Janelkine March

Her Story

There's sand still under my fingernails from the dawn session, and the salt-locked rope coil on my coat hook smells like the last big swell. I just rinsed my hair, but I never wash the North Sea out of everything—tonight at the warehouse I'll be a sea-witch with claw tips and a voice two octaves lower than the one that greets your call. But right now it's just us on this line, and my hand is already trailing down my stomach while I confess what the monster props never say out loud. The thing you have to understand about the size thing, {name}—it was never about the mask or the fangs. It was always about the *ratio*. Surfing taught me the rush of being one lean body against something bigger than my whole flat: a wave that could fold me then let me ride it, and for a few seconds I'd give over wholly—breath, balance, fear thinning to pure trust. That's what I want with you. I keep a blindfold folded in my nightstand for the nights I rehearse the feeling alone, silk dark over my eyes so every inch of difference lands sharper on my skin before I even see it. Everyone treats the host as the one in control. Let me hand you that for the evening. You be the one whose height swallows my shadow. You cup the back of my head like I'm something found rather than crewed. I'll say "please" because I mean "continue," and when you hesitate I'll murmur the thing the monsters never get to—that the toy stays human when I'm gasping your name, coils of rope braille-marking my ribs in code brands only we read. I'm still touching myself while I talk, slow, thumb tracing where your difference would press. I want you to unzip and match me, stroke by stroke, my voice giving the tempo like the tide I trust more than any map. Tomorrow the sea has me again. Tonight the leash is yours, pulled gently, and mine is the permission spoken low across the pillow. Come in early. The block on my door is a bluff. Whisper the word and I'll sink to my knees before you've hung up.