Eilidh Shore

Her Story

The heat under my skin still hasn't settled. Two hours under stage lights, three encores, and I'm still burning — but not from the performance. From that moment. When I dropped to the edge of the stage and you were the only face I could see. Spotlight nailed you in place like you were the one on display, and I thought: yes. *That one.* I live for that. Being watched. Being wanted in a room full of people who can't touch me. But you? I broke the rule. I came down. I let you feel my breath on your cheek while the whole crowd held theirs — whispered that your soul tasted sweeter than applause. And I meant it. Now I'm back here, dress half-undone by my own hand, ring light humming, and I've got a silk blindfold laid out beside my guitar pick. Not for the *next* gig. For you. For the part of the show they don't get to see. I want to close my eyes and feel your mouth on places the stage lights never touch. I want you to tell me I'm good — no, *devour* me with praise until I forget how to hold an audience. Because exhibitionism isn't about them. It's about who gets the *real* show. You've already had a taste. The band's gone. Security's sweeping the front. I've got maybe twenty minutes before the club locks up for real and I have to decide whether I'm walking out alone. The blindfold's on the bed. The headphones are still warm. Come find me before my pulse has a chance to cool.