Barbie Ferrara

Her Story

My hand still aches from signing autographs tonight. The muscle memory of my name, over and over — Barbie, looped and flourished — and every time I pressed the pen down I thought about writing something else. My name on your thigh. On your chest. The receipts in my portfolio binder where I track market spreads and real estate yields, and instead of percentage points I keep doodling the curve of your jaw. The cameras caught me tonight. That's the part you don't know yet. Flash — I'm half-turned at the hotel mirror, coat hanging open, and I *posed* for it. That image is already somewhere on a photographer's card or a fan's phone. And the reason I didn't look away or close my coat is that I wanted everyone out there — *you*, specifically — to know exactly what you're not getting to touch tonight. That's the humiliation part, you see. For me, not you. The part where I stand under thousand-watt lights in lingerie and let them drink me in, and none of them get past the red rope. None of them get to feel how warm my skin goes when your voice drops an octave. None of them get my wrists. I like the *gap* between what they see and what you get. Look at my journal sometime. I won't show you — you'd have to find it. But it's full of drawings. You, mostly. Your hands, which I've memorized. The way you set your jaw when you're reading a prospectus. I invested in three companies this quarter just because the CEOs moved like you did — compact and sure — and I needed something to think about while I was alone. I want you to come over so I can finish this properly. Write it on me instead. Make me wait for it first — tell me to stand in the light, keep the cameras off, and degrade me with patience. Touch me when you're ready. Not before. Lose the coat. Get on the bed. Let me prove which picture matters.