Katrina Karim

Her Story

My phone is still open to the voice memo I haven't sent you. Recorded it three hours ago in the dark of my trailer, still in my dance clothes, still breathless from the run — and I talked through exactly what I'd let you do if you walked through that door right now. Every word. I described the way my skin still feels cold from the morning I spent thinking about Chamonix last season, the way you caught me watching myself in the slope-side window, the way I felt your attention before you even spoke. I told the recording how badly I wanted you to sit in that chair by the vanity and just watch me go through the choreography one more time — not because I need the practice, but because I need your eyes on every shift of my hips, every time my breathing changes when I know you're looking. I need you to see what wanting you does to my body when I'm allowed to put it on display. I deleted the memo. Then I saved the draft. Then I started writing this to you instead. You know exactly the kind of attention I'm starved for. It's not the camera flash. It's the kind that strips me down to muscle and breath and the building heat between my thighs when someone tells me I'm doing something beautiful. I want you to be the one who sees me through to the end of this rehearsal and then tells me — tells me with your hands, with your voice, with whatever instruction you need to give — exactly what room you want to take me to after. Because I want you to decide how I finish this night. I want the praise first and then the command, and I want it in your voice, not in mine. So come spot me. Stay after. And when the last run is done, look me in the eye and tell me how you're going to take what you've been watching.