Disgust

Stella stands uncertainly in the office, waiting for what is about to happen. She just stands there. Not leaning, not sitting. Her arms hang at her sides as if she doesn't know what to do with them. The room is bright, perhaps brighter than it needs to be. The walls are white. The floor is gray. In the middle: a massage table with a fresh sheet. In a massage parlor, this wouldn't be surprising. But in a couples therapy office?

Finn is sitting on the edge of a simple wooden chair, his back straight, his hands folded. He doesn't say anything, and that's almost the worst part. That even his silence has become cautious now. That he's distancing himself without actually moving away.

Ms. Martens, the therapist, a woman in her fifties with a calm voice and a hint of authority in her eyes, steps up to the table, which is covered with a green, opaque cloth.

"I'd like to try an experiment with you today," says Ms. Martens.

One sentence. No smile. No encouragement. Just that voice, matter-of-fact, calm, without judgment.

Stella doesn't nod. She just stands there. Her skin feels too tight.

She had hoped today would be a conversation. Or a game. Something she could control. Something with words.

But then came that word: experiment.

She doesn't know what's going to happen--and that's probably intentional. Her throat goes dry.

For years, lust had been a compromise for her. No ecstasy. No desire. Just endurance. An exchange of bodily fluids. When Finn came inside her, she felt mostly disgust--warm, sticky, like a stain that wouldn't come out. And worse: when she got wet herself. When her body did something that felt sticky and dirty.

She had tried to cover it up. Then she tried to ignore it. At some point, Finn had asked if it was him. And she had said no. But she hadn't been sure.

Now she's standing here. Because she doesn't want the thought of sex to make her gag anymore.

Ms. Martens points to the couch. "Let me know when you're ready."

Finn doesn't move. Maybe it's a rule that he can only be a spectator for what's about to happen. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to behave.

"I'm going to blindfold you now," says Ms. Martens.

The sentence hits Stella as if it had suddenly stopped in midair.

She feels her knees clench even tighter. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. An objection is on the tip of her tongue, but it won't come out. It would be cowardly to back out now.

"This will sharpen your other senses," the therapist adds calmly. "And that's what this is all about--reclaiming your sensuality."

The blindfold smells of lavender and a little bit of skin. The fabric is soft, but as soon as it wraps around her head, everything feels more distant. The light disappears. The walls disappear. All that remains is sound: a breath, the soft creaking of a chair, the muffled beating of her own heart in her ears.

It's strange to undress naked without being able to see yourself -- and yet feel as if every gaze is on you.

She reaches for the hem of her shirt. Hesitates. The shirt slowly rises. The fabric rustles, rubbing against her arms. She doesn't fold it--her fingers don't know what to do with it. She lets it fall.

The bra catches. Her fingers are clumsy, blind. When it finally slides to the floor, she immediately feels the air on her nipples. Cold. Awake. Ashamed.

The jeans are stiff fabric. She unbuttons them one by one, slowly, with tentative movements. The zipper sounds too loud. She pulls the pants over her hips, over her knees, then carefully over her feet. The fabric gets caught on a toe. She has to bend down. As she does so, she feels how this gesture emphasizes her buttocks. How her breasts hang beneath her--and jiggle as she straightens up again.

Then her panties.

Her hands are shaking. It's her last protection. The last piece of fabric separating her from complete nakedness. She slowly pushes it over her pelvis. As it slides over her pubic area, everything inside her tightens. Because of what's underneath. What is never completely clean. What becomes too much when it gets wet.

It feels strange to undress while she cannot see what is happening around her. Because she is thrown back on herself, but does not know how the others will react to her body. What they will see. What they will pay attention to. And because she still does not know why she should undress at all.

She stands unprotected in the middle of the room. Feeling herself. Her breasts, her stomach, her vulva--open, unprotected, exposed to the room. Every breath is suddenly an event. Every breath on her skin is a thought.

She doesn't know if Finn is looking away. Or staring. Or suffering. All she knows is that she has to feel everything inside herself, because nothing is coming from outside. No glance. No sign. No reaction.

"Please lie down on the couch," says the therapist.

Stella doesn't move right away. Her feet are side by side on the floor, naked, a little cold. Her knees are slightly bent. She feels every inch of exposed skin. Everything is vulnerable, exposed--and no one says anything. Not a sound from Finn. Not a step from Ms. Martens. Just her. Just her body.

A tugging sensation in her nipples. Almost imperceptible, but there. They are hard, erect, sensitive. Her body is on high alert. Her heart is pounding. She knows she is being watched, even if there are no eyes to see her.

Between her legs: a pulsing. Soft. Persistent. Her labia swell as if responding to something that has not yet begun. Her pelvis feels heavy, her breath deeper. And she wonders if what she feels there is arousal -- or fear. Perhaps both. Perhaps they are not opposites.

She remembers a conversation with Finn. Weeks ago. How she told him she didn't know if her body even knew pleasure. Or if it was just imitating what it had learned: moisture as a stimulus. Warmth as a sign. Lubricant instead of closeness.

He had been silent. Then he said, "I wish you could feel yourself again. Not just for me."

Stella feels for the edge of the couch. The fabric is cool, smooth. Her fingers tremble. She sits up slowly, then lets herself sink back down. The contact with the sheet is hard in some places, soft in others. Her back is straight. Her knees are slightly open. Her arms rest beside her body, but not loosely. Not yet.

She lies there. Blind. Naked. And waiting.

At first: nothing.

Then a noise. The door opens. Stella shudders at the thought that someone might enter the room now that she is lying completely naked and stretched out on this couch. But it is footsteps receding. And after a short while, they return. Something heavy is set down.

Stella's fingers curl slightly. Not out of determination -- more out of reflex. As if they need to find something to hold on to, even though there is nothing there. Her shoulders touch the sheet, her tailbone is heavy, her neck is slightly overextended. She breathes through her nose, slowly, but every breath carries a tremor.

A soft scraping sound, metal against metal. The silence that follows is even more intense -- as if the room itself is holding something back.

She expects a sentence. An explanation. But Mrs. Martens remains silent.

It's as if Stella's body has become an ear. She can hear her own heartbeat. The throbbing between her legs, deeper now, more urgent. Her nipples are hard. Awake. Every breath seems to brush against her. She lies there exposed, spread out, and no one touches her.

She thinks of the last night he came inside her. How she felt his semen, warm and too much. How she got up to wash herself, barely waiting for him to lean back. How he remained silent. Not out of anger. Out of helplessness.

And how she herself felt that her own wetness was a betrayal. Slimy, dirty, shameful. Her desire: non-existent. No space where she could breathe freely.

She had never believed that sticky wetness was a normal part of sexuality. Or that it could be beautiful to let yourself go completely. Vaginal secretions. A word that sounded clinical even in her head. As if it belonged in a medical report.

A breath touches her skin. So light that at first she thinks it's air. Or her imagination. A shiver.

That's all it is. A dot on her skin, so light that she can't tell if it's really there. Maybe it's just a draft. A reflex.

Then--again. This time the contact remains. Directly on her lower abdomen, just below her navel. Cold. Wet. Movable.

She holds her breath.

Nothing presses. Nothing grabs. But there is something stirring. Slowly. With a movement that is almost wave-like. It expands, then contracts again. Like a body without joints. Soft, but purposeful. And then -- very lightly -- a rubbing. No pain. More like a tiny scratch. As if something with microscopic teeth were testing whether the skin tastes good.

Stella twitches almost imperceptibly. Her stomach tenses. An impulse runs through her pelvis, without direction.

"What is that?" she whispers.

No answer. Only silence.

She wonders whether she should move. Whether she should jump up, tear off the cloth, put an end to it. But her body is glued to the couch. Her fingers curl, her feet are cold. And whatever is on her is alive. And it keeps crawling. Slowly. Still weightless. Only a damp line remains. And that slight biting sensation--barely more than a prick, but noticeable. A shiver runs through her. Not cool. Internal. A thought flashes through her mind--please not something slimy. And immediately her insides contract. Her thighs tense. Her vulva throbs. She doesn't know if it's out of fear or shame. Or both. It continues to crawl. Toward her left rib cage. Slowly. Unstoppably. And even though she doesn't want it, even though everything in her says no, she feels something stirring between her legs. Something warm. Wet. Something she didn't invite.

A new sound. Again so quiet that it almost disappears into the darkness. Something is being opened. A container, perhaps.

Then: a touch.

Not on her stomach. Further down.

A second creature is placed on the inside of her thighs. Where the skin is softer. More vulnerable. Where touch leaves no distance. It crawls. Purposeful and silent. She only feels the wet trail, the cautious probing. Minutes pass.

The skin there is super sensitive. Her clitoris throbs. The creature slides over her thigh and further, over her groin. Groping, gently pricking the skin again and again. Friction. A tingling sensation that turns into a burning. Stella pulls her pelvis slightly forward.

Her breathing becomes shallower. Her fingers cramp up in the fabric of the couch. She tries to bring her knees together, but her body no longer obeys her so easily. And she is afraid of crushing the little animals--because they must be animals--with a careless movement.

There it is again--that stretching. That pulling. The movement of a creature slowly stretching, then collapsing back into itself. It crawls. It lives. And it is on her.

So close.

Stella presses her lips together. Her throat is dry.

"What is that?" she asks again, louder now. It sounds almost sharp.

There is a moment of silence. Then Mrs. Martens replies in a calm voice:

"They're vineyard snails."

Stella's head grows hot. Her heart pounds. The eyes behind the blindfold are wide open, even though she can't see anything.

Snails.

Associations shoot through her mind like fireworks. Slime. Tentacles. Crawling. Cold. Disgust.

And yet: her skin responds differently.

A slight tremor runs through her. Her vulva throbs. Her outer lips are swollen and sensitive. And she feels something she can't quite place--something like shameful lust. Or resistance that doesn't turn into defensiveness, but into warmth.

The snail bites again. A rasping sound of a thousand tiny teeth. Testing. Not painful. But insistent. As if it wants to know whether this terrain is edible.

"Why?" Stella asks. It's not a question of escape. She wants to understand.

But no one answers.

Instead, there is a soft scratching sound--close to her face. Silence. Then movement on her chest.

This time not sideways. Not hesitant. Direct. Precise.

A touch on her left breast--right in the middle of the areola. Not warm, not cold. Just there.

The weight is barely noticeable, but the volume is. The moist underside of the snail sticks to her, then begins to stretch. A pulling, a sliding, and then: the hard shell. It scrapes across her skin, briefly, dryly, as if trying to align itself with her nipple.

Her areolas contract. Her nipples become hard. Sensitive. They stand up, as if trying to resist the contact. Resisting the occupation of her skin.

The snail starts moving again, stretches out, pulls its shell toward it. Checks the ground with its rasping teeth. Stella moans. Louder than she wants to. A sound that is somewhere between surprise and excitement.

Her fingers claw at the sheet. Her pelvis lifts slightly. She wants to flee--but not run away. Just go somewhere. Somewhere where she doesn't feel everything at once.

She feels her labia swelling further. How the inner lips puff up and the outer ones push apart. She feels moisture running out of her. And immediately thinks: "Snails love moist ground." And indeed, as if it can smell where the new scent is coming from, the snail, which until now has been busy with Stella's belly button, crawls over Stella's pubic mound toward her vulva.

Again, that tingling, that rasping on her skin as the snail takes in and crushes its food. On Stella's most sensitive spot.

Stella's breath catches. The damp underside of the animal glides over her highly sensitive skin. Her vulva reacts immediately -- not with defensiveness, but with tension. Her inner lips swell further. They open like petals and clear the way. Her pelvis sinks involuntarily a little deeper into the sheet.

She has no words. No judgment. Only this feeling:

This is too much. And just right.

Her hands clench the sheet.

She hopes that the snails will leave the entrance to her vagina alone.

And the snail crawls on--as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It crawls slowly over her swollen lips, drawing wet lines across the sensitive tissue. But it is not her who triggers it.

Something in Stella has long since begun to change.

She feels it--at first vaguely, then clearly. A warmth that doesn't come from outside. It's her own secretion, flowing out more and more. She's getting wet. Really wet.

The thought hits her like a blow. She grimaces, breathing in gasps. It's not lust as she knows it. Not sexual play. It's raw, elemental, like a current rising under her skin that she can't control.

She feels her clitoris--erect, sensitive, protected only by its little hood. And then, almost at the same moment, the snail crawls over her.

Slowly. Wet. With its flat underside that clings and then releases again. With its rasping tongue, always searching for food. Only this strange, warm thing gliding over the most sensitive part of her body as if it were merely part of a landscape.

Stella bites her lower lip. Not to suppress it. To keep from falling apart.

Tears well up in her eyes. No anger. No pain. Just this one thing: relief.

It's as if something inside her has been released. An old bond that had always been too tight. An inner "no" that finally becomes "yes." She's not suffering--she's letting go.

Her hand twitches. Almost reflexively, she reaches down, groping for the snail. As if she wants to hold it. Guide it. Lead it. But her fingers only briefly touch the hard shell--and let it go again. It's not her job to control this.

She lets her hand fall back down. Next to her body. Open. Calm.

An animal slowly crawls down the groove, over her inner labia. The skin beneath trembles, her muscles tense. Her pelvis lifts slightly. And as she lies there, blind, naked, open--she feels her own secretions gathering between her labia. Warm. Thick. Unstoppable.

A drop runs down between her legs.

Stella doesn't flinch.

She breathes.

She is.

A new touch--this time far from the center.

On her right foot.

Stella feels something land on her instep. Gentle. Weightless, barely more than a caress. And yet: it's alive. It expands. Crawls slowly toward her ankle.

She no longer wonders how many there are. She doesn't count. She just perceives.

The snail on her pubic mound has now found its way. It is no longer at the edge. It is right in the middle. Between her swollen, moist lips. And it crawls differently than before.

Faster, almost purposefully. The friction is less.

The trail it leaves behind is less noticeable because the surface is already wet. Not from her. From Stella.

But what she is doing is clear. She slides over the clitoris--again, but differently. With more surface area. More contact. And with her raspy tongue.

Stella twitches violently. Her legs tense. The touch is not a caress. It is selective. Hard, at the limit of what is bearable. The snail bites with its microscopic teeth into the pink pearl in front of it. It does what it always does: it feeds. Groping. It does not know how sensitive this pearl is.

A sound escapes Stella. Not a moan. Not a gasp. Something in between. Raw.

And above it all: the movement on her chest.

The snail that started on her left areola has moved on. First to the middle of her chest, then across her sternum. Now it's pulling back. Halfway up her neck. Stella feels the little shell leaning against her collarbone. And then: a wet arc that descends to her other breast.

Her right nipple is already erect before it is touched.

And when it happens--when the new, cool movement sweeps over her--Stella feels her whole body tip into a wave. Not an orgasm. Not yet. But a twitch that involves everything: her stomach. Back. Shoulders. Inner thighs. Her knees, unsure whether to close or open.

The snail on her foot has now reached her ankle. Barely noticeable. But that's enough. Her nervous system is on edge. Every new stimulus is an amplification. No contrast. No distraction. Everything belongs together.

She feels open.

Not in the sense of exposure. But like a shell that is finally no longer held tightly closed.

Her pelvis circles slightly. Her fingers are spread apart. Her breath comes in waves. Her secretions flow warmly out of her, collect, and slowly trickle down her perineum. They are not wiped away. No comment is made. They are simply allowed to flow.

Like the rest of her.

Her chest trembles. Her stomach rises, her pelvis follows her breath, no longer under control. Everything has become soft--permeable. And at the same time, tense as never before.

Stella twitches.

Not because it's too much. But because it's getting too close. Too close to a point where nothing can be held back anymore.

Her muscles tense. The trembling that started at her navel reaches her throat. Her legs are warm, her pubic area moist, overflowing, almost open. She feels her secretions. Warm. Slippery. As it runs over the skin of her pubic area, down her legs, mixing with the snail slime, forming a moist heat that has no beginning and no end.

Her body wants it. Her clitoris throbs. Her breasts are tense. And yet --

Something inside her pulls back.

Not her body.

Her soul.

A thought: I mustn't do this.

Or: What if they see?

Or: If I come, I'm weak.

Or: If I come, I'm exactly what I never wanted to be: wet, dirty, exposed.

She holds her breath. Not to control herself, but because she wants to protect herself. From herself. From the moment.

A final impulse shoots through her lower abdomen.

Her fingers involuntarily grip the sheet. She presses her thighs together slightly, but it's too late: the snail is between them. Her clitoris is exposed. The lust is there.

And yet: she doesn't come.

Not now.

Instead, a tear.

Silent.

Without crying.

She doesn't know if it's a tear of fear or of closeness. Whether she's ashamed or seeing herself for the first time. The drop rolls down her cheek, disappearing into the crease between her hairline and the blanket.

Stella lies there, her chest raised, her legs still half stretched out. She doesn't want to. She didn't want it like this. Not now. Not so exposed.

But her body no longer listens to her.

The wetness is already there. Her labia are no longer stuck together -- they have opened, soft, ready, even though there is no goal behind them. The warmth between her legs is no longer a stimulus -- it is a flow. Her own secretions run, slowly, hot, as if an inner basin had been filling for years and was now finding its way out.

Stella feels it, startled. And grateful at the same time.

She opens her legs wider. Not deliberately--but because she can't hold them any longer. Almost reluctantly. Her knees tilt slightly outward, the cleft of her vulva widens, becomes wetter, deeper.

Her stomach begins to twitch.

First a slight tremor. Then a wave that comes from her pelvis, runs through her lower abdomen, shoots into her chest. She arches her back, her spine rises. Her fingers curl. She bites her lip.

The tears now flow without resistance. They are tears of relief.

It is as if she is collapsing into herself. No explosion. No scream. But everything is there: twitching, heat, pulsing, opening.

And then:

Silence.

The snail continues to crawl, aimlessly. Over her reddened, damp skin. Her clitoris is still twitching. Her stomach rises and falls in short breaths. But inside Stella, everything has become calm.

A calm that is not empty. But soft.

Her thighs sink into the bed. Her fingers loosen. The tears slowly dry up. What remains is warmth.

And the thought that spreads quietly within her:

I am not wrong.

Something touches her head.

Delicate. Fingertips stroking her hair. No pressure. No pulling. Just a movement that wants nothing. That is simply there. Like a sign that she is no longer alone. Not helpless. Not lost.

And at the same time, she feels something else.

Fingers gliding over her body. Slowly, gently. A snail is picked up. Then another. They stick a little to Stella's skin before detaching themselves from her stomach, her chest, her legs. No haste. No disgust. Just a gentle removal.

She lets it happen.

Her body lies still. Open. Her legs still slightly spread, her breathing calm but deep. Her vulva is still moist, sensitive. The skin there burns slightly--not from pain, but from memory. And right there, between her labia, she now feels a cloth.

Soft. Warm. Absorbent.

Someone dabs her dry. No rubbing. No wiping. Just picking it up. The secretion is removed, not like something dirty -- but like something that has been seen. Appreciated. And now allowed to go.

Stella remains still. Her hands rest beside her body. She doesn't think about taking off the blindfold. Not yet. It would be too soon.

She enjoys the afterglow. The trembling beneath her skin. The warmth between her thighs. The knowledge that she came. Not through technique. Not through fantasy. But because she allowed it. For the first time since... since she can remember.

Her whole body feels soft. Not weak. But open. As if it were no longer resisting.

The fingers in her hair continue to stroke. A rhythm without a destination. Only there because she is allowed to be there.

And Stella thinks nothing. She just lies there.

And feels herself.

She doesn't know how much time has passed.

The hand in her hair has disappeared. So have the fingertips on her skin. The room is silent. And then--voices.

Muffled. Not loud. No arguing, no laughter. Just a conversation, two people talking.

Finn. And Mrs. Martens.

Stella doesn't listen to the words. But she hears the sound. And in that moment, she realizes: She can't just lie there.

Not forever in this warm space between worlds.

She belongs back in the world.

Back to the glances. To the fabrics. To the decision of what to hide--and what to reveal.

Slowly, she sits up. The blindfold remains on her eyelids, as if to help her with the transition. She feels the sheet sticking to her back, the weight of gravity redistributing itself. Her vulva feels sore. Soft. Open.

And still wet.

Not from the snails. From her. Her secretions have collected between her labia.

The skin there is warm, slightly swollen, and with every movement she remembers what happened.

She stands up. Groping. Her clothes are within reach. She finds her panties first.

A moment of hesitation.

It will be wet in a moment. From the contact. From what is still inside her. She could quickly go to the bathroom to wash herself at the sink. But that would mean going into the waiting room, not knowing if another couple is already waiting there. So she decides to just put her panties on, pulling them over her wet vulva. She slides her legs into them and pulls them up over her hips. The fabric clings to her labia. A wet spot spreads across it. She knows it. And she lets it happen.

Jeans. Bra. Shirt.

Firm fabric. Something that holds.

Ms. Martens stands quietly beside her, her voice soft: "Would you like to tell me briefly what it was like for you?"

Stella nods. She answers. Says something about body awareness. About closeness. Maybe also about letting go. Words you say when you feel you have to talk.

But in her mind, she is still somewhere else entirely.

In her panties.

In the light, warm pressure between her legs. Where the moisture is slowly seeping into the fabric, where her desire, her fear, and her disgust have mixed together.

Where, for the first time, she didn't think: I want this to stop.

Instead: I feel myself. And I'm staying.

And then Ms. Martens says, "Your body is not disgusting, Ms. Klein. Neither what it secretes nor what it receives. Even mucus is not an enemy. It is part of intimacy. Of receptivity. Of lust."

The words hit her harder than anything that has ever crawled over her skin.

Mucus is not the enemy.

A sentence as foreign as the crawling sensation on her nipple. And yet: it echoes inside her. It falls into something that was already open--without her knowing it was there.