She’s sitting across from me. Stunning, successful—everything about her screams “I’ve made it.” Her life runs like clockwork: a high-flying career, a strict workout routine, and a perfect diet. “I’ve got everything under control,” she says, but her body is rigid with tension.
“I… I don’t really feel like having sex anymore,” she admits. The words come out clumsy, like she’s speaking a language she hasn’t mastered. She looks away, fidgets in her chair, and quickly adds that she’s terrified of losing her partner. “I just don’t get it. I’m a total control freak, I know, but that’s always worked for me. So where is it going wrong?” she rants. As she talks, I start feeling suffocated myself. Her words build an impenetrable wall without a single crack.
She immediately asks how many sessions she’ll need. She wants a plan, a deadline, a solution. When I tell her there’s no quick fix and that matters of the body take time, she gets defensive. “I don’t think it has anything to do with my body. My body does exactly what I tell it to do.”
“Maybe,” I say softly, “we should try listening to your body instead of just giving it orders.” Her right eyebrow shoots up. A reflex of someone who isn’t used to letting go of the reins and has no clue what I’m talking about.
We try to “drop down,” out of the head. She hates it. “Drop into my body? Where am I supposed to feel? How do you even do that—feeling in your body?”
I try a different approach. “Imagine your control is a suit of armor protecting you from the outside world,” I say quietly. “Where does it pinch the most right now?”
She looks at me blankly for a second but then closes her eyes again. And then, almost invisibly, her jaw relaxes. Her shoulders drop just a fraction, and she lets out a sigh that sounds like a tire slowly losing air.
“It’s here,” she whispers. Her hand rests on her lower abdomen. “It feels… heavy. Just really heavy.”
There’s no answer yet, and she doesn’t need to understand it either. But she’s found the spot. For the first time in a long while, it’s not her schedule setting the tone, but the honesty of her own body. There’s a crack in her armor, finally letting some oxygen in.
I look at her. Control is a great survival mechanism, but it’s the enemy of surrender. Desire is playful, fluid, and intuitive; it won’t be squeezed into a daily planner. She’s holding the reins so tight that there’s no room for the flow of the moment, and the spark she wants so badly simply doesn’t have the oxygen to burn.
After the session, I walk downstairs and ask Gust what he wants from the store. “A Latina girl with a big bootie,” he grins, doing a quick twerk.
Just in time, I stop myself from wagging my finger and swallow my lecture on objectification. Because let’s be honest: 15-year-old boys are full of desire, and they can’t help it. As I drive to the store, I sway my hips to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.” And let’s be real—shouldn’t we all let out the Latina with the big bootie inside us a little more often?
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