“If there is a next life, and it has to be spent as something else, I want to be a cat in Türkiye.” 

No creature is treated with more indulgence, more casual worship, more everyday affection. They stretch across mosques, curl into café sprawl on cobblestones, and even strut into bars like they own the liquor license. Nobody moves them. Everybody feeds them. They are adored, free, and utterly themselves. And perhaps that is why their presence feels magnetic. A reminder that pleasure comes from taking your space, and in claiming it, quietly inviting others closer.

Istanbul: The Calico That Stopped The Traffic

On a side street a calico had flung herself across the cobblestones like a diva sunbathing in couture. Belly tilted to the sky, tail twitching like a whip, chin angled for applause.

Pedestrians curved around her, shopkeepers placed bowls of water nearby, tourists lifted their phones trying to snap a beautiful image. But her? Still aloof. A hint of drawn-in audience presence would invite connection.

That’s what desire looks like when it’s sure of itself: a body stretched wide open, unapologetic, forcing the world to look between her legs, as if the street itself was her stage.

My Hotel’s Gatekeeper:

A tabby sat firmly on the doormat, deciding who was welcome and who was not. Guests wheeled their bags around her, bellboys held doors, but she never budged. Nobody questioned her judgment.

It felt familiar. Desire works that way too: some advances make the skin prickle, some make it soften. The real art isn’t in clawing or hissing; it’s in knowing when to open the door wider and when to shut it in someone’s face. Control is its own kind of seduction. 

Ephesus, Heat on Ancient Stone:

Among the ruins of Ephesus, a black & white cat stretched  across a marble slab older than most religions. Guides murmured about Empires and Gods, tourists snapped photos of collapsed columns, and still she lay there, rolling her spine against the warmth.

Civilisations die, Languages vanish. But a sun-warmed surface still demands skin.

And if these fallen columns and walls could talk, they wouldn’t only speak of kings and priests.

They’d moan about bodies. About the thousands of fucks that must have happened here over the centuries – slaves taken in the shadows, lovers sneaking between the stones, strangers grinding against hot marble just because the sun made them want it.

These ruins don’t just echo with prayers; they echo with panting, with skin on skin, with the kind of sex that outlives language.

Watching her, it was impossible not to think of sex. The way heat clings to her spine, the way pressure grinds into one spot until it leaves a mark.

These ruins don’t just hold history, they hold the memory of bodies pressed down, of hips meeting hips, of stone stealing the sweat and keeping it. They trap it the way skin holds the memory of touch long after the hands are gone.

Antalya Nights That Purr:

In an Antalya bar, music pounded and neon flickered. Then a black cat climbed onto the counter. Her tail brushed bottles of gin and mezcal, claws tapped the wood, eyes glowed like embers.

Men forgot their drinks. Women forgot their conversations. Every head turned. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t asking. She simply existed in her own gravity.

Seduction works like that. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t grind. It doesn’t look desperate. It arches its back, flicks its tail, lets the whole room imagine the feel of claws down their skin. It waits, knowing the thirst will gather, knowing someone will break first. And when they lean closer, it still won’t move, because real power is making them come to you.

Istanbul, Underground Royalty

Even the metro belonged to them. Another calico sprawled across the floor in rush hour, completely unbothered by the trains roaring past or the bodies dodging around her. Defiance is its own kind of erotic : claiming space even when it inconveniences others, yet still offering a private invitation.

That confidence to stretch out amid chaos, knowing someone might lean in, is the same that makes a lover pause, and then reach, guided by you.

Desire isn’t always about movement. Sometimes it’s about stillness – the refusal to yield, the certainty that the room will adjust around your body. That’s what makes it magnetic.  

A Softer Pause At The Cafe

One afternoon in a café, a Ginger  brushed against a cafe windowsill, settling beside a vase of wilting roses as if arranging the scene for herself. Sunlight poured through the window, catching the curl of her whiskers.

Nobody hurried her. She set the rhythm and the room adjusted.

That’s how slow desire works. Unhurried, almost careless, but rearranging the air all the same. The kind of pause where nothing happens on the surface, yet everyone feels it: like a hand resting on your thigh under the table, steady, patient, waiting for you to open a little more.

Leaving, Not Leaving

Soon it will be time to fly back to Sydney. The suitcase holds linen, cat hair, claw marks, and too many receipts. Their lessons. Their swagger. Their refusal to apologise for taking pleasure where they find it.

Isn’t that the essence of an encounter? A little defiance, a lot of indulgence, the thrill of collapsing into warmth without asking if it is okay.

Türkiye is unforgettable. When I return to Sydney, I’ll still be the cat,  but if you listen closely, you might hear me purr… for yourself.