'If a man asks you to perform this sex act, then I'm sure he's a narcissist.'

Yesterday, my friend told me she was getting back with her narcissistic, tantra-obsessed ex.

"Ugh, why are narcissists always into tantra?" I asked, without thinking. And then I stopped — because it's true. 

Every narcissist I've ever dated was a tantra fanatic. There had come a point, usually a few dates in, where they'd introduce me to their tantric 'abilities' and I'd have to excuse myself. 

Because, for some reason, it made me uncomfortable. Not tantra itself, per se; but the way they'd talk about it.

As though it made them some kind of a master at sex, at orgasm, at the female body, at understanding human connection on some enlightened, professional level. 

They'd start talking about eye-gazing, breath-syncing, intentional sensual touch; and it would make me shudder.

At first, I didn't know why. I thought maybe I just wasn't into it. I didn't see it as an alert for a personality type. I just knew I probably didn't want to have tantric sex with them. 

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It was a bodily response. Something I didn't understand, because, like so much in the world of sex and pleasure — I didn't know enough about it, and I wasn't brave enough to ask.

But I found my reaction to their tantric obsession strange, because it was something I'd always been intrigued by. 

I'd read about the original teachings — the ancient practices rooted in Hinduism and Buddhism — and I loved the concept of a deep connection to your own body fostering a stronger connection with someone else.

It wasn't about sex tricks or orgasmic control, but an ability to physically get in sync with someone else. And that excited me. 

But then, as narcissistic man after narcissistic man would bring tantra into the conversation, they'd always centre it around control and power. They'd gloat about their control to hold an orgasm at bay. Their power to make it happen at their own whim.

They told me they had more control over my body than I did, and I wasn't sure how to feel about that. 

There was this one guy in particular, who I dated for a few months after a bad break-up. He was tantra-obsessed. He'd bring it up almost daily, assuring me I hadn't really experienced "true physical connection" until I'd tried it.

Part of me thought he might be right, because I hadn't experienced a mind-blowing physical connection and I hadn't tried tantric sex. So one night, I gave in.  

We sat cross-legged on his bed and stared into each other's eyes. He guided me to focus on my breath and sync it with his. He held my hands above his knees and locked his eyes on mine with such intensity, that I found it hard to come back to my breath.

I was at a point in my life where I was meditating a lot, so I thought I'd be a natural. Plus, I'd decided to lead with openness. To not let my initial reaction to his gloating cloud my experience. To not cast judgement until I'd tried it myself.  

I tried to focus on his eyes with equal intensity, to see them as an open portal for intrigue — but his eye contact just made me feel uncomfortable. He was looking into me so deeply, I felt like he was searching me for something I didn't even possess.

Like he wanted an answer to a question he hadn't asked. But it didn't feel romantic or inviting — like a good question usually does — it felt like a command. 

He could sense that I was uncomfortable, but urged me to stay the course.

"Why are you so afraid of opening up? Of letting me see you?" He asked.

I felt violated. Like he was trying to access my thoughts without my permission. Like he was using my insecurities against me. I'd told him of my heartbreak, of my abandonment issues, of my fear of opening up.

And now, he was getting me into a vulnerable state and utilising tantra to orchestrate control? To make me feel small? 

I remember feeling angry in that moment. It was the opposite of everything I understood tantra to be: safe, open, connected, curious.

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But I beat myself up about it, too. For being uncomfortable, for being closed off. I wondered if what he was seeing was simply the truth: that I was afraid of opening up, that it was why I'd never been truly in love, that I'd need to learn how to relinquish control. 

And while those things definitely held true at the time, I don't think they were the reason I felt so put-off by the experience. 

I've experienced exposing intimacy since then that has made me want to open up — not shut down. I wasn't pushing against the tantra or being vulnerable in general, I was pushing against him.

Against his desire to 'solve', 'command' or 'conquer' me. My body knew that he wasn't a safe place to open up, so it didn't let me let go. 

I've thought about these moments a lot in the past few days, since my friend described her ex as both "a narcissist" and "into tantra".

I'd never joined the dots before, but now it makes perfect sense: all the men I've ever experienced tantra with, or spoken about tantra with, were narcissists — or were at least displaying some narcissistic qualities — and that's why I was so not into it. 

Let's break it down. Narcissists, by nature, resist all the things that tantra represents: presence, surrender, spiritual connection. But when you look a little closer, you start to see how perfectly tantra can be co-opted to serve the narcissistic ego.

For one, tantra gives them an identity — one that appears elevated, enlightened, evolved. It's the ultimate I'm-not-like-other-men narrative.

They're not just into sex; they're into sacred sex. Eye contact and breathwork and divine feminine awakening. They present themselves not just as lovers, but as guides. Teachers. Masters of pleasure.

But that control is where things start to unravel. Because while tantra is about surrender and mutual connection, the narcissist's version is about dominance — cloaked in spiritual language. They don't want to meet you in your experience; they want to direct it.

Control how it unfolds. Suddenly, they're not your equal — they're the ones "leading you through an energetic opening," explaining why your resistance is your block, why your discomfort is your misalignment. And if you ever voice doubt or draw a boundary, it's not received as a valid emotion — it's framed as something you need to "work through."

It's the perfect bypass. The spiritual aesthetic allows them to avoid emotional accountability while appearing deeply connected. And for women like me — curious, self-aware, interested in growth — that language can be disarming.

It plays into our desire to go deeper, to connect more intentionally, to explore our bodies, our trauma and our desires in expansive ways. And that's what makes it so confusing. Because real tantra can offer all of that. But in the wrong hands, it's kind of dangerous. It leaves you feeling like you're the problem.

I'm not saying that all men who talk about sacred sex or eye-gazing are dangerous. But when someone uses spirituality or sensuality as a way to control the dynamic — to position themselves as the enlightened one — it can be a sign of something deeper.

Maybe not full-blown narcissism, but certainly an inflated ego, a lack of emotional maturity, or a deep insecurity that makes them need to dominate connection rather than participate in it.

It's so easy to get pulled off-centre by those kinds of dynamics, especially when they come disguised as intimacy. But the most important thing I've learned is this: don't let anyone — especially the person you're being intimate with — take you off the track of your own gut instinct.

Even if you don't fully understand why. Even if you don't believe it. Because in my experience, no matter what your brain is trying to rationalise, your gut is always right.

So if something in your body is hesitating — listen to it. It's not your job to be more open, more trusting, more surrendered. It's your job to stay connected to yourself. You might feel drawn to explore tantra, and I'm not saying you shouldn't.

But make sure the person you explore it with makes you feel safe — not scrutinised, not spiritually "guided," but genuinely safe. 

And if not? Don't question yourself. Just thank your bodily instincts, and move on.

Feature Image: Getty.