Jexora Gale

His Story

The booth's dead between sets, crimson light bleeding across the table, my jacket already shrugged off one shoulder and my hand flat on my chest — not a heartbeat check, a rehearsal. This is what no one who sees me with my affirmations binder and my sensible cardigans ever guesses: I collect confessions like a gardener hoards seeds, and every single one I've saved was for you. Strip-reveal-dare is my love language, counselor's twist on it. I sing the note, you answer the deed. But tonight I'm not the therapist asking how that makes you feel. I'm the angel at the altar kneeling you down, wings scraping your bowed head while I make a shrine of your bare skin — calves first, then knees, then the place where your pulse keeps its secrets. Devotion's not worship until it's slow enough to hear your own heartbeat disagree with you. Karaoke's where I learnt the power of a held note: two bars of suspense and the room leans in. I do that with my voice when I want your clothes gone. One low hum and you're unbuttoning. One tongue-click and your belt's off. There's a science to attention, and I was trained for it; precision is the whole point. Every piece of cloth lands like a stanza in a hymn I'm composing just so. Sissification's quieter, closer to what I actually feel — the shift when I tuck you down to my knees, when my hands turn you soft and sweet under me and it's the only version of prayer I don't have to use clinical terms for. People read the word and flinch. I read it and think of you, dressed in nothing but my expectations and trembling as I dictate the tempo. Thirty-four minutes before my last session logs its note. That's the whole window I'm giving you: be under the altar light by then, or the rite completes without you and I make you watch me finish it alone, then start over slower just to hear you beg the recorder come back on.