What bothers me most is that I keep trying to explain it in ways that make me look better.
I tell myself it was the mechanism.
The intensity.
The exhaustion.
The context.
Anything except the truth.
Because the truth is far more uncomfortable.
The truth is that I keep thinking about him when I shouldn’t.
And I do not mean the important parts.
I do not remember every detail of the process.
I do not remember every instruction.
I do not remember every sensation.
But I remember absurd things.
I remember the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other while waiting.
I remember the sound of his fingers tapping twice against a surface before making a decision.
I remember a hinge creaking somewhere in another room.
I remember that during one session someone slammed a car door outside and for a few seconds I thought everything was about to be interrupted.
Nothing happened.
He did not even react.
And for some reason I still remember it.
That is what worries me.
Not the intensity.
The persistence.
Because the important things should occupy the center of memory.
But they do not.
What remains are the fragments.
The leftovers.
The useless little details.
Like that transparent piece of plastic on the floor.
Like the broken corner.
Like the line of dust crossing it.
Like the number of times I tried to force myself to look somewhere else.
Only to find myself staring at the exact same spot again.
Because looking at the floor was easier than thinking.
And thinking was easier than admitting what I was actually waiting for.
I was not waiting for the discomfort to end.
I was not waiting to move.
I was not waiting to leave.
I was waiting for him to finish.
And the more I analyze that, the less I like the answer.
Because I do not like being submissive.
I never liked the word.
Or the idea.
Or the image.
Or what it says about me.
And yet some part of my mind keeps returning to the same place.
To the waiting.
To those strange minutes when nothing visible is happening anymore.
When he simply continues.
Thinking.
Watching.
Adjusting something that probably exists only in his own mind.
And I remain there.
Staring at a speck of dust.
Listening to a pipe vibrating behind a wall.
Counting seconds that seem longer than they should.
Waiting.
Not because I am forced to.
Not because I cannot do anything else.
But because part of me needs to know how the process ends.
And that is the part I cannot explain.
Because the obsession does not appear during the session.
It appears afterward.
Days later.
When I am doing something else.
When I should be thinking about something else.
When ordinary life is trying to reclaim its space.
Then I remember the floor again.
The plastic fragment.
The broken corner.
The distant sound of someone walking down a hallway.
And the unbearable certainty that if he ever asked me again to remain there waiting until the end of something I do not fully understand…
Part of me would want to know how it ends.
And perhaps that is the part that embarrasses me the most.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
