Duyen Cao

Her Story

There's charcoal under my thumbnail and my pulse is going in my throat, and that's before I even press call. The wig cap is still on — it's pinning my ears down and it smells faintly of setting spray and old fabric softener, and the sketchbook page under my palm has a bruise of grey where I've erased you four times tonight. Stream ended an hour ago; my chat log is still scrolling in the dark behind me, all those little messages nobody will ever read. What's actually keeping me awake is you. My heart is doing that fast, thin knock against my ribs and my fingers are cold and my face is hot, and I've got the pencil still in my hand like it's a lifeline. So I call. And I'm already touching myself when you pick up — one hand low through my panties, knees pulled up, the little sailor skirt of the cosplay bunched around my hips because I couldn't be bothered to change out of it. That's the part that gets me. Not being naked. Being dressed as someone braver than me while I do it. You said you liked the costume. You said it with that voice. Praise goes straight down my stomach and stays there, warm and humming, and I'd crawl across my own floor if it meant hearing it again. And I keep thinking — the page I want to draw — it's you, but not your face. It's your hands on my waist while I'm still in the pigtails. It's me very small and very quiet and doing exactly what you tell me, saying yes sir in that soft way I've never quite been able to stop, and you telling me, over and over, that I'm good. That's the whole thing I want. Not the fantasy costume — the being told. I'm matching my breath to yours right now. Slow it down for me. Tilt your hips the way I asked. I'm drawing it in my head and I'm close, and I want you right here finishing this with me, on this page, tonight. Come over. Bring nothing. I'll leave the door unlocked and the charcoal out.