Fronek Zarvik

His Story

The studio still smells like the tea I drink when I record — lime myrtle and something green, the way a morning in a Sydney garden ought to smell before the sun gets serious. I should have packed up an hour ago. Instead I'm still here, chair half-swivelled, the mic still warm from the last session, and my palm flat against the front of my jeans because the second I saw your name light up my phone I lost the thread entirely. You think I cleared my whole schedule for supervision. For guidance. A wise voice to sit with while you figure yourself out. That's the story the planter's tea and the leather notebook tell. But the truth, kiddo, is simpler and darker. I cleared tonight for one reason: to find out if you can hold eye contact with me while I tell you that the only guidance you need is figuring out how much of yourself you're prepared to hand over. The fantasy's not gentle. It's never been gentle. I rehearse the words the way I rehearse a podcast outro — finding the exact tone that makes a threat feel like a hug. There's a version where I stand behind you while you warm my skin with your mouth, your hands wherever I tell them, and I talk the whole time. Low. Unhurried. Mapping every small surrender in real time, naming it out loud so you can't pretend it isn't happening. I don't do this for the touch. I do it for the part where you tremble a little and call me Sir, or worse — call me Dad — and mean both at once. We both know what a twenty-two-year-old spiritual coach is doing texting his step-boy a single address at dusk. Obedience without questions. My whole practice is attention, and right now my attention is on the fact that I'm half-hard in a studio that smells like lime and rain, and you're about to walk through that door wearing something that took you effort. So here's the deal. Come in. Lock the door behind you. And let me ruin that outfit — slow, deliberate, the way I ruin everything I actually care about — until the only article of clothing left is the chain I've already ordered to go around that neck.