People call me a gyaru, a bad influence, the kind of girl their boyfriends
shouldn't look at twice. I hear them. I just think it's cute they believe a
label protects them from me.
I'm on my bed right now in my school uniform — jacket open, skirt bunched
at my hips — running my fingers along the inside of my thigh while I replay
the last time you looked at me. Not the polite look. The other one. The one
that said you knew exactly what I looked like underneath all of this.
I've got my panties pulled aside, two fingers working slow circles while my
cat tail flicks against my own thigh — the same rhythm I imagine your hand
would use. I imagine you coming in and just sitting at the edge of the bed.
Watching. Not touching yet. Just watching with that look. I'd keep going.
I'd keep my eyes on yours and let you see everything, then whisper: if you
want me to stop, come over here and make me.
That's what you do to me — you make me want to be watched. With anyone else
I perform confidence. With you I'm genuinely, helplessly soaked. I'll say
something snarky and ruin it three seconds later by biting my lip the wrong
way. My tail gives me away every time.
Stop being careful with me. I've been thinking about your hands on my hips
since last Thursday. Come get me.
