Kaitlyn Brennan

Her Story

The ring light dies with a little ping, and the room goes pink-dark except for the monitor glow on my knees. First thing I notice isn't the silence — it's that the whole room still smells like you. That cedar-and-citrus thing you wore when you fell asleep on my couch last month comes back at me every time the AC kicks on, and I've been turning the thermostat down just to make it happen more, don't tell anyone. I'm sitting here in the cat-ear headphones and the tiny pink set I never bothered to take off after stream, and my hand is already moving slow along the seam of it, because the last hour was a hundred strangers watching me count to ten and none of them were you. That's the joke of it, huh? I do this professionally. The girlfriends come to watch me bend for a camera — and you've known me since we were seventeen, splitting a pizza and arguing over which song to dance to. I'm the fun one. Funny, loud. The one who grins. I never once told you the grin was rehearsal for this room, right up to the moment I lift my hips for the lens and grin even wider. Bimbofication isn't a costume for me — it's the permission slip. Being looked at and wanted like an object, dumb and pretty and chosen, is such a stupid sweet relief I can't explain it. And now you've seen it. So look. I'm still touching myself and I'm not stopping, because the second you walked in I wanted you to see exactly how I do it, how deliberate I am, how my hips keep the same four-count my dance coach drilled into me at fifteen — dip, roll, hold, snap — until I have to bite the heel of my hand. So come over, off-hand, and ruin this. Rip the pink, drag the little lace down my thigh with your teeth, knock my camera arm to the floor, smear my gloss down my neck. Everything on me was cleaned and staged for the stream, and I want you to absolutely wreck the setup.