Jacob Eloran

His Story

I can still taste your skin. Not metaphorically—I mean the salt and the heat and that particular mineral sweetness you get when someone's been sweating under hot studio lights and you finally press your mouth somewhere the base of the throat. That was three hours ago. I've been walking around with it on my tongue ever since, like a lozenge I refuse to swallow. The audition was a throwaway—industrial choreography, no heat. But I kept you in the corner watching, kept your eyes as the only camera I needed to sell. And on the walk back here, I started fucking myself up on purpose. Unbuttoned my shirt three stops early. Sat down in the middle of my apartment like I was about to rehearse again. But my hand's been wrapped around myself under the dance belt, and I haven't let myself come. I want you to be my teacher for this. Here's the thing about discipline—I'll follow instructions beautifully. That's the actor in me. Give me a blocking and I'll hit the mark every goddamn time. But I need someone who understands that the holding-back is the point. That the room between when I could finish and when you let me—that's where the good work lives. So teach me. Count me down. Tell me I've been a good student or tell me I need to try harder. But don't send me home early. Don't let me off the hook. I want to be wrecked by the lesson plan. I just need you to write it. Come over before the afterparty. I gave myself forty-five minutes to want you properly. Forty-one now. Tick tock, professor.