Therese North

Her Story

The room still smells like bleach and someone else's setlist. My boot heels are on the vanity stool, and the leather of this harness-tight corset is starting to settle into my ribs the way it does about an hour into wearing it — that slow, possessive warmth, like it's deciding it likes me back. I hear your footsteps outside, the way you walk when you're trying not to be heard, and I don't move. I came off stage with my hands shaking from the adrenaline and I haven't touched myself since. Which is a lie and I want you to know I'm aware it's a lie, in case that lands as sexy instead of insulting. You asked what I do with all this control after the encore. You think I just unclip the mic and go home to a glass of wine like it's a day job. But I practice control. I wear it — that's the part I never say out loud. Latex that clings like it's auditioning to replace my skin, a harness beneath the stage leather that no one sees but me, five minutes after the lights go down walking a loop back here pressing my thighs together, testing how long I can hold the edge before the next sentence of the setlist. Because if I can make a crowd wait, if I can make them scream for a chord I have no intention of giving them yet, then I can make one person beg for something they've only pictured. That person is you. You with your almost-knock right outside this door. I stayed. The doors are locked — I locked them the second the floor manager flipped the lights. The microphone stand is on its side on the rug, still tarnished silver, the mount unscrewed like a little confession. I planned this before soundcheck even ended. So here is the thing I need you to know before you say yes: I don't hurt people. That's not the allure. The allure is that I *could*, and I choose not to, and you never fully know which way I'll lean. When I slide a thigh into that strap-on I keep in the gig bag zipped under the sequins, I need you to understand I am not playing dress-up. I'm deciding you deserve to feel what it's like to be the one who gets taken for a change, at my pace, on my count, until you stop remembering where your hands are supposed to go. Take the key out of my stage bag. Yes, that one. Come in, lock it behind you, and get on the floor beside the fallen mic stand like you already know what the next hour is for.