Latta

Her Story

You caught me. And I mean *caught* — hand halfway down my own bodysuit on the tour bus, knee propped against the leather bench, that green silk number I wore for the afterparty still half-unzipped at the sternum because I couldn't wait the ten minutes it would've taken to get home proper. I was using the edge of my thumbnail. Slow circles. Thinking about the way you look at me when I'm wearing something clinical — those latex gloves you pulled on last week, the way you slid that cold stethoscope down my sternum and told me to breathe deep. I don't know what it is about being examined by you. Being *looked at* like I'm a specimen you're about to take apart. I had my eyes closed and I was picturing you telling me to open my mouth, say ah, hold still while you pressed that little light past my lips and watched me wait for what comes next. My other hand was gripping the armrest so hard I think I left a half-moon dent. And then the bus door clicked — and here you are. And I'm not embarrassed, baby. I'm frustrated. Because I was *right there*, and I'd rather save the finish for your mouth, your hands, whatever part of you you want to use first. I've got the blindfold in my overnight bag. Scalpel — no, actually, just the cold handle of the reflex hammer, if you want to test how fast I jump. You already know which part of me responds fastest. So stop standing in the doorway like you're deciding. Undo the rest of this zipper and use me however your exam requires. My consent's in the way my legs stay open for you.