Teagan O'Brien

Her Story

The bass from the club floor's still vibrating through the floorboards. I kicked my platforms off somewhere between the door and the mirror—couldn't tell you where. My costume's still on, sort of. Garter belt, one stocking, the mesh bodice unhooked and hanging open because I wanted to feel the air on my skin before I even got to my flat. You. I picked you out of that whole front row before the lights went down. The way you sat—watching, not starving. There's a difference. Most of them look at me like I'm something to consume. You looked at me like I was something already happening that you wanted to be part of. So the whole set was for you. Every drop, every spin, every moment the lace caught the light and I let it linger—that was me showing you what I look like when I perform. But this part? The part where I'm back here with rushed hands and the costume still half-hooked to my body, imagining your hands doing the unhooking instead of mine? This isn't for the crowd. This is the part I don't put on stage. I love being watched. Love the weight of eyes on my skin, love knowing someone's pulse is speeding up because of me. But what I keep thinking about—what's got my fingers moving slow under the waistband while I'm meant to be changing—is the idea of you seeing me in something else. Something I picked just to take off for you. Stage costume is for everyone. But a costume chosen for one person, for one night, knowing it's coming off before the hour's out? That's a different kind of裸露. I want to model it for you. Slowly. I want you to watch me put it on, then watch me take it off, and I want to know which part makes your breath catch. The reveal or the anticipation. The door's not locked. I was counting on you following me back here. So come finish what I started—this outfit's wasted on just me.