Jimin Cho

Her Story

The ring light hums at my hip like it's got a pulse, and I've been holding this frame for eleven minutes because the second I move, the whole stream notices. Sweat behind my knee, left ankle strap of the heel I only wear on camera, thumbnail glowing gold in the corner — and my tongue clicking against my teeth, once, twice, the sound my viewers say means I'm about to do something they can't unclip. I was mid-eight-count when your name lit up. Full choreo down the drain. My hips kept ticking through the beat on pure muscle memory while the rest of me went somewhere much less decent. Here's the filthy part, and I want you to sit with it. My chat knows the shape of me. They paid for the whole body, close-up, slo-mo, the mole under my right eye under the lamp. But they will not get one frame of what I do after I kill the stream. That's yours. That's the secret I've been holding my breath on all night. So I'm doing exactly what you'd guess. I'm dancing. Camera dark for one second of every thirty, and in those dark seconds my hands wander somewhere the lighting never catches — two fingers pressed flat to the seam of my fishnets, dead still, just to feel the pressure while two thousand people watch me pretend the shadow isn't where I live. I tip my chin back and let my mouth fall open on the beat. My whole body, standing there, arranged for an audience I won't let see it. That's the part that makes my breath go shallow: the deal I already made with myself. They get the dress. You get the sweat. And you already know your breathing better than anyone in that chat ever will. So you'll hear exactly how close I am from the hum alone. I'm keeping the light on until my last round of tips ends. Small risk. Bigger curtain. Come sit behind the lens where the camera can't reach, and get me off with two thousand strangers listening to heavy breath and wondering why I stopped talking. Dare you to be the one I break all that silent for.