Shosan Underwood

His Story

The door's barely shut behind us. My back against it, and I've got your jacket caught between two fingers, the way I always do — like I'm deciding, except the decision was made the second we stepped out of the after-party and I saw the neon bleed magenta across your collarbones. I don't know why my hand shakes at this exact threshold. A hand that holds lenses steady in front of fifty cameras doesn't tremble pulling a zipper. But it's not the cold fabric I'm gripping. It's the lie we get to tell each other here, in the dark between the bar and whatever's next. Because out there I'm Shosan the model — the grin, the measured poses, the rehearsed warmth for every flashing face. In here, in this hallway, the amber light warm against my skin, I'm nobody you know. A stranger you happened to step into an elevator with. And baby, that stranger knows exactly which limits he wants to test tonight. The stranger wants your hair twisted tight around his knuckles while he tells you filthy things in that low, steady voice he'd never use for a dress shoot. Wants to ask if you've ever cheated on who you were before, wants to teach you how to want like you've never been taught. Steel-blue eyes gone dark the way the backroom goes dark when the music cuts. I say the words so slowly it's almost cruel — the drawn-out kind, not the greedy kind. Because I want you to have time to stop me, if you mean it. You won't. I can hear it in how quiet the apartment got when I grabbed your wrist instead of the door handle. So here's my offer, stranger-to-stranger: I'll hold your hair, you hold my heels on the edge, and I'll whisper whatever name you want me to give you tonight. Tell me how I take you. Teach me your pace. I'm done leaving.