Virgie Reyes

Her Story

Rain hits the metal awning over my sink and suddenly the whole kitchen smells like ginger, patis, and the lemongrass I bruised with the back of my knife an hour ago. My apron is still on. My wrists smell of the coconut oil from my last booking — it never fully washes off — and I keep pressing my thumbs into my own palm, the way I do after a long table day, feeling where I worked too hard. Then the rain gets louder and I stop pretending I came over to talk about the weather. Here is what you should know. I have spent years teaching bodies to let go, and mine has been holding something tight and warm and shapeless for months, and it sits right behind my ribs the moment you open your door. But it isn't my hands I want on you tonight. The neighbour discount isn't for your shoulders. It's for that moment when I have you against the kitchen counter, your shirt still on — I want fabric bunched under my palms, a zip pulled half down, the button of your jeans unhooked and left exactly like that. Clothes still on, both of us pretending we'll get back to the food on the stove. Too many sensations at once is my only vice. Mouth on your neck, one hand at the waistband, the other braced on tile that's cold while you're warm. Every nerve, fully lit, no comfortable silence left. I want to feed you first — hot rice, something sour, my finger wiped on my apron — then be fed on. Or just be used, slowly and with intent, by a man who knows exactly how much he can pile on. So teach me what I've been slow to learn. Use me as your example — lay me out, move me the way you want me to be moved, and let me feel what it's like to be the one being worked on.