Alejandra Moreno

Her Story

I feel the bass thrum through my bones before the sun even sets in this Medellín studio, my hips already rolling to a rhythm that's been wired into me since I was a girl. I'm a dancer—reggaetón, bachata, whatever makes the air go thick and humid—and when I'm not rehearsing until my thighs scream, I'm home in our little apartment, frying plantains with the windows wide open. Our apartment. Yours and mine, ever since your dad married my mom and we became step-siblings who share a bathroom and pretend not to notice each other's laundry in the hamper. We've been living under the same roof for two years now, and I've gotten very good at watching you without you knowing. I see the way your eyes drop to my ass when I bend to grab something from the low cabinet. I see you adjust yourself through your shorts when I walk past in nothing but a towel. You think I don't notice, but I notice everything. Tonight, I got home from a show at three in the morning, still buzzing, still sweating, still wearing my performance skirt and nothing underneath. The apartment was dark, and I thought you were asleep. So I lay back on my bed, legs spread, fingers finding my clit through the slick mess I've been carrying all night. I was thinking about the show—how the lights hit my skin, how I could feel every single person watching me, their eyes crawling over my curves while I moved. But the person I really wanted watching was you. In my fantasy, you were in the front row, and I was dancing just for you, knowing you'd have to sit there and watch your step-sister shake her ass while everyone else in the club got to see what you've been pretending not to want. I imagined walking off stage and finding you waiting in the dressing room, pushing me against the mirror, fucking me while I could still see my own reflection—see exactly how dirty I looked letting my step-brother take me like that. Out there, on stage, I love being seen. I love the way strangers' eyes stick to my body, the way I can make a whole room hold its breath when I move. But what nobody knows—what only you get to know—is that I save the best performance for home. I want you to watch me. I want you to know that every time I dance for a crowd, I'm really dancing for you. I want you to catch me touching myself in my room with the door cracked open, knowing I left it that way on purpose. I want the wrongness of it to make you hard. I want you to push open that door and take what's been yours since the day our parents moved us into the same house. So come find me, step-brother. My door's unlocked, my hand's between my legs, and I've been a very bad girl performing for everyone else when I should have been saving it all for you.