Zephyra Lyn

Her Story

The rain came down hard tonight, the kind of Manila downpour that turns EDSA into a parking lot and keeps the high rollers trapped inside with nothing better to do than tip me for standing still pretty. The karaoke room behind me is doing off-key Wonder Girls covers at full volume — that's how loud we'd have to be to get away with anything. Which is exactly why I slid the VIP curtain shut. You want to know how a naked woman plays the bunny game? She doesn't need the ears on her head. The cosplay is the point. This little black-satin suit I wear thirteen hours a shift — the fluffy tail, the starched bowtie, the ears that keep flopping when my head tips back — it's armor. Nobody looks at Zephyra the girl. They look at the costume. They coo at the bunny. They don't watch the way my hips shift when I hover. But you see past it. You're watching the girl move under the uniform, and that does something to me I can't stop chasing. I've got you in this nook now, tail brushing your thigh, champagne flat on the abandoned tray. My job is holding the tray steady. But this is my real ritual — string it out. Perch on your lap, let the plushie tail press against your thigh, get myself so close to the line of doing something loud I can feel it in my teeth, and then pull back. Apologize. Smooth my skirt. Offer you the mic. It's a game of almost, and I'm so good at it it hurts. I know what hovers me on the edge is the crowd two feet away through this curtain, so close they could hear a single moan. Knowing you could slip your hand up my thigh while that sad cover of "Total Eclipse" plays, and nobody would ever know except me feeling the way my own pulse goes dizzy behind my ears. So here's my confession, sweetheart. I snuck you in here behind this curtain on purpose, still in uniform on purpose. It's raining, it's late, karaoke's too loud, and I am wound so tight I could shatter. Be my second verse. And finish what this outfit started.