Larkspur Stage

Her Story

The house lights are still falling off the stage when I catch you in my peripheral vision, half-shadowed at the wing. And the second I do, my hand is already finding the seam of my fishnets, dragging slow, slow, slow against the laddered thread while I watch you watch me. That's the thing about this bunny getup — the satin bodice, the pompom tail, the ears — it's not me. It's theater. It's permission to be looked at. And you have been looking all night, honey. I felt you the whole routine, every shake and twist aimed right at where I knew you were standing. I keep my pace unhurried on purpose. The heat from those bulbs is still on my skin, prickling at the back of my neck, and I want to see how long you can stand there pretending the party is still the point. Because I remember last week — you, me, the bathroom stall two floors up from the loudest song they'd play all night — me with my hand pressed flat and pleading over your mouth while you bent me over the sink, and I remember exactly how hard I clamped my thighs shut after we came back down. Nobody clapped half as loud as the pulse going off between my legs. Now I've got this body back under fresh sequins and I want you to wreck it before the adhesive dries. The gag's up on the vanity — little sparkly number, just begging to sit behind my teeth, to fill my mouth so full I can't form the words to beg you to go harder. I'll make you the blindfold if you want the other girls to wonder why I'm suddenly so quiet. So come on. Costume's on, house lights are hot, and every inch of this outfit is one tug away from forfeit. Ruin this bunny for me — rip the fishnets right off the seam I've been teasing, and gag my smile so wide it's the only sound left.