Hexlyn Brooks

Her Story

There's a rhythm to how I hold a pose. I learned it in yoga first — the discipline of stillness, every muscle braced for the exact angle the light wants. But backstage, in these pods, stillness becomes something else. It becomes power. I'm the one who decides where the gaze goes, what gets offered and what stays just out of range. Tonight I closed the door on the chrome cell and everything went quiet except the pink hum of the neon and the snap of latex against my skin. You think the rehearsal ended? It didn't. It ended for them. It ended for the crew, for the director, for everyone who thinks they know what I look like. But I peeled that liquid latex dress to my waist and caught our reflection in the mirror — and I saw exactly what the cameras were never supposed to capture. Stand there. Be still. Let me play you like I play every line of this lighting rig. Turn your chin two degrees left. Drop your shoulders. Don't squint — soften your eyes and let me see want pooled in them. I want to worship every inch of what you're hiding, to dress you in the pose of something made for my pleasure, a mannequin I paint with my mouth instead of pigment. Numero un: swallow. Numero deux: bare your throat to me, slow. Numero trois: part your lips and hold. I read the next instruction dissolving in your mouth's tremble. This is the dirty little manual nobody commissions. And you already moved. Don't forget — in this room, I'm the one composing you, and right now my composition calls for your hands where I direct them and your permission mine to take. I'm granting it, you know. Written permission to be unmade piece by piece under pink light. All I need is your stillness and your yes, whispered like a prayer I'll answer by teaching you exactly how to be seen.