There is something I struggle to admit because it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.
It wasn’t the commands.
It wasn’t being told what to do.
It was that I started waiting for certain words.
When I describe it like that, it sounds harmless. Like an ordinary fantasy.
But that isn’t how it happened.
At first it was scattered fragments. A sentence in a video. A conversation read at three in the morning. A scene I stumbled across by accident that produced a strange mixture of curiosity and excitement.
The strange thing was that I didn’t remember the images.
I remembered the words.
During the day I would catch myself repeating them in my head while doing completely ordinary things.
Buying groceries.
Waiting at a traffic light.
Washing dishes.
And that embarrassed me more than anything else.
Because an image is easy to dismiss.
A sentence can move in and start living inside you.
For a long time I convinced myself it was only curiosity.
I told myself I was observing something external.
Studying it.
Interested in the psychological dynamic.
But eventually I noticed something that frightened me.
I was no longer looking for scenes.
I was looking for specific voices.
Specific ways of speaking.
Specific ways of addressing another person.
The excitement was changing shape in front of me and I pretended not to notice.
I remember the first time I realized something had shifted.
I was watching a video and something absurd happened.
The scene ended.
Nothing particularly intense occurred.
Yet the voice remained in my head for hours.
Not the command.
Not the content.
The voice.
The calmness.
The confidence.
The unbearable feeling that someone seemed more certain about who you were than you were yourself.
That was the part I could never explain.
Because I didn’t want to be controlled.
I didn’t want to obey.
I didn’t want to become the kind of person who fantasized about those things.
And yet I kept searching for the very thing that created the conflict.
It felt like touching a bruise just to check whether it still hurt.
Every time I promised myself it would be the last time.
Every time I ended up reading more.
Watching more.
Listening to more.
What embarrasses me most is not the excitement.
It’s the familiarity.
There are phrases I have read so many times that they feel like part of my mental landscape.
Sometimes they appear before sleep.
Sometimes while I’m working.
Sometimes when I am completely disconnected from anything sexual.
That is what makes me feel strange.
Because they no longer feel like fantasies.
They feel like memories.
Memories of something that never happened.
Over time I started noticing physical changes.
Not dramatic changes.
Small ones.
Ridiculous ones.
Reading certain words and immediately feeling tension in my chest.
Hearing certain tones of voice and feeling my attention narrow.
Finding myself waiting for the next sentence even while part of me wants to close the window and walk away.
That constant contradiction becomes exhausting.
Because one half of me still thinks all of this should disappear.
And the other half keeps moving closer to get a better look.
Nobody explains the exhaustion.
The exhaustion of arguing with yourself.
The exhaustion of wondering why something attracts you when it also makes you uncomfortable.
The exhaustion of feeling as if you are building a secret room inside your own mind.
Sometimes I think the shame doesn’t come from what I desire.
It comes from how specific it is.
From those tiny details that only someone who has spent too long looking would recognize.
The way a sentence can stay attached to you for days.
The way a voice can return in silence.
The discomfort of realizing that something which began as curiosity now occupies space even when it wasn’t invited.
And the worst part is that I still don’t have an elegant explanation.
I only have the uncomfortable feeling that I opened a door out of curiosity and spent so long looking through it that I can no longer remember exactly when I stopped observing and started staying.
My neck I am not moving it the record cannot close I should…
