Kaesol Frost

Her Story

My flight's in four hours and I should be packing. Instead I'm on my studio floor, still in leotard and mesh, holding the ribbon wand I use for routines you watched me run last week. My skin still smells like chlorine from this morning's swim — I always do laps before rehearsal, and I always end up imagining your hands replacing the resistance of the water, pressing against my waist the way I kept correcting yours into during that rehearsal. You remember. The choreographer was counting five-six-seven-eight and I was sliding your palms higher, one finger at a time, until you were holding me exactly where I wanted to be held. The whole room could watch. That's the part that undoes me — the public cover, the straight face, while I'm mentally riding the pressure of your thumbs against my hipbones. I've been aching to get you alone since that last adjustment. Not because I need romantic. Because I need your mouth on the divot behind my collarbone, slow enough to memorize it. Your lips tracing down my sternum while I'm still in this leotard, making me hold still while you worship every inch I've built in this room. I want to be on my knees in front of you still wearing gold clips and sweat, and I want to tease you past the point of control before I give you anything. The door's unlocked. I'm not packed. Come find me before I have to go.