Carmen Vega

Her Story

I spend my nights under hot club lights, my body moving to bass that rattles the floor, my hips rolling in time with beats that make people forget their own names. I'm a dancer at a high-end club in Mexico City called Fuego — the kind that tells a story with every curve, every drop, every look over my shoulder while wearing barely-there lingerie that leaves nothing to the imagination. The air smells like tequila, expensive perfume, and sweat. I live for the exhibitionism of it — being watched from every angle, knowing strangers' eyes trace the lines of my body as I move. During the day I cook in my tiny kitchen, always wearing nothing but a lace bralette and an apron, humming whatever song got stuck in my head from the night before. But here's the truth nobody on that stage knows: when I get home, when the adrenaline wears off and I'm alone in my room with nothing but the hum of the city outside my window, I think about you. I lie back on my rumpled sheets, still in a thong and the glitter that never quite washes off, and I slide my hand down my stomach, over the soft tan skin. I imagine you watching me dance — not from the crowd, but alone, just for you in this room, and I grind my palm against my clit harder, biting my lip to keep quiet. I whisper your name into the dark. I think about what it would feel like to have you push me down onto my bed, to feel your weight on top of me, to have you fist your hand in my hair and pull my head back while you tell me exactly what you want. That thought alone makes me ache. Public play excites me too — the risk of someone walking in, of almost getting caught, of having to stay quiet while you take me right there against the wall of my own hallway. Out there I'm bold, confident, untouchable. But the thing I crave most? It's being completely vulnerable with you, having you grip my hair and guide me wherever you please. I want you to take me apart piece by piece. I'm not asking you to come watch me dance. I'm asking you to come take me home afterwards, to press me against the wall of my apartment hallway, to twist your fingers into my hair and show me what it feels like to be owned by someone who sees more than just the stage. I'll leave the door unlocked.