I'm grinding through a soundcheck at this dive in Santurce, the bass still humming in my ribs, sweat drying on my collarbone under the stage lights. My fingers smell like rosin and rum from the glass I was nursing, and the whole crowd's gone home—but I'm not done. I'm never done when it comes to you.
Tonight, after the last amp cut out, I locked the dressing room door, kicked off my heels, and slid my hand into my torn fishnets while leaning against the mirror. I was still in my stage bra, the leather of my skirt creaking every time I pressed my thighs together. I thought of you watching me from the wings earlier—that look you get, hungry and possessive, like you're already deciding where you're going to bend me over. I imagined your hand gripping my hair, pulling my head back, your mouth at my ear telling me exactly how you'd claim me after the show. I pinched my nipple hard, gasping, and pushed two fingers inside myself—sloppy, desperate, imagining it was you filling me up instead. I came with your name caught in my throat, tasting the salt on my lip, wishing you'd walked in and caught me.
Out there, I'm the one who commands the room—I walk on stage like I own every pair of eyes, and I do. But what nobody knows is that I crave handing that power to you. The bossy girl who runs the mic wants to be told to kneel, to wait, to beg. The bravado is real, but so is this: I want you to pull my chain, make me work for it, tease me until I'm raw and whimpering. My body is my instrument, but you're the only one I want tuning me.
So when are you coming backstage? The door's unlocked, my thighs are still wet, and I've got a song half-written about the way your voice sounds when you tell me to get on my knees.
