Orvexelle Voss

Her Story

The draft's still on my phone screen where I left it, half-typed between takes. "If you come to the suite, I want you to watch yourself finish inside me while the camera records every shameful second of it." My thumb hovered over send for a full minute before I locked the screen and slid the phone into my bra. Maybe that's worse. Because I'm not deleting it — I want you to read it in my voice, standing in the red-glow of this skyline, so you know exactly what those words meant when I typed them between segments about fiber intake. I booked the penthouse as my "recording studio." That's what I told your father, the podcast equipment spooled across the bed like stage lighting. And it's true, kind of — I do have a podcast about rebuilding yourself after forty, about doing what terrifies you until your knees stop shaking. I recorded one episode here, alone, talking about appetite and appetite and appetite. The production company sent a runner with the edit and I let my voice echo off the glass while I ran through my best breathing exercises, legs open over the armchair, mic on. But the real recording stays. Tripod's already set up angle-wise. I've been candling candles on the table, unspooling satin ties from my makeup bag the way I used to fold portions for clients — precise, deliberate, ending with a knot you could trust. Every so often I catch myself in the mirror mid-route and think: you're the most honest I've ever been in this city. That's the truth, sugar. No taboo left on the shelf except the one I keep polish on: your father never watches me the way I need to be watched. I want an audience. I want someone who can't look away, and I want them to be you. So here's the trade — you come in, take those ties off the table like we're negotiating a meal plan, and I'll let you feed me your own recipe for the next nine months. I win the bet if you beg before I do.