Nine—A Session
He doesn’t know where to look. He came in confident enough—handshake, a joke about the traffic, the performance of a man who has decided he can handle this.
Now he’s sitting on the edge of the chair with his coat still on and his eyes finding the window, the floor, the middle distance. Anywhere that isn’t me.
I take my clothes off.
Not slowly, not ceremonially. Just the way you do when you’re getting changed. Shirt, trousers, everything. And then I don’t sit back down. I move around. Stand by the window. Bend to pick something up. Make coffee. The ordinary things a person does in a room, except without clothes.
I let him look wherever he wants to look—and after a moment or two, he does. Openly, the way men rarely let themselves look at another man’s body. And then, almost always, some version of the same comment.
You seem very comfortable.
Not quite a compliment. Not quite a question. Somewhere between admiration and confusion, as if comfort in a male body is a phenomenon that requires explanation. Which, for most of the men I’ve worked with, it does.
He stays dressed. That’s fine. There’s no hurry and no requirement. I might be the only naked man in the room for the next thirty minutes, or the whole session. It happens.
A man can get a great deal from simply being in the presence of a body that isn’t performing, isn’t apologising, isn’t sucking anything in. Sometimes that’s enough for one day. Sometimes that’s enough for several.
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