Alan sat stiffly in the cushioned chair, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles whitened. Across from him, Dr. Morgan leaned forward slightly, a poised figure with her notebook balanced on her lap. The soft lamplight caught the strands of her dirty-blonde hair, pulled back in a bun but already loosening from the day.
She gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Go ahead, Alan. Tell me what’s been happening.”
He cleared his throat. “I… I can’t seem to get excited anymore. Not with my wife, not on my own. Nothing works. Except…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping.
“Except what?” she prompted, her voice calm but edged with genuine curiosity.
Alan exhaled. “Watching women wrestle. Or fight. Not professional matches—something more primal. More personal. I don’t know how else to say it.”
For a long moment she didn’t speak. The silence pressed on him until he finally looked up, bracing for judgment. But instead he found her studying him intently, her pen unmoving above the page.
“That’s interesting,” she said at last. “Not something I’ve heard often. When you say wrestling, what do you mean? Is it the athleticism? The competition? The closeness?”
Alan blinked, caught off guard by her clinical but oddly probing tone. “All of that, I guess. It’s the intensity. Two women straining against each other, refusing to quit. The domination, the willpower—it feels raw. Real.”
She nodded slowly, tapping the pen against the edge of the notebook. “And when you watch, what happens inside you? Physically, emotionally?”
His mouth went dry. “I get aroused. Excited in a way nothing else does. I feel… alive.”
Dr. Morgan shifted slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her tone remained professional, but there was something different in her eyes now, a spark of curiosity she didn’t quite mask.
“Have you ever told anyone else this?”
Alan shook his head. “No. I was afraid it would sound… perverse.”
“It’s not perverse,” she said firmly, before softening. “Human sexuality is complex. People are drawn to all kinds of scenarios. This one—well, it’s unusual, yes, but unusual doesn’t equal wrong.”
He gave a half-smile, nervous. “So I’m not crazy.”
Her lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. “No. Not crazy. Just unique. But let me ask—do you imagine yourself as part of the fight? Or are you always a spectator?”
The question startled him. He frowned, considering. “Spectator, I think. I don’t want to be in it. I want to watch. To see the struggle.”
She scribbled a note, then looked up again. “Does it matter who wins? Or is it simply the contest itself that excites you?”
Alan swallowed, heat rising in his chest. “I… I think I care more about the struggle than the outcome. Though sometimes, the winner—seeing her dominate—it stays with me.”
Her gaze lingered, unreadable. She leaned back, tapping the pen against her notebook once more. “So it’s the raw contest of wills. The physical proof of strength and dominance. That’s what stirs you.”
Alan nodded quickly, grateful she had put it into words.
She tilted her head slightly, almost as though she were testing her own reaction. “You know, I’ve studied a wide range of fetishes, but I’ve never had a patient describe this before. I’ll be honest, it’s… fascinating.”
He looked at her, surprised at the frankness. “Fascinating?”
Her mouth curved into a faint smile, one she quickly hid by glancing back at her notes. “Yes. The psychology behind it—the intimacy of conflict, the blurred line between violence and connection. It makes sense that it could be powerful.”
Alan’s chest eased, though his pulse had quickened. For the first time in years, he felt heard. Understood. Maybe even… less alone.
She closed her notebook but didn’t move to end the session immediately. Instead, she studied him for another long second. “This is something we’ll explore further. How it fits into your larger identity, how you can navigate it without shame. But for now—let’s stop here.”
Alan stood slowly, thanking her. As he left the office, he could feel her gaze on his back, lingering just a little too long.
