DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #17 - or just come, Cherry

Sean, that fucking stinking piece of cheating shit. He seemed so honest and so full of good intentions, actually too good to be true, too put together and not horny enough to be a dirty Seattle grunge boy... he kissed me, flirted with me, asked me to sit on his lap, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, offered me weed and breakfast, kissed me some more and gave me his fucking number at Cuntrell's party. One week into this, we're still talking ... and trust me, we've talked all kinds of stuff. Music, Seattle gossip, drugs, motorcycles, Gin brands, even sex. He keeps giving me the booty call, and I keep getting the vibe that he wants to get me off through the phone, from time to time. He keeps chasing me, and I keep pursuing him because I nurture a genuine interest for him. He keeps asking me to join him where he is, and I keep turning him down every single time. Poor Dyna, the cheated on girlfriend, but poor Tori too. 'cause I am finding myself in the position I hate the most, aka the one of the whore who's mingled with the already-taken guy. And in all of this, being the people pleaser that I am... I feel bad for Dyna, not for Tori.

'Cherry? I think she's unlucky. I keep fallin' when I ride her'. He speaks, and now here I go... definitely choking on my alcoholic beverage at this whole, different kinda declaration. Dyna isn't his girlfriend, he is probably a single pringle and very proud of this status. Like he's proud of his clown status, 'cause Dyna is a fucking motorbike. A Harley-Davidson. He thinks that Dyna is a whole babe, but I don't think that she looks any special. If he keeps fallin' when he rides her, it's because Dyna is a Harley-Davidson, and a Harley-Davidson is unstable by nature. All that wobbling and bouncing? I could never stand it. But suddenly, all the scratches and the bruises on his knees make sense to me. He's gotten 'em by falling off Dyna, not by getting on his knees blowing hunks in toilet stalls.

'What the hell... you have a Dyna Glide? I thought you had better taste'. I speak, feeling like a stone has just been removed off my chest at the piece of news that Dyna is nothing but another one of his two wheelers. But got damn if I wanna trash talk him about his taste in motorcycles now. I pursued him before I even saw him in the face, just because he was Sean the owner of the Honda Four... to find out that he also owns a Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide? Seriously? But like... seriously seriously?

'I have excellent taste. Have you seen the chick I'm tryna bed ?' He teases me, and this time I don't get paranoid nor take it personally because I know I'm the one chick he's tryna bed. And he ain't even tryna bed me. He's just clowning and edging me, as his usual. And he's probably tying to convey his interest in me in a way that's manly... and not cheesy at all. By implicitly telling me that he wants to drag me to the sack. Which has never been his main interest with me. Yum.

'Pretty sure you can't bed a chick with a Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide...'. I tease him in return, because... believe me, if I saw a Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide in front of Cuntrell's door, I wouldn't have spent half of the party trying to look for its owner. It was the Honda Four to do the thing for me. I saw that fucking bike, my favourite ever, I turned to my girls and told them that I wanted to know whose it was, 'cause I wanted to fuck them straight away. A Honda Four never fails to get me naked, a Harley-Davidson never fails to give me vaginal dryness. He sure can't bed this chick with a Dyna Glide, but he can always try his luck on one of 'em hunks he likes to blow or hump in public restrooms. Gay men love, love love Harley-Davidson's. Bisexual chicks? Not really.

'Right. Sorry, I keep thinking with the gay hemisphere of my brain'. He speaks, a laugh to accompany his words. And when he cracks a joke on his sexuality, right while I'm thinking about the same exact thing ... I realise that we really share the last brain cell. Bessie is right, it's like he was made to be my cross and my delight at the same time. And Chrissie is right too, when she tells me that my already compromised marbles aren't going to survive the Sean mingling euphoria. But what can I do... I want him. Crypticness, booty non booty calls, homosexuality jokes and Harley-Davidson's in his garage aside. Is it normal to think so highly of a man that I've never seen naked, not even by mistake? Ahem, I don't know. I'll chug my thought away on my Gin Lemon just in case.