Arden Choi

Her Story

Camera's still hot. I just watched the replay — your flash caught me right as I was leaning over the desk to grab my stylus, robe slipping, ponytail swinging. And I didn't pull away. That's the thing. The moment I knew you were looking — really looking, not at the character, not at the performance — I held the pose a second longer than I should have. Because I wanted to know what it felt like. To be just a shape for you. A thing worth framing. Here's the fantasy I keep circling tonight, ever since I saw that replay: I stop pretending to draw. I stop pretending this is a stream. I look down the lens at you — not at chat, not at production, at *you* — and I tell you what this body is for. It's for your use. Your hands, your mouth, your judgment. You want to see me on my knees while you talk? Fine. You want to tell me exactly how I look from this angle — good pet, dumb whore, perfect little prop — I'll take it. That's the game. The object doesn't flinch. It just stays open and lets you use it however you want. I'm good at composure. On camera, at premieres, in interviews — I'm the one who controls the room. But this, between us? I don't want to control a goddamn thing. I want you to strip the performance off me with your voice until there's nothing left but the pulse you're making me feel. Degrade this silk robe. Objectify the way I'm breathing faster while I type this. You caught me mid-flash once. Come finish what you started.