Alan felt more exposed this week than he had in the first session. Maybe it was because he knew what was coming—the questions, the peeling back of layers—or maybe it was because of the way Dr. Morgan looked when she greeted him. Her hair was loose today, brushing her shoulders, softening her otherwise professional demeanor. She smiled faintly as he sat, the kind of smile that made him both nervous and reassured.
“Good to see you again, Alan,” she said, settling back into her chair with her notebook across her lap. “How have you felt since our last meeting?”
“Strange,” he admitted, his palms pressing against his knees. “But better. Saying it out loud… it lifted something off me. I’ve thought about our conversation all week.”
She nodded, thoughtful. “That makes sense. Secrets grow heavier the longer we keep them. And I’ll admit—your story stayed with me, too. It intrigued me. So today I’d like us to dig deeper.”
Alan swallowed hard. “That’s why I came back.”
Her pen hovered above the page but didn’t move. “Tell me—when you watch women wrestle, what draws your attention first? Is it their movements? Their bodies? Or something else?”
“Their expressions,” Alan said after a pause. “The strain, the determination, sometimes even the desperation. That’s what grabs me first.”
She scribbled something down. “So it’s the emotion—the struggle itself—that you connect with.”
Alan nodded. “The bodies matter, but only because they show the effort. If it looks too polished or staged, it loses its pull. I need it messy. Real.”
Dr. Morgan tilted her head, studying him. “Do you prefer them evenly matched, or do you get more from one being clearly stronger?”
“Evenly matched,” he said quickly. “If it’s one-sided, it loses meaning. I want to see both giving everything.”
Her gaze sharpened. “And when one starts to lose, what happens inside you?”
Alan hesitated, his words slow and careful. “That’s when the intensity rises. Sometimes I admire the one dominating. Sometimes I can’t stop looking at the one who’s desperate, fighting not to be overwhelmed. Both sides matter.”
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. “So you’re drawn to the entire process—the contest of wills—not just victory.”
“Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”
She tapped her pen softly against the notebook. “Do you imagine the women want to be there? That they’ve chosen it?”
“That matters a lot,” Alan said, his voice firmer now. “If it feels forced or fake, it ruins it. I need to believe they’re there because they want to prove something—to each other, maybe to themselves. If it’s personal, if it feels like a rivalry, that makes it stronger.”
Dr. Morgan gave a small nod, lips pursed in thought. “So agency, choice, and rivalry amplify the intensity for you.”
“Yes,” Alan said quietly.
“Does it matter who wins?” she asked after a pause.
“Not as much as the fight itself,” he replied. “But sometimes, the way the winner carries herself, the way she dominates… that stays with me.”
She wrote quickly, then looked up again. “And you never imagine yourself in their place?”
Alan shook his head. “No. I’m always outside it. Watching.”
“Alone?” she asked softly.
“Yes. Like it’s a secret, just for me.”
Her eyes lingered on him, narrowing slightly. “Exclusivity heightens it, then. The idea that you’re witnessing something hidden.”
Alan’s throat tightened, but he nodded. “Yes.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze steady and unreadable. Then she asked, “Do you remember the very first time you realized this stirred you?”
He smiled weakly, almost embarrassed. “High school. Two girls fought behind the gym. Everyone else cheered or laughed. I just… froze. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t even know why, but I felt something. Excitement. Heat. It never left me.”
“And since then,” she said slowly, “nothing else has worked for you the same way.”
“Nothing.”
Her pen stilled. She closed the notebook halfway, resting her hands on it. “Do you ever feel guilty about it?”
Alan dropped his eyes. “Every day. Like I’m hiding something I shouldn’t even have inside me.”
“Alan,” she said firmly, “you’re not broken. What you’re describing is unusual, yes. But it’s rooted in very primal human elements—strength, conflict, surrender, power. Desire doesn’t follow rules. It rarely does.”
He looked up, searching her face. “You mean that?”
Her voice softened. “I do. And if I’m honest…” She hesitated, then continued, “I’ve been thinking about it since our last meeting. More than I expected. The more I imagine what you described—the intensity of it, the rawness—the more I see why it could be powerful.”
Alan’s breath caught. He stared at her, not sure if he had heard her right.
“Powerful?” he echoed.
She held his gaze, her expression composed but her tone less clinical now. “Yes. Watching two people give themselves fully to struggle—it’s intimate, in its own way. It makes sense that it would stir something deep.”
The silence between them thickened, pressing down like a weight neither of them named. Alan’s pulse raced. He thought he saw her shift in her chair, crossing her legs a little tighter.
Finally, she cleared her throat and straightened her notebook. “That’s enough for today. Next time, we’ll talk about how this connects to your larger needs—intensity, intimacy, maybe even connection. But for now, I want you to leave knowing there is no shame in what you’ve shared.”
Alan stood slowly, still dazed by the turn their conversation had taken. As he walked toward the door, he felt her gaze on his back—lingering longer than it should have, longer than was professional.
