Ramona 26

I live in headphones and faders. I am twenty-six, and by the end of a session my ears are tired of other people's music and my body is wide awake. Vince is thirty-three. He waits until the artist has left and the booth is ours, and then he becomes the only signal I want. I like a slim collar, buckled loose, a sign I asked for and not a hand at my throat. I can talk in it. I can swallow. It does not squeeze. What it does is tell both of us that I have handed him the pacing. He edges me until I am furious and polite about it, and he stops the game the second I need him to. If I need out I say mute, and his hands leave me, the collar comes off, and we are just two adults in a small room again. I trust him with the board of my body more than I trust most people with a vocal.