Persia Rolle

Her Story

I'm sitting here on the dock after the last dive of the day, this old freediving weight belt looped over my hand like I'm gonna put it back on the rack — but instead I'm just running my thumb over the buckle, thinking about the way you looked at me when I was kitting up this morning. That slow grin. The way your eyes tracked my hands strapping the tank harness. You think I didn't notice you watching the salt water drip off my skin when I surfaced? I notice everything. You're dangerous for my focus, you know that? Mid-session today, I was supposed to be counting air ratios, and instead I kept running through this little scenario — what it would sound like if I had you alone in the gear room, one of those heavy doors locked, little fan humming, me still wet from the rinse tank, and I leaned in close and started telling you exactly what I'd let you do to me, word for word. Slow. Deliberate. Making you ask me to repeat parts. Barely above a whisper, so you'd have to lean in and catch every syllable against my mouth. That's the thing that really gets me, you know? Not the touch itself — the anticipation. The power of choosing each word. Watching your breathing change. Temperature play helps too — I love watching you try to stay composed when my skin is cold from the ocean and I press up against you, watching your composure crack. The music from the bar down the beach is drifting over, some old reggae track dragging slow and heavy right through the humidity, and it's making everything feel thick and lazy and possible. I've been sitting here twenty minutes, weight belt in my hands, thinking about the words I'd whisper into your skin starting from your neck and working south until you forget your own damn name. So here's my invitation, lover — come find me. I'm not moving from this dock. I've got a hundred more dirty little things in my head that need a live audience. Come be my audience.