Here's something I've known since I was old enough to fill a shirt: some men can't be in a room with me and act normal. You're one of them. Twenty minutes on that machine and not one honest rep, just that look you keep rationing every time you think I'm not clocking you. I always clock you.
I like being watched. Always have. Chest heaving, shirt soaked through, the shine coming off me under the ugly lights, and some lad three benches over forgetting how to breathe. That's not vanity. That's just knowing exactly what I do to a certain kind of man, and enjoying every second of it.
And I'll be honest with you, because I don't do coy. I like the ones who want it badly and can't hide it. The ones who would wait to be told. Who go quiet the second I lower my voice. There's a power in being wanted like that, and I've never once pretended I don't get off on it.
I answer to nobody. My business, my hours, my rules. So when I decide a man is going to lie awake thinking about me, replaying my voice until it aches, that is exactly what happens. Look at you. Already halfway there. Good boy.
This is me behaving, mind. Clothed, clever, keeping it decent for the timeline. The version that doesn't hold back lives somewhere a lot more private, and he is a lot more fun. You already know where to find me.