Barrier: Why my body is asking for a passport, not just a look

There is a moment. You know that moment. You stand in a club, in a cafe, on the beach, wherever. Their eyes meet. The chemistry is there, almost palpable, the air thickens. The guy is handsome. Maybe beautifully handsome. And you know - at least you think you know - that he would agree. For something to happen. So that tonight could be that night.

But I stop there.

Not physically, of course. My legs carry me further, my lips smile, the conversation flows. But somewhere deep down, at a level I barely understand myself, there is a wall. And while I'm talking, while I'm flirting, while we're drinking together, my inner voice is already taking stock. What do I know about him? Can I trust him? Is this someone who is going to see me and not just use me? And before I can answer those questions - the moment passes. The train is leaving. And I remain on the platform, with my hand almost raised, but not yet able to whistle.

The price of getting to know each other

This is not a text about how refined I am or better than others. Let me be clear: I want to. My desire is there, strong, sometimes almost painful. I see a guy and I picture him. I imagine us. But I imagine us afterwards. And that's where everything goes wrong. Because afterwards, in my head, it's not just cigarette smoke and going home. After that there is a conversation. Then there is a moment when we are lying next to each other and I don't know what to say because I don't know who this is next to me. And that feeling - emptiness in the middle of closeness - is worse than loneliness for me.

That's why I miss moments. That's why later, when we get to know each other and when I realize that he is just a temporary connection after all, sex is no longer even possible. Because that initial impulse, that ardor, that burning uncertainty - has gone out. I turned it off. With my need to read the book first and then open my legs.
And sometimes it consumes me. Sometimes I look at friends who easily get into other people's beds, who are having fun, who are living the moment, and I wonder: what about me? Why can't I just be "cool"? Should I take what's on offer? Should I say "why not"?

Fear, morality or something else?

I was trying to define what it was. And it's not easy.

First, there is fear. I can't say it isn't. Fear of everything, maybe. From being vulnerable. From someone entering my body without entering my story. From illness, yes, but also from something deeper - from the feeling that I gave a part of myself to someone who didn't deserve it. The fear of waking up next to an unfamiliar face and feeling dirty, not physically, but...spiritually. And I know, it sounds excessive. I know that many would say that sex is just sex, that the body is not a temple, that it is nature, a physical need. But my body didn't seem to get that memo. My body is a temple. With a door. With a lock. And I can't open it to anyone who knocks.

Second, there is the "moral" aspect. Don't call me a purist, please. I'm not a puritan. I love sex. I love it rough, I love it gentle, I love it creative. But I can't separate him from me. I can't be an object in my own bed. And maybe that's the moral limit - not the one that says "you can't", but the one that says "you don't want to be seen in that act". You don't want to become just a body for someone else's gratification. Because if I don't exist in that moment, if I don't feel seen, then what is it really? Masturbation with someone else's body?

And third, and perhaps the most important: trust.

Trust as a lubricant

When I say I need to know a guy, I don't mean I need to know his bio, his mother's names, and his favorite color. I don't think it has to be a certain number of days or meetings either. But I have to build some level of trust. Trust that he won't hurt me. That he won't embarrass me. That he won't be rude if I don't want him to be. That he will stop when I tell him to stop. To see me.

And that trust is not built overnight. It's not built for three drinks and a hopeful look. It is built through conversation. Through when he tells me something vulnerable and I don't take advantage of it. Through it when he laughs at my bad stunt. Through that, when he shows that he is attentive, that he listens, that he exists.

And here's something that's been bothering me for a long time: why should trust be necessary only for a relationship and not for sex? People say, "Well, if it's not a relationship, then there's no obligation." But sex is an obligation. The body I leave to you is an obligation. My vulnerability is a liability. I don't let those things go easily either.

Friendship is trust. Marriage is about trust. A relationship is trust. Why then should the most intimate act, the one in which you are most naked, be an exception? Why would I give my body to someone I wouldn't even trust with the keys to my apartment?

An experiment that failed

There was a period when I tried to transform myself. I said to myself: that's enough. Everyone does it. Why shouldn't I? I met a guy. Handsome. Obviously interested. And I said: come on. Let's go. No question. No waiting.

But I... I wasn't there. I was like a ghost. Empty. I don't blame anyone. A stranger in it all. And then I realized: this is not a guard that I can take off. This is not the armor I put on out of fear. This is me. This is my style. And trying to change it only makes me more unhappy.

One night stand with a stranger is just not my thing. No matter how handsome the guy is, no matter how desirable he is, no matter how much my stomach turns with desire - if there is no connection, if there is no "click" that is not only physical, then I better go home alone. To jerk off alone. To dream. Because at least in my sleep I can be whole.

Pride and fatigue

And now we come to the most difficult thing. This can get tiring sometimes. It's tiring because you feel like you've missed the train that everyone else is catching easily. It's tiring because you wonder if you're too complicated. Are you "drama"? Do people see you as refined, as a difficult person. It's tiring because in a world of apps and instant gratification, you're the one asking for a passport instead of showing a QR code.

But at the same time - and this is important - I feel proud. Pride in not wasting myself. Pride that my body is not a public toilet. Pride that when I get into bed with someone, I get into it whole. With all your fears, with all your past, with all your attention. And I know that it is more valuable, both for me and for the other person, than any speed meeting.

And sometimes, in quiet moments, I wonder: how many of us are there? How many men out there, in the clubs, in the saunas, on the beaches, are standing next to me on the same platform, with their hands raised, but not whistling? How many of us wait for the bridge to be built before crossing the river? I don't know. But I believe there are more of us than meets the eye. Because the culture of one-night stands is being talked about loudly. There are whispers about the culture of waiting.

Conclusion: Everyone has their own key

I don't know if I'm right. I don't know if my approach is better or worse than anyone else's. I just know it's mine. And that I can't change him without losing myself. And I know there are people who understand. Who won't look at me strangely when I say, "Let's talk first." Who will appreciate that my hand does not go into theirs before my soul gives me permission.

And if you're one of those who are the same - or if you're one who doesn't understand but respects - I thank you. Because after all, sex is only one part of the story. The story is about how we want to be seen. How we want to be touched. And how we want to be remembered - not as a phone number, not as a random Friday, but as someone who was important enough to wait for.

And that's not a barrier. It's the door. And I open them only to those who know how to type.