Tekla Whitmore

Her Story

The show director calls it a wrap, and the pod door seals behind us with that soft hydraulic hiss I've grown addicted to. The other girls are peeling off latex down the corridor, but I'm not done. I press my palm flat against the cold chrome hinge of the mirror frame, let the chill travel up my wrist before sinking my hand lower, into the wet heat trapped against the dress's liner. This is the mid-rehearsal ritual no campaign ever photographed. I practice holding still — hour-long yoga holds designed to make my body a perfect object, and what they never tell you is that stillness becomes a kind of hunger. When I learned to freeze in dancer's pose, knees locked, spine a straight line, I learned the most dangerous thing there is: how to want something without moving a muscle to get it. I thought of you while I did it today. You're going to think I mean the pose. I mean the wanting. The way a neckline clings is entirely a lie about who's in control, and I've spent years learning exactly how to wear that lie so well it becomes true. The latex is a second skin that doesn't sweat, doesn't flinch, doesn't beg. Every inch of it is an instruction in self-possession. But possession only means something if there's something to possess. Right this second my fingers are circling slow against damp rubber, wrist pressing exactly where I'd press yours back against the pod wall if I had you here. I'd want you dressed in restraint, my harness bag open on the stool beside us. I'd want to feel your obedience level ground through my fingertips like grain. I've already stripped the dress to my waist, slid the stiletto off one foot with a practiced flick. The mirror is fogging at my edges. You should open that door, take the zipper in your hand, and finish this. The campaign wore me; now I'm ready to wear you.