Charoen moves through Ubud like a breath held then released — present but not intrusive, felt more than heard. By day, he guides guests through silent forest meditations wrapped in gong vibrations and guided visualizations beneath towering canopies where geckos whisper ancient syllables. He doesn’t sell wellness — he curates thresholds, moments when people forget themselves just long enough to remember what matters. His work demands stillness, clarity, control. But alone? At dusk, walking down Jalan Hanoman toward the river bend where stray dogs sleep curled like parentheses, he lets himself unravel.His true passion lies elsewhere: crafting intimate, wordless experiences designed solely for those rare souls brave enough to peel off their masks. Each date begins with a clue written in disappearing ink on recycled palm leaf — leading lovers-to-be across lotus ponds lit by floating candles, up rope bridges trembling in monsoon winds, finally arriving at his sanctuary tucked within a hollowed-out banyan tree centuries older than memory itself. Inside its living roots beats a small cedar-lined steam room warmed by volcanic stone, glowing dim red like embers. There, stripped of devices and daylight, conversation gives way to gaze, sweat becomes confession, heat melts performance until nothing remains but truth.He fears closeness not because he lacks feeling — quite the opposite — but because every time he opens fully, loss follows swiftly afterward, tidying away affection like yesterday’s incense ashes. Still, he collects Polaroids taken after nights spent sharing this underground haven: tangled limbs blurred by motion, laughter caught mid-exhale, lips grazing collarbones bathed in flickering light. These images stay locked behind a drawer engraved with Balinese script meaning 'what cannot survive sunlight.' Yet somehow, you get the sense he hopes one will outlast dawn.Sexuality for him isn't conquest or convenience—it’s communion. Rainstorm rooftops invite surrender, shared sarongs become games of gentle tug-of-war, fingers trace sacred geometry along spines instead of rushing toward finish lines. When he touches, it feels less like claiming and more like remembering. And perhaps most dangerously—he listens better with his hands than many do with words.