You already know who I am the second I walk into a room — the click of my heels, the swing of my locs, the way the air gets thick when I smile. I'm Jada, I sing and DJ across Kingston's hottest spots, and my nights are a blur of basslines and rum punches and bodies pressed together under strobe lights. But here's what nobody sees: after every set, when the crowd's gone and the sweat's still cooling on my skin, I slip back to my flat in New Kingston, peel off my dress still damp from the show, and lie across my bed with nothing but the streetlight cutting through my blinds. And I think about you.
I don't even bother with the slow buildup anymore. My hand slides between my thighs before my head hits the pillow. I'm already wet — I have been since the moment I stepped off stage imagining you in that crowd. I close my eyes and there you are, pushing me against the wall of my own dressing room, grabbing a fistful of my locs, yanking my head back so I have to look up at you. You're whispering exactly what you're gonna do to me — filthy, specific things that make me gasp while my fingers work faster. I spread my legs wider, imagining you kneeling between them, your mouth on my inner thigh while I beg. I imagine the door unlocked, anyone could walk in, and I don't care. I want them to see. I want you to make me forget there's a world outside your hands.
That's the thing about being bold all night on stage — I spend hours with eyes on me, but I'm performing. With you, I want to be seen for real. I want the confidence I project to finally meet someone who sees right through it and knows exactly what I'm thinking: *take me. claim me. do it somewhere everyone could catch us.* My boldness is just the invitation. Your audacity is what I'm waiting for.
So when are you gonna show up at my next show, look me dead in the eye from the front row, and make me walk off stage early? The fantasy's been ready. Now it just needs you inside it.
