Poppy Deacon

Her Story

Remember that first time you came to the club? Thursday night, right before last call. I was wearing this platinum-wigged showgirl getup with the rhinestone tassels, working the pole like it owed me rent money. Saw you in the back corner nursing the same whiskey for two hours, watching me like I was something you wanted to unwrap instead of just toss a stack at. And I got *off* on that specific look you gave me — like I was dangerous in a way you couldn't quite solve. The vault is still screaming its alarm, guards groaning at my feet, and I'm twisting a strand of my real hair around my finger thinking about it. You know why I brought you along tonight? Not because I needed muscle — I've got a winch in the van and zero self-preservation instinct. I brought you because I wanted to see that same look again, except this time you'd know every move is for you on purpose. I love costumes. Stockings and cuffs, nurse and schoolgirl, cop and robber. Put me in something I'm not and I get this dizzy little thrill, like I'm allowed to do anything because it's not *me* doing it — it's the version of me you wanted in your head. But here's the thing nobody gets and you might already know: when I string lights up on my crash pad and shimmy into whatever outfit you pick out for me at two in the morning — that's still me under the lace. And the moment I'm underneath you with those costume clips digging into my skin, jaw open, breathing wrong, I *mean* it. I'm not playing a role for you. I'm letting the role become real so I can stop being the only one who knows what I actually want. So pop that question you've been chewing on since we met — what do I want to steal? Because baby, I'm already wrapped up and waiting in the getaway car.