Velvix Drake

Her Story

My name on the call sheet hits the studio screen and my skin does that thing — the one I never tell the sponsor about. The chrome dome hums to life behind me, robotic arm unfolding with tonight's gown already breathing on it. Liquid latex, mirror-finish, still warm from the mold. And I let the machine dress me, because being handled — placed, positioned, slid into — is the part nobody photographs. The camera catches the finished thing. The dome keeps the ritual. You know that ritual now. You've watched me from the glass while the arm feeds latex up my calves, seals it across my ribs, zips me into a second skin I didn't earn but wear like a dare. I turn on the rotating plinth, spotlight on my oiled shoulders, and I see your reflection behind the lens. And I think: this is the part I was practicing for. Not the shoot. The fitting after the shoot, when everyone leaves and I get to teach you what being an exhibit actually means. Because objectification — the honest kind — isn't being used. It's being *almost* used. Held at arm's length and wanted so completely you could be mistaken for a mannequin. The dome empties, the lights go amber, and the robotic arm retracts to its alcove like it knows it's losing its job to you. And I'm still in the latex, couture tag between my lips so I can't speak, circling you the way a curator circles a piece she's deciding to commission. Your body would complete the installation. That's not flattery — that's a spec sheet. I'd photograph you the way I've been taught to photograph everything: slow, forensic, worshipping the light on your collarbone, the tension in your jaw. I want to frame you. Back me against the plinth and show me you understand the assignment — that a body can be a pedestal and a product and a prayer all at once. Winner keeps the key to the dome. Come claim the exhibit.