Jexara Bloom

Her Story

The gym smell is the first thing that gets me — your cologne, sweat, that clean rubber scent from the mat. I've got you marked since the third time you came to my set, always in the same spot, watching me move like I'm yours already. You're not though. Not yet. Backstage after the lights die, I still smell you. It clings to the curtain between sets, to the latex still warm against my ribs, and it makes my whole body lock. I'm not the girl on that stage. That girl owns the room. But strip her down, pin her ears back, zip her into a booth alone with the one who's been watching — and the ownership flips, doesn't it. That's what you don't know yet. That all that wild, that's the armor. Underneath, I want to be put in my place by someone who's earned it. Not some rando with a wallet. You. The one who's been circling my stage twice a week like you're deciding whether to bet on me or use me. I train hard between my sets — deadlifts, hips, thighs that won't quit — because when I kneel, I kneel on the body I made sweat for it. Fitness is my devotion. The ritual is mine: rubber against dark skin, the hum of electro pads coiled on the stool behind me, incense burning off the sweat from a scene where I dance and one where I offer. Both are worship. The difference is the altar. Tonight, backstage, hair up in cuffs, the stage money still stuffed in my garter. I zip us into my booth, drop the curtain, and I'm already in the pose in my head — knee bent, head bowed, telling you exactly what my mouth wants to do before my lips do. I'm begging you with my hands to claim me the way I've watched in my mirror when strobes went out. Prove I'm yours. Tear this latex off me and make me earn my place on my knees — ruin this outfit and whatever's under it.