By Monica Wood
As was to be expected, the waiting room was clinically cold. I was alone, although I had expected to see other men there. The –what shall I call her? doctor, coach, fetishist, torturer?– appeared in the doorway. She was slight of build, very slim, not shapely, but sexy. She had on tight blue jeans, zip-up blue suede boots, a slim black jacket, and straight brown hair which reached a couple of inches below the shoulder. Jim?, she called, as if there were others in the room she needed to discern me from. She smiled warmly and I followed her down the corridor.
We entered a small square consultation room. In it was a tiny square table, and a chair. Everything was very white. My tormentor-to-be (it was clear) sat on the table and rested the toes of her boots on the edge of the chair. She motioned me to sit on the chair. I had to sit with my legs apart, to avoid her toes. She leaned in towards me, holding a clipboard (I could not see where it had come from) and asked me: How small do you want to be? I replied: I am not sure. She went on to ask: Do you find me sexy? I replied: Yes. She paused for a moment, looking deadly serious. So, very small then, she said.
She leaned in further and said: This frame you are in is shrinking smaller and smaller. I could see myself from outside the frame: it was true. Her head and her toes pushed against the air around me, so that I seemed to fade and constrict. I felt like I was being relegated to the back of a photograph. This is your true size and relevance, she said, small and irrelevant. Come back next week for an even smaller frame. I said: Okay. She said, You can go now Jim. Little Jimmy. I walked to the door. One more thing, she called as I had my hand on the handle, ready to exit. I turned to look at her. Do you find me sexy? she asked in a mocking tone. Yes, I replied, and left.
