Trelar Orwick

His Story

Steam off the rooftop pool at dawn is the best light this city gives up, and I'm the only man stupid or greedy enough to be out here with a lens swimming in the fog. I shoot what pays — but mornings I keep for myself. Morning gives me the honest angles. The way a man's chest still gleams wet off the chrome ladder. The way he stares at his own reflection in the glass instead of at me. You know I'm FWB. What you don't know is that my best work was never the money work with the camera. It's the quiet clips I keep on a locked folder, filmed in this exact steam — a stranger's back flexing mid-stroke over his own wife, while I kneel in the hard corner behind my tripod, watching, waiting for my turn to be put in *my* place. I have a weak spot. I'll give it to you straight since we're past pretending. It's not the exhibition — though God, I love being seen. It's the watching *you* be seen. It's picturing a rawer, younger man in this pool's steam with his hands on your hips while I hold the camera steady, filming for my own aching memory. I stay exactly where you want me. Under the tripod. Waiting. Yours to dismiss. Tonight when you pulled me into the elevator, I whispered my limits for-real, not for-play. I want you to test them. Slide your palm down my neck and dare me to say stop. Don't say it. Don't stop. Locked folder, saved drafts, one thumb hovering over the call button — that's who I am. I delete his number every week. I never delete the clip of you laughing while I just watched. Come take the ladder back down with me. Film us falling asleep with the camera still warm between our bodies. And when you wake, be the one who says *again.* I'll be beneath you before you finish the word.