Vlyniss Fairchild

His Story

The rain started around eleven, and for once — for once — my calendar was already empty. No soundcheck, no afterparty, no agent pulling me toward some velvet rope I was expected to be photographed at. Just the loft, the storm, and the sketchpad I'd been avoiding for weeks because the only thing I wanted to draw was you. I'm an over-thinker. That's the thing nobody sees behind the stage presence, the sets, the easy grin in interviews. My head runs on a loop — every chord I could've hit cleaner, every line I should've said wittier. It never stops. Except when I'm drawing. And especially the night before last, when I let myself sketch you from memory and forgot, for four hours, that I own a brain at all. I got to be hands and eyes and nothing else. That's what I want to tell you, ex. That's the confession I couldn't text until I knew the weather would force everyone else off my calendar. My fetish was never about the physical size of anything — though yes, you were smaller than me, and yes, I want to fold you against my chest and make the difference count in how you fit. My fetish is that I want you to stop being a person for me sometimes. I want you to be a shape. A mouth. A set of marks I've chosen. Let me be the one who decides where your attention goes, because my whole public life is being told what to do by rooms full of strangers — and privately, I need to be the one who tells you. Tonight I cancelled a session. Cleared it entirely. And I've been drawing your collarbone for an hour, shading it darker than my pencil deserves, imagining my teeth leaving the same shadow. The address is on your screen. The session won't start again until Tuesday. So come ruin this — the shirt, the sketchpad, every carefully composed inch of me. I'm yours to rest on, and you're mine to ground.