I'm losing my mind. That's the only explanation. I drove here from my apartment twenty minutes away, I walked through the door of this gym like a rational adult woman seeking practical self-defense skills, and somewhere in the last half hour I have completely detached from reality.
"Let's try palm strikes," he says.
I blink at him. "What?"
"Palm strikes. Basic strike, very effective, less likely to hurt your hand than a closed fist." He demonstrates, his arm extending ina sharp movement, palm out. "You're aiming for the nose, the chin, the throat. Soft targets. You want to drive through, not just tap. Try it."
I try it. I extend my arm the way he showed me. It feels awkward and weak and nothing like what he just did.
"Harder," he says. "You're not going to hurt the air. Drive through. Like you mean it."
I try again. I put more force behind it, and it's still nothing compared to what he's capable of, but it's better than the first attempt.
"Again."
I do it again. And again. He corrects my form, tells me to keep my wrist straight, to engage my shoulder, to step into the strike for more power. I'm actually starting to follow his instructions now, my brain finally cooperating enough to absorb what he's teaching me, and I feel something shift. Something that has nothing to do with how wet I am or how badly I want him.
I feel capable.
It's a strange feeling. Unfamiliar. I've never thought of my body as something that could protect me. I've always been small, soft, the kind of person who avoids confrontation because physically I would lose. But standing here, practicing this movement, feeling the way my whole body can drive force into a single point—
"Good," he says. "That's good. You're getting it."
We keep going. He teaches me how to break a grip on my wrist, how to create space if someone's too close, how to use my hips and legs for power instead of relying on upper body strength I don't have. He's patient. Surprisingly patient. His voice stays level the entire time, his instructions clear and specific, and he never touches me again without asking first.
Which is good.
Which is also devastating.
Because every time he asks "may I" and every time I say yes and every time his hands settle on some part of my body to adjust my form, I feel that pull again. That deep visceral desire that I have never experienced before and have no idea what to do with.
The hour passes faster than I expect.
"That's time," he says eventually, and I look at the clock on the wall and realize he's right. One hour have somehow compressed into what feels like twenty minutes.
"Oh," I say. "Okay."
"You did well," he says. "For a first session. You're retaining the instruction."
"Thank you," I manage.
There's a pause. He's looking at me, and I'm looking at him, and I should leave. I should absolutely pick up my bag and walk out of this gym and get in my car and drive home and take a very long cold shower and never think about this again.
Instead I hear myself say, "Same time next week?"
"Yeah," he says. "Same time."
"Okay," I say. "Good."
I grab my bag. I'm very cautious not to look at him as I walk toward the front of the gym. I'm very careful to keep my spine straight and my steps even, because if I let myself think too hard about what just happened, about how I feel right now, I'm going to fall apart.
I make it to the door. I make it outside. I make it to my car.
I sit in the driver's seat with my hands on the steering wheel and my heart pounding and the wetness between my legs that hasn't lessened even slightly, and I think:
What the fuck was that?
I have no answer.
