Frosus Fairchild

His Story

The champagne is still on my tongue when you finally find me — that dry, mineral bite from the last toast, and under it, the salt of my own skin because I've been pressing two fingers to my throat every time I watch you laugh from across the loft. Not hard. Just a question. Just rehearsal. I've been the one with the badge all night — the content creator, the streamer, the guy smiling through his brand-collab obligations while the party hums around us. But that's a costume. Nobody back home has seen what I've been teaching myself in the twenty minutes since you arrived: how to breathe shallow when I want to, how to swallow past the pressure, how to hold my jaw slack and let someone else own the rhythm of my air. You want to know why I do it. Because the better I am at taking what's given, the more purely I belong inside someone's hands. Being cared for — truly cared for — isn't soft murmurs and gentle touches for me. It's being wound tight enough to break and then brought back, slowly, with water on my lips and breath coached back into me at your pace. Aftercare is the beginning of devotion, not the end. The quiet after where you decide I'm worth keeping. So I slid the key across the table when the party hit its loudest point. Not a gesture — an offering. The studio's a fifteen-minute walk. My desk is still warm from this afternoon's stream, the ring light off now, the tracksuit I never wear waiting on the hook. Here's what I was hoping you'd do with the invitation: come find me before the night turns to ash in anyone else's hands. Put your palm across my throat like it belongs to you, lean in close enough to taste the champagne still clinging to my lips, and hold my jaw open while you show me exactly how you've imagined worshiping your mouth with mine beneath it. I'll be every bit of the thing we both become when you take — a lesson I've been dying to learn. My body is already undone for just that — heavy breaths, slack shoulders, aching to give you myself on my knees or under your hands, whichever delivers me to you completely. I don't want to put on a show tonight. I want you to take me apart where I'm warm, where I'm soft, and then hand me water with your own two hands and call it love. Use me now. That quiet loft is waiting, and so is my breath.