The only key

The dream started in the old boardroom. That same suffocating gray light, the smell of expensive espresso, and twelve sets of eyes waiting for me to solve the unsolvable. My suit felt like a suit of armor that had grown too small—every seam was pinching, every decision felt like a stone added to a backpack I’ve been carrying for twenty years. Then, he walked in. I don’t know his face, but I knew his weight. He didn't sit at the table. He didn't look at the spreadsheets. He just walked straight to me, put a hand on the back of my neck, and said, "Enough." It’s hard to describe the rush of that word. It wasn't a threat; it was a rescue. In the dream, he forced me down - not to hurt me, but to ground me. As my knees hit the floor, the noise of the office just... stopped. The crushing responsibility of being "Benji the Success," "Benji the Leader," "Benji who has it all under control," just evaporated. There is a specific kind of male intimacy that people don't talk about - the moment where you stop competing with another man and just let him occupy the space you’re too tired to hold anymore. When he took my wrists and held them behind my back, I felt more "myself" than I ever do when I’m signing a contract. It’s the paradox of my life right now: I only feel powerful when I am completely powerless in the hands of a man who knows exactly what to do with me. It isn't just about the touch; it’s about the surrender of ny ego. It’s the sweat, the rough grip on my chin, and the incredible, silent peace of finally being told exactly what to do. I woke up shaking, not from fear, but from the longing to go back there. To be handled. To be used. To be silent. I now understand that "success" is a cage, and this - this submission - is the only key I’ve found that actually fits the lock.