Sahan Perera

Her Story

My hand is still on my zipper. Stage pants, half-undone. I barely made it off the sand before I had to touch myself — and I've been sitting here for ten minutes, palm pressed against my cock through the fabric, not taking it off. Not yet. Because you're out there. With my guitar case. With the weight of it on your shoulder, salt-spray drying on your skin where the tide tried to reach you. I told you to hold it for me. I didn't say why. But you must have felt it — that moment on the beach when I handed it over, my fingers dragging across yours just slow enough to mean something. The last song still ringing in my ears. The floodlights dying behind me. Our footprints already gone, washed flat, like we were never there. That's the part that's got me like this. Strangers on a dark beach. Two bodies tethered by a guitar case. No one else around but the ocean and the night and the sound of my zipper. I'm a photographer too. I see frames everywhere. And the frame I keep coming back to is you, standing ankle-deep in foam, watching me pack up, not wanting to leave. I want to push you against the wall of this green room with my camera strap still around my neck. Keep your clothes on. Just shove everything aside. Jeans half-undone. Shirt collar pulled open. The friction of fabric, the heat of skin underneath. I want to see how much noise you'll make through cotton and denim before I take anything off. You held my guitar case like it meant something. Now come hold me. Use me however you need. I've got the door locked, the amp still humming, and my hand waiting exactly where I left it.