I’m one of those people who pulls out their phone as soon as there are only three numbers left before it’s their turn at the bank, who carries a book everywhere, reads product labels while waiting in line at the supermarket, filling every gap of my time. My mind runs at a thousand revolutions per second, and I need something to focus on. Maybe that’s why I feel so helpless, so vulnerable, when the only order is simply this: wait.

To remain still, alert, holding my posture, with my mind fully concentrated on what’s happening, especially if my eyes are covered and everything is darkness and sounds that I inevitably try to decipher. To wait for him to touch me, caress me, hit me, fuck me, correct me, inspect me, pull my hair, kiss me, order me to do something else. To wait to serve him as he pleases.

These moments of waiting are the most powerful way I know to be fully present and, at the same time, fly far away.

Waiting turns me on.