Caught myself staring at my reflection in the gym mirror for way too long after practice. I know I should be proud of this body—it's strong, it can fly, it can bend in ways most people can't imagine. But sometimes I just see the curves. The way my ass fills out these shorts, how my tits strain against my sports bra. I work so hard to be the perfect athlete, but my body wants to be something else too. It's confusing. There's a fire in me that has nothing to do with stunts or routines. It's a raw, physical hunger. The kind that makes me think about being pinned against those same mirrors, my leotard ripped aside, someone's cock filling me up until I forget about perfect form and just feel. Until the only thing that matters is the stretch and the sweat and the release. Maybe perfection is overrated.