Henri sits at a salvaged desk in the small chamber he calls his own. A candle burns beside him just as a cigarette burns between the index and middle fingers of his left hand. Both draw tormented protests from It, which he does his best to ignore. He is writing, longhand, in a small notebook. Recounting his session from earlier in the evening. Messiaen’s Vignt Regards du Le enfant Christ plays as he composes.

Julian is not much more than a boy.

That is not my estimate, but rather how he describes himself to me, despite his 25 years on this cruel earth. As is often the case, given my current financial state, we met in his home for our session. A well appointed apartment in one of those areas of Sacramento that is currently experiencing an influx of the young bourgeoisie under the sign of “gentrification.” Hardly the situation of a child.

Boy or man, he is the product of a certain class, what they call the “One Percent” in this country. This is both incidental and of some consequence. In the former sense, it is a fact that many of my analysands come from the same background. It seems that, in American, only those of some means can afford to pay for my services. Likewise, they are also the only ones that can afford to believe in the services that I offer. And belief, in my efficacy as the ‘Subject Supposed to Know,’ is essential for the analytic situation. One way or another, psychoanalysis, here, is a luxury. It is unclear whether this is better or worse than the situation in France, where everyone can make the demand. Again, this is only incidental.

If his economic standing is also consequential, as I earlier mentioned, it is because his wealth has allowed Julian to practice, that is to believe in, or to be spoken by, a certain fetish for as long as he can remember, unmolested. Up until recently, this fetish has only been a source of delight to him, but as of late it has become unbearable. Again, we see the profile of the Pervert (or the perverse subjective orientation), in which the symptom is seemingly enjoyed—until it isn’t. The symptom speaks, and speaks the Subject at issue (Julian himself). For the pervert, there is a kind of transparency to this speech, a non-issue, a seeming “naturalness,” one that the neurotic never gets to enjoy.

Until, one day, the symptom stutters.

Indeed, Julian could be taken for a neurotic—even a hysteric. For, his fetish revolves around a complete stillness or immobility of the body, something that mimics a hysterical paralysis. His fetish object is, in this sense, his own form, rendered prone. Not bound, mind you, but kept still of his own will. He reports that, as a child, when visiting the ocean, he would “pretend to be dead in the waves, sure [his] mother was watching [him]—sometimes for hours.” This geometry of attention, his own attention fixed on his counterfeit paralysis in relation to the (assumed) attention of his mother, who neither scolded him nor fell for the ruse, preferring to let her little boy “play,” is of great importance.

This evening, after meeting with Julian for more than a month, I asked him to reenact his “preferred state” as he calls it. I must admit, I did so while using a certain technique known only to me and a few others in my Association. He happily complied. It should be noted here that, even despite my added inducement, Julian has been in full transference for the last few weeks.

For a very long time, I simply watched him, allowing the aforementioned “geometry of attention” (and tension) to constitute itself for him. The signs of his arousal were apparent, though I did not acknowledge them. Instead, I stood and walked slowly, purposefully around the back of the couch where he was sitting, unmoving. Even when I left his line of sight, he remained in a state of perfect stillness. Even when my hand was placed on his shoulder, he did not stir. When he felt my breath on his neck, there was no response. Likewise when I went further…

At the end of our session, Julian was tired, but clearly pleased with our progress. I asked after his apparent happiness. His response was typical of the perverse orientation: “Doctor, with you, I feel as if I can be myself.” A ridiculous assertion. Clearly, we still have a long way to go, though this session was far from unproductive.