I think there’s something that worries me more than the things I’m reading.
What worries me is that I’m starting to agree with them.
Not completely.
Not consciously.
But a little.
And that little bit keeps taking up more space.
I remember when I first started reading about punishment.
About correction.
About obedience.
About all those things.
And the strange part is that none of that was what caught my attention the most.
I always assumed that if I were ever interested in something like this, it would be because of the extreme parts.
The intensity.
The obvious things.
But it wasn’t.
The things that stayed with me were different.
The small things.
The quiet things.
The details nobody seemed to highlight.
The idea of not having to decide.
The idea that someone else had already decided.
The idea of not negotiating with myself all the time.
Writing that embarrasses me far more than any sexual fantasy.
Far more.
Because it sounds wrong.
It sounds childish.
It sounds weak.
And yet I keep thinking about it.
There are days when I spend hours reading other people’s experiences.
Hours.
And when I finally close everything, I feel ridiculous.
Because if someone looked through my browser history, they wouldn’t find anything shocking.
They’d find page after page of people talking.
Explaining.
Describing.
Trying to understand the same thing I’m trying to understand.
And I still hide it.
I hide it because I don’t know how to explain why I keep coming back.
It’s not just excitement anymore.
A few months ago I would have said it was.
Now I’m not so sure.
Because there are moments when I’m not even aroused.
And I’m still reading.
Still reading with the same attention.
The same strange need to keep going.
One more page.
One more comment.
One more story.
As if I’m looking for something.
But I don’t know what.
Sometimes I think I’m looking for a limit.
A point where I can finally say:
Okay.
I understand this now.
That’s enough.
I don’t need to keep reading.
But that point never arrives.
What arrives instead is another question.
Always another question.
And the worst one is this:
Why does it feel less strange every time?
That’s what actually scares me.
Not that I’m interested.
Not that it turns me on.
It’s how quickly certain ideas stop feeling foreign.
How quickly something that would have seemed impossible a few months ago starts feeling familiar.
I’m not saying I want any of it.
I don’t even know if I do.
I only know that I’ve spent too much time reading.
Too much time thinking.
Too much time imagining.
And I’m starting to suspect that curiosity is no longer leading to excitement.
I think something worse is happening.
I think the excitement is starting to turn into genuine interest.
And I still don’t know what to do with that.
I have to move the neck there is no neck there is a…
