Our conversation—or rather, my monologue—was entirely one-sided. With Adrian unable to respond, I felt no pressure to filter my thoughts. I rambled on, jumping from Schopenhauer to Nietzsche and then delving into my own life story, narrating everything from my awkward childhood to the circumstances that had brought me here.
Eventually, I asked him, “Do you mind if I take a look at your abdominal muscles?”
He gave no response, naturally, which I took as consent.
“Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m not actually interested in men.”
Still, I proceeded with the routine I’d learned online: massaging his limbs, turning him over, and attempting vagus nerve stimulation. Though I lacked professional skills, I tried my best, fumbling through the steps with clumsy determination.
The entire process took me over half an hour. By the time I was done, I was sweating. Adrian was tall and solidly built, making the task surprisingly labor-intensive.
“How was that? Your wife isn’t too bad, right? Don’t worry, Adrian—I’m taking your family’s money, so I’ll take good care of you,” I joked, brushing my damp hair back from my face.