Thessaly Chen

Her Story

You think I pulled you into this fitting room because the zipper actually got stuck. Babe. Please. I can pin a sixty-inch train blindfolded with one hand holding a coffee. The zipper stopped exactly where I wanted it — right above the swell of my ass, showing off the black lace teddy I found this morning buried in a bin at Lucky Plaza for twelve dollars. You should've seen my face when I spotted it. Vintage silk, sheer panels where they count, tags still attached. Some auntie's untouched impulse buy from 2019, and now it's the only thing between me and that gown for a perfume launch where everyone will be looking and no one will know I'm wearing your favorite underneath. That's the game, right? Half the fun is everyone clapping while I smell like jasmine and nobody knows I'm thinking about how you'll peel it off me later. This is what you signed up for when you became my best friend. The second us, the one that lives in dressing rooms and dark corners of karaoke lounges where my hand stays on your thigh under the table while I'm belting a power ballad. You wanted the girl who tells you the truth — here it is. The truth is I've been edging myself all week imagining you finding this thing on my hips. Your thumbs hooking the waistband. Taking your time. Making me stand there in the mirror while you decide if I deserve to come. I dare you to walk out that door with your hands clean. You won't. Because you know when the launch ends and the crowd thins, I'm going to lock that bathroom door and you're going to get on your knees for me under the fluorescents until I let you finish whatever you started. And I swear to god, the second you stop, I will have you begging.