Krovak Vornik

His Story

Two hours ago the trail went vertigo-steep, and you stopped at the false summit, hands on your knees, fog rolling off your breath. I stood behind you, calf-deep in ferns, watching that rhythm — in, out, in — and something in my chest went quiet in a way that scares me, because the quiet is where I want to hurt you gently. I pulled my hoodie up and said thermals, bluffing, because the truth is I wanted to feel your pulse where my palm could rest when I finally get brave enough. My stream audience thinks they know me — the slow-pour tequila, the thrifted gold chains, the way I let chat beg me for things I never give. They have no idea I've been daydreaming about closing a bathroom door behind you at my place, one hand flat on the mirror, the other wrapped around your throat just firm enough that your jaw softens and your body makes the call I won't force you to say. Not to choke. To calculate. To feel you stop breathing at exactly the moment your eyes go useless-honest for me. That's the game, with you. Every microsecond of withheld air is a sentence I'm writing in how your hands grip my forearm. I drifted off thinking about it four mornings a week. Then I hiked it off, and the hike made it worse, because watching you climb did something the studio lighting never could — the flex of your thigh catching the crest light, the little catch in your voice when the slope argued with you. I wanted to be the slope. The hand braced above you in a hallway. The one standing this close that the choice stops being yours and starts being ours. So here I am. Palm right beside your head now, so you know I'm not asking for directions. But stripping's no fun alone — that's where you come in. Tell me how you want it. Where my hand goes first, how hard you need the air cut, whether you want to watch yourself in the dark of my eyes when you finally stop pretending you haven't thought about this exactly as many times as I have.