First Love Lessons: The Dance Floor, the Drama, and the Power of Intimacy
“First time I fell in love, I didn’t know what hit me. So young and so naïve, I thought it would be easy.” Those lyrics from Janet Jackson’s Control album resonate with me now more than ever. As I pour my heart into my upcoming album, Phoenix Rising: The Emperor’s Ascension (dropping June 30, 2025—yes, shameless plug), I can’t help but reflect on my first love and the lessons it taught me. Spoiler alert: love wasn’t easy, but it taught me a thing or two about myself and the importance of intimacy in relationships.
I was 23 years old when I thought I’d fallen into real, grown-up love. Brian was his name, and our meeting seemed destined, though, in hindsight, it was probably just the charm of a Thursday night at Club Paradise in downtown Lansing, Michigan. Club Paradise was my escape, my stage, and my sanctuary. The dance floor? That was where I reigned.
Dancing was my passion, and on that Thanksgiving night, I was lost in the music, spinning and stepping to Janet’s latest hit. Brian didn’t join me on the floor—dancing wasn’t his thing—but he loved to watch. He told me later that the way I moved drew him in like a magnet. There’s something powerful about being seen, isn’t there? Not just watched, but really seen.
After one of my signature spins, I caught him staring at me from across the room. His gaze was intense, unwavering, the kind of attention that makes you feel like the only person in the room. He finally approached me, introduced himself, and tried to spark a conversation. I wasn’t much for chatting in clubs (isn’t that what phones are for?), so we exchanged numbers and left it at that.
The next night, I found myself back at the bar (yes, consistency is key), and there he was again, this time without his entourage. We talked, and the connection was instant. By the end of the night, I was heading back to his room with him. I didn’t ask why he didn’t have a house—I wasn’t thinking with my head but with my heart, or maybe something else entirely.
That night was electric. The passion between us was undeniable, but what stood out even more was what happened after. We talked. Really talked. We shared stories, dreams, and secrets. I remember lying there, basking in the afterglow, and listening to the birds chirping outside as he said, “Listen to them—they’re having a conversation.” Maybe it was the weed talking, but it felt profound.
That was the beginning of a relationship that, while short-lived, taught me the importance of intimacy. Intimacy is more than physical passion; it’s about connection, vulnerability, and being seen for who you truly are. Brian had a way of making me feel like I mattered. He was curious about my dreams, my fears, and my quirks. He didn’t just hear me—he listened.
Looking back, I realize that intimacy was the foundation of what we had, and it’s something I’ve sought in every relationship since. True intimacy draws people closer. It’s the glue that binds two souls together, creating a safe space where both partners can be their authentic selves.
In my relationship with Brian, intimacy wasn’t limited to pillow talk or physical closeness. It was in the way he paid attention to the smallest details about me, like how I always danced with my eyes closed, losing myself completely in the music. It was in the way he made me feel safe to dream out loud, to share my fears without judgment.
Intimacy is what transforms a relationship from casual to meaningful. It’s about building trust, being vulnerable, and showing up for each other in ways that go beyond surface-level attraction. In my case, intimacy with Brian was a revelation. For the first time, I felt like someone was truly invested in understanding me, not just enjoying my company.
That intimacy brought us closer, but it also set a standard for what I wanted in a relationship moving forward. While Brian and I ultimately didn’t last, the connection we shared was real, and it taught me that love without intimacy is hollow. It also taught me the importance of accountability. I’ve had to look at my own patterns—why I was drawn to unavailable men and what I could do differently.
The truth is, love isn’t always easy, and it takes more than chemistry to make a relationship work. It takes effort, communication, and a willingness to be vulnerable. Intimacy isn’t something that just happens; it’s something you have to build, brick by brick, moment by moment.
As I work on Phoenix Rising, I find myself reflecting on these lessons and incorporating them into my music. Love is a journey, not a destination, and intimacy is the compass that guides us. Whether it’s the quiet moments after a long night of passion or the deep conversations that reveal your soul, intimacy is what makes love worth fighting for.
Brian wasn’t “the one,” but he was the one who taught me the value of intimacy. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
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