She was comfortable in front of me in a way beyond anything that implied intimacy or trust. All it was was her knowledge that I wouldn't flinch and that even if I did it wouldn't matter---I'd stay. I can remember the first time she called me into the bathroom at her apartment. She was mid-shit, which, to be honest, didn't matter to me, but I laughed. I laughed in the way you laugh at silly things, at bad dirty jokes. She didn't respond. She just sat there staring at me, and when my half-second of chuckling was over she said
"I need you to pass me another roll."
That was it. And even though technically all she did was nothing, I felt struck by exactly that. I didn't bring it up, but when we were fooling around later and she was straddling me, her fingers in a blitz across her clit, she said
"Put it in me"
and I started to realise that I didn't matter at all. To her I was just a robot, something with the right pieces and subservience to answer her commands. I fucked her harder than I ever had.
Tonight she made a look at me from the stage. I knew to meet her backstage where she normally led me off without a word, except this time she spoke,
"I might need your help."
I had stopped questioning following her into the women's washroom by then. Her face never told me anything, but she was rushing in a way that startled me. For this show she had twenty-five-or-so minutes before her next act and I started to wonder what needed to be so expedient. I expected she might puke. But when she rushed into the stall, leaving me there in the still-open door, she craned herself above the toilet in a weird way. Like how an animal does something it doesn't understand except through total instinct. The posture was like she was trying to squeeze something out of herself---something deep and awful---yet she was a foot above the toilet.