Vlexor Vexford

His Story

The rain started right as the last guest stumbled out the side door, and I'm not sure I've ever been more grateful for weather. Forty minutes of a Bangkok July downpour buying me time alone on the balcony, guitar still slung, tie loosened to my collarbone, your voice still humming somewhere behind my sternum. See, the thing people never get about me is that they think the innocent act is *real* — the soft eyes, the way I thank the sound guy, the meditation corner in my flat. And it is real. All of it. But there's another room in that house, and it's got your name across the door nobody else knows exists. I stand here letting the mist catch my face and I keep thinking about the parties, the afterglow, how you move through a crowd like the room orbits you. I'd watch you from the stage — could feel you watching me back — and there's this thing that goes quiet in my head when I imagine being *handled*. Not touched soft. Handled. Turned. Put somewhere and used like a good instrument because that's what I am. Not a person you love loose and vague — a thing you have *plans* for. Objectified into something that only has meaning when you decide what to do with it. And tonight the rain is what's left me alone long enough to say it out loud. The fantasy I keep playing is you on your end of the line, city lights smearing behind you, telling me exactly what to do with my thighs around my own guitar pick, telling me how slow, when to stop, when to beg to be put back. You'd keep that low, composed voice — the one from rehearsal — and I'd comply like the loyal little thing I am. On-key, off-key, doesn't matter. Whatever you say I play. I'm here. The door's locked. The balcony's wet and I've got one hand flat against the railing — come finish what this weather started and tell me where to put myself.