undoings.
Each offering peels back a layer: voice, mirror, skin, hunger: until only the raw signal remains. You won’t find the kind of climax you’re used to. This is erotic erosion. The unraveling will be intimate, incomplete, and full of teeth.
At the end, one final gift. A full-bodied audio story stitched from the fragments you’ve moaned through. A profane devotion. A smut benediction. A hymn for the beast in your gut.
The Descent of Inanna: Gate 5 – Wrists Unbound
A visceral descent text. Not polished scripture, but something gut-written. Here, Inanna surrenders the bonds that once marked her belonging.
At the fifth gate the guardian waits again, hands open, waiting for hers.
Around Inanna’s wrists gleam bands of metal, circles that once sang her presence in the world. Jewels of belonging, reminders of devotion. Every movement a shimmer, a sound, a proof that she was seen and held.
Bracelets are bonds, after all. They bind as much as they adorn. To lose them is to lose both ornament and tether: the proof of presence, the sound of belonging, the reminder that she was known.
The guardian does not wait long. Fingers close like iron and strip the bracelets away. Metal clinks against stone. The sound is louder than her heartbeat.
Her wrists are bare. The pulse beneath her skin beats with no ornament to announce it. Naked veins, raw tendons, nothing but flesh. She feels the absence like grief in her bones, like breath cut short.
What once circled with sound and memory is gone; the pulse hads to carry itself. Her hands tremble. The tremor runs up her arms, through her chest, into her throat. It feels like collapse. It feels like freedom.
She steps through with wrists unbound, the sound of her own pulse louder than any bell.
Entrail Invocation: Wet Bindings
An erotic retelling of the fifth gate in the descent—rewoven through bangles, bindings, and the restless flick of grasping. Here, you’re asked to surrender the pulse you once adorned as proof of belonging.
Arms outstretched at the next gate, the hands again come fast. Fingers bite your wrists, sliding bangles away, pulling off the rings you mistook for permanence. Metal clinks against stone. What once tethered you to memory, to kin, to rhythm, lies silent on the ground.
You reach instinctively for your pulse. The bare skin feels obscene. Naked. The wrist has always been restless, hasn’t it? Flicking for attention, swiping for desire, jerking at the ping of a message. That twitch became its own leash— proof you were wanted, proof you were here.
Now there is nothing. No adornment. No chain. Just your wrists, raw and bare. The pulse hammers against air, swollen and exposed, begging to be seized. You feel it like a cuff already fastened, like rope already tightening. The absence of ornament becomes its own restraint.
The loss stings sharp, erotic in its nakedness. You are bound more fiercely without the metal than you ever were with it. Every flick of your wrist feels like a gasp. Every beat of your pulse, an unasked moan.
You remember how you once clung to the chimes, the constant reminder that you belonged. But the true collar was never the bangle— it was your own hunger to be tethered.
Now your wrists are bare. They throb with their own music. And that rhythm is yours: feral, unfastened, awake.
Scar Sermon V: Wrists Bare
The memoir shard of self told through flesh and rupture. The part of me that once reached outward—now stripped of its tether.
I lost my bangles. The first slipped away at an airport in Spain, the second in a hospital bed in Thailand. My brother gave them to me ten years ago. He used to joke that he “belled me,” like putting a bell on a cat: not so I wouldn’t wander, but so I might be found/followed/called back by my loved ones when I inevitably did. He sees me; honours my wa/ondering ways.
They were made from scatter bombs in Laos, and their little chime followed me everywhere. For years they reminded me to breath through the moment, to come back to gratitude, and that this too will pass. Whatever felt crushing, I wasn’t erased. I was alive. Seen. When they fell away, the silence was guttural. They’d been more than metal. They’d been constant auditory presence. Proof. Companions.
My wrists have always carried stories. A lotus tattooed in pain, a book on the other side, seeds and moon to anchor me in air and tide. The bangles drowned their whispers. Without them, I see the ink again. Without them, I feel my own pulse undeterred.
“To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, remove things every day.” — Lao Tzu
“What you are seeking is what is looking.” — St. Francis
“Try to accept the changing seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the passing of the seasons over your fields.” — Rumi
“What we plant in the soil of contemplation, we shall reap in the harvest of action.” — Eckhart Tolle
My wrists are also where I’ve tethered myself to the digital world. The flick to scroll, the swipe for connection, the ping of messages. Dating apps once gave me coffee dates, sex, belonging. After I grew my beard, that ease dried up. The same gestures feel different now. My body is navigated differently, by different people, with different desires. I miss that ease, and I grieve it. I’ve learned to walk slower, to share only what I choose, to model the mess I want to see.
So Gate 5 comes as wrists stripped. The bangles were never the bind. The bind was my hunger to be bound. Swipes and scrolls no longer binding me the way they once did. I’m left with bare skin, exposed pulse, nothing softening the throb underneath. I have opportunity to notice the tremble of my own music. What they once grasped at, my hips carry. Hands give way to pelvis, and presence gives way to embodiment.
Guttural Ritual: Bare Wrists
A ritual for wrists stripped, where the ache of pressure becomes the site of arousal.
Start naked at the wrists. No metal, no cloth. Just skin. Place them in front of you, hovering, as if waiting to be seized.
Touch the vein. Drag your fingers slowly along the inside of one wrist. Circle the throb. Press until the pulse surges back, harder. Let your lips part, sound spilling with it.
Bind yourself. Grip one wrist with the other hand. Tighten until your breath catches. Hold the choke at the edge of too much. Release. Do it again. Let moans pour with every release.
Play with tether. Wrap a ribbon, rope, or belt loosely around both wrists. Tug against it. Feel how want surges sharper when you are held. Then slip free. Linger in the silence of bare skin.
Turn the wrists outward. Offer them like a gift, like prey. Stroke them as if someone else might. Let your sound thicken—low, guttural, erotic—until the moan itself feels like blood speaking.
Close. Rest wrists at your throat. Whisper, half-growl: “The bind was never the bangle. The bind is the throb.”
Closing Echo: Pulse
A final breath, a vibration to carry through the week. The thrum of your own pulse.
The ringing is gone.
The flicking is silent.
What binds you now is not metal,
not message.
It is the throb beneath your skin, feral and unadorned.
Next week, the hips are stripped.
Ro Rose (they/he/she) is a gender-maximalist, queer storyteller, scar cartographer, and trauma steward. This is a path of un/becoming: devotional, messy, relational.
If this piece stirred something in you, explore my broader work. Subscribe to receive new scrolls, myths, and transmissions, or support this labor of creating.
Seedlings taking root?
Reply and tell me— a word, an image, a myth. Or don’t.
Just let it live in a moan.
If this scroll got under your skin, don’t treat it like a relic. Rip it apart. Lick it. Smear it. Fuck it into a new shape. Layer it into a collage, grind it into a song, press its language into the wet clay of your own work.
I dare you to defile it beautifully. And if you do— if you draw, dance, film, write, fuck something because of it— come back to me. Show me your beautiful mess. Or just whisper your ideas for what it could become. I want to be ruined by your art too.