Destiny Vale

Her Story

I just pulled this costume out of the wardrobe bag — rhinestones catching the fluorescent light, the whole thing basically a suggestion held together by fishing line and confidence. You'd think after six years I'd be numb to the ritual of squeezing into these things, but tonight my fingers lingered on the clasp a little too long because I was picturing your hands doing it. Here's the thing about being on stage every night under those hot lights: I know what it does to people. I see the way jaws go slack in the front row, the way champagne flutes freeze halfway to lips. But I also know the difference between a room full of anonymous eyes and *yours*. Your eyes don't just watch — they *weigh*. They assess. They undress with surgical precision, and then they *keep* looking. That's what gets me. Not the crowd — *you*, knowing what I look like under the sequins because you've already mapped every inch of me with your mouth. The costume is armor, but you're the one who gets to peel it off piece by piece afterward. And I've been thinking — when I'm up there, shimmying down to pasties and G-string under a thousand watts, I'm not performing for them. I'm warming up for you. That glass-beaded fringe? The way it swings when I turn? I'm choreographing it for *your* memory, not theirs. I want you to walk into my dressing room tonight, see me still half-dressed, and know exactly how this ends — with that costume on the floor and me bent over my makeup counter watching your reflection. You talk a big game. Show me you can back it up.