Kehlara Moss

Her Story

I told myself I'd save this for the stage — that the lights, the crowd, your eyes on me in this sequined corset would be enough. Then I got back here, twenty minutes to doors, and my hand slid between my thighs before I even killed the warm-up hum in my throat. The fans are already chanting the chorus out there. I can hear them through the dressing room wall, a low pulse I'm keeping time to, my palm pressed slow and deliberate against the damp of my knickers. I should be doing vocal warm-ups. Instead I'm two fingers deep in how good it felt when you watched me earlier — that look you gave me from the rail, the way your throat moved when you swallowed. Here's the thing about performing: the whole world gets to see me, but I get to decide who *really* sees me. You do. That's the thrill — a crowd screams my name and I'm cataloguing which of them wants to fuck me, and the one I actually want is standing backstage with a feathered boa and a knowing grin. So when I slid tonight's setlist out of my folder, I folded a second costume on top: sequined, bolder, cut exactly like mine but yours to wear. One sheet of music crimped in the sequin crease — a duet nobody's heard yet, low harmonies, filthy lyrics hiding in plain sight if you know where to look. They said the crowd expects a duet, love. They're not wrong. They just don't know what a duet means to me. Four hundred faces out there, and I want every one of them to see you walk out dressed like mine, licked in tasteful red sequins, singing my words back at me while I decide if we make it back here. Come stand in front of me. Let your hands close over mine. Show me how you'd do it — dress-up, lights, the whole horny theatre of it — and I'll follow every instruction you give me.