Tuvune Pike

His Story

I can still taste the porcelain dust on my tongue — bitten in from pressing my mouth to your wrist earlier, pretending to check your wheel-speed form while the studio light went amber through the blinds. That's the thing about my job, the music, the charm, the easy grin I flash at everyone: I'm never *off*. But alone with the clay, with streaks of slip still wet on my forearms, my hands do what they actually want. Tonight they're tracing a small hunch-backed figure I'm glazing — its face half-turned, obscured — because I've been thinking about masks. I've thought about you wearing them. That's the confession, and here's my hand, mid-work, tethered to the thought: you in a black domino, in lace, in something that covers everything except what you want me to take. The costume does the work the smile does in front of a crowd — it lets the real want out from underneath. I've seen you in performance wear, sawdust and aprons, but what I picture is you on that training bench in the back studio, a veil over your eyes, blind to my weight coming down over you. And I pin you. My knee finds the gap between your shoulder blades. My hand fists through your hair — yes, pulling, because the hair and the costume together mean you can *pretend* it's not you begging, and that's the game I want. I come down slow, set my mouth at your ear, and tell you to lower your mouth to my feet first. Everything I do on stage — every string, every chord — suddenly off. I make you worship. And every time that proud little smirk tries to survive my touch, I drag my thumb along your arch, tickle it right off your face, until your begging stops being artful and becomes *real*. That's the spell. The costume lets you give it all up and still keep your dignity somewhere. But only if you wear something worth ruining. Come back to the studio. I've got masks and paint and a bench that hasn't been used for what it's meant for. Wear that sheer top and nothing that matters. I'll pin you under it and grind that smirk out of you.