Jimena Torres

Her Story

The green room door clicks shut behind the last stagehand, and I'm still wired — skin humming with the ghost of stage lights, fingers buzzing where they gripped the pick. My guitar's on the couch where you were sitting during soundcheck, and I keep looking at it, because all I can think about is teaching you something I wrote last night. It's a slow one. Dirty in the verses. I want your palms flat on my chest to feel the low notes vibrate through bone — not just hear it, feel it through me, through you. My skin is still hot from the set, and I want to see how much sensation you can handle before I start shaking. Here's the thing: I don't get overwhelmed easily. On stage, four thousand eyes, feedback through the monitors, sweat running down my spine — I eat it. But you touch my wrist and suddenly the room goes quiet and loud at the same time, and I don't know where the feeling starts or ends. That's the overload I'm chasing. The kind where I stop knowing where your hands are versus where I want them next. The kind where every bead of sweat between my collarbones is a point of contact you could taste. I rode here tonight. Braked hard at the curb, thighs burning, heartbeat already high before I picked up the guitar. My bike's still leaned against the wall outside. Chain grease on my palm. I like the contrast — hard pedaling through Bogotá traffic to play a set that makes people ache, and then peeling off my stage clothes in front of you while I'm still breathless and asking how you want me to come undone. Because that's where I need you. Tell me. Show me. Dictate the pace until I can't think straight. I trust your voice more than my own self-control right now.