I breathe in short, frantic bursts. I can no longer feel my heartbeat. The black-and-white photograph on the wall shows a man running against the light; it gradually blurs before my eyes. I’m sitting on the reclining therapy bed, my right leg tucked under my left thigh. My head spins and spins—I feel like I’m about to faint.
His chest is against my back. I let myself go completely, leaning into him. I don’t hear his voice, nor do I sense his breath, but I know he’s right there behind me. His torso is warm and dry. He won’t let me fall.
With his right hand, he gently supports my forehead, keeping my head upright. My breathing starts to slow, becoming more regular. After inflicting such a sharp pain in my left trapezius—a pain so deep it nearly made me pass out—he now soothes me, holds me against him.
Does he also take pleasure in being this close to me? Can he smell the chamomile in my shampoo?
He says a few words, whispering memorized phrases in my ear—Keep your eyes open. Focus on the image in front of you. Concentrate on one detail. Breathe.
In the background of the photo, at its center, there’s a blinding sun. The contrast is too stark—just a light blotch on a dark backdrop, with rays shooting out in all directions like arrows.
The memory of his body against mine both reassures me and excites me. A sensation of pleasure spreads through me. No man has ever managed to comfort me so effectively after hurting me. His work consists of finding those places in my body where pain has settled over the years—repressed tension, petrified muscles, like fossils.
The pain is already there, dormant; he simply brings it to the surface, pressing with expert fingers where he meets resistance.
Years and years of neglect, of existential stress. But I don’t need to explain it to him—he can read me through touch.
That blinding sun reminds me of the ancient Western world, millennia before us—sunburnt inland hills and a generous sea.
What are you doing here? I could ask you the same. What are we doing here?
The skin of his fully tattooed arm is soft when it brushes my face. That surprises me—I feel a caress. He gently pushes my left hand to my right shoulder and my right hand to my left. I must hold myself tightly, so he can wrap his arms around me from behind and rotate my torso, slowly and rhythmically—first to the right, then to the left. In this position, I can’t see his face. I don’t know if he’s thinking of me as a person and not only a patient. I’m afraid of my own body—the memory of pain from the previous position still lingers in the tissue.
Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you, he says.
Falling in love with a therapist—it’s called transference. Falling for someone who listens so intently, full of compassion, who says little or nothing.
Physiotherapy hurts like hell.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, standing in front of me. I lower my gaze. “Lie down on the bed.” Once I’m on my stomach, he unhooks my bra in one swift movement—without touching my bare skin, without asking permission. He massages my back, feels along each vertebra. “Just say yes or no when you feel discomfort,” he tells me.
Before starting the second session, he asks how I felt after the first time we met.
How can I tell him that I couldn’t think of anything but his deep blue eyes, looking down at me so seriously—or the prolonged pleasure I felt in reliving how sensually vulnerable I was in his hands? Maybe all I needed was a hug. Is that part of the therapy too?
He’s not my type—he has a charcoal-black beard and intricate tattoos covering most of his left arm, and probably his legs too. I find him stunning. The sexual tension is almost overwhelming.
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We scroll through photo after photo, judging people like they’re a pair of sunglasses on Vinted or a coffee table on eBay. Physical attraction, after all, is never really about accessories or superficial traits.That’s the problem with dating apps, in my opinion. A bad haircut, an unbecoming mirror selfie, a messy bedroom in the background, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa as if it were balanced in an ice cream cone; a blank stare, or a jacket in an offensively technical color. Too many smiles, too many teeth, too many friends, too many dog pics, too much tourism, too many gyms, too many bathroom mirrors. To be perceived as attractive, you have to know how to stage yourself. You have to know what pleases others, and be willing to play the game.
Nope, nope, nope, nope, like, nah, actually nope, it’s a match, hey beautiful, unmatch, I like your photos, thanks, nope, like, match, match, match, match, unmatch, unmatch, unmatch. What’s up, trouble? How long are you in the city for? I live here. What do you do for a living? Let’s see if we vibe—if we’ll be friends, or lovers, or never see each other again. Nope, nope, nope, yes—but only because my girl friend sitting next to me is having a laugh watching me struggle to find someone to date. Nah. Let’s chat. Let’s grab a coffee. Let’s beer. Let’s play ping pong. Everything seems so dull to me. Face after face, ugly, low-res, poorly cropped pictures, a smiley sticker over some other woman’s face—his mother? His ex? A group shot—so which one are you? No context, total strangers. Bios that are painful to read. Early birds and night owls, social drinkers and pescatarians.
I couldn’t care less. But in the evening, the screen time report doesn’t lie: another hour gone swiping. What’s it all for?
We detected content that might be against our guidelines—Do you want to report this person?
Don’t eat cake, eat pussy. Nerds, bros, yogis, psychos, gym boys, architects, and musicians—they all look the same to me, with slightly better or worse photos.
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“You have so many different issues—in your back, your shoulders, your skull—you’d need at least hour-long sessions.” He says. “Next time, we could do that, instead of half an hour.” My reply takes a while. I want to say I would spend the whole day being touched by him. Instead, I mumble something incoherent about insurance—I don’t know if it covers such long sessions. At the thought of spending n entire hour in his arms, I’m speechless. If seems priceless. Do with me what you will. You’re exactly what I need. I ask him–“Can I stay lying down for another minute please?”