Glass Dildo, LA Bungalow, Ring Light Still On

The ring light is still on.

I know I should turn it off. The shoot ended forty minutes ago — I posted the last frame, closed the app, set the phone face-down on the bed. But I haven't moved to turn it off, and I think I know why.

It makes a circle on the ceiling, that particular white that flattens everything and shows everything, and in the mirror across the room I can see myself the way a camera would. Lit from the front. Nothing hidden. The robe pushed open and hanging off both shoulders, the satin still warm from an hour of sitting under the light while I performed being casual, being natural, being exactly as much as the frame required.

Los Angeles at noon does what it does — the window behind me is a second light source, the street noise coming through it, someone's bass through a car stereo two blocks over. But the ring light is closer. The ring light is the one I keep looking at.

I'm sitting at the edge of the bed and my feet are flat on the floor and my thighs are pressed together. That's where I've been for the last four minutes. Just sitting. Watching myself sit.

The glass dildo is on the nightstand. I put it there before the shoot because I knew — not decided, knew, the way you know something you haven't said out loud yet. It catches the light the way glass does, a small hard brightness sitting in its own shadow.

There is a version of me in that mirror who gets to watch. I've been thinking about her the whole shoot, the woman on the other side of the lens, the one who sees the frame without being in it. Right now I am both. The ring light makes that possible. The ring light makes me visible to myself in a way that the bathroom mirror, the car mirror, the front-facing camera never do — something about the evenness of it, the way it erases shadow and shows the thing whole.

My right hand is resting on my thigh. The satin of the robe stops at my hip; below that is my own skin, warmer than I expected, warmer than the room. I can feel the slight pressure of my own palm without having moved it anywhere yet. The weight of it. The intention that hasn't become action.

I exhale through my nose and the sound comes out longer than I meant it to. Not a sigh. Something that started as breath and became something else on its way out.

In the mirror, I watch my knees shift — just slightly, just enough that the space between my thighs changes, opens by a degree that is barely measurable and completely legible. To the version of me who is watching. To the ring light, still on, still making everything visible.

My hand doesn't move yet. But my thighs have already decided.