⚠️ TW: mentions of drugs and sex. Seattle, baby ! ⚠️
I find the dollar bill with Sean's number scribbled on the back, and I instantly dial his number on our landline phone. The last time the landline phone was used, it was not so long ago, when Chrissie called her sweetheart Chris and wished him a good night. Sean isn't my sweetheart, far from that, he's just the one guy I pinned down for a few hours in a row at Cuntrell's basement party, and we didn't even fuck.
But for once in my life I'm calling a man, a man who ain't my boss or my father, and this feels low-key reinvigorating. And I'm blushing, not gonna lie. 'Cause I don't do this shit for anyone. Mr. Honda makes me step out my comfort zone, do weird things, feel all funny inside and even cheesier than I am by default. Which means... he makes me feel like low fat, spreadable sweet cheese.
'Kinney?' I speak into the dial, as soon as I can hear that he's picked up the call. Saying his last name right gives me a sense of entitlement, 'cause I was sure that his last name was McKinney and he was Irish, before Chrissie corrected my spelling and told me it's just Kinney. Without the Mc. But I'm still pretty sure he's part Irish, 'cause he's funny as hell and very nice. Very drunk too. Therefore very likely to be part Irish.
'Depends on how drunk I am ... and who's calling'. The elusive part Irishman answers, and I flush inside as soon as I hear his voice. I had almost forgotten how deep his voice was, and I've had it in my ears all night long, two days ago, 'cause guy talks a damn lot. It doesn't give small peepee energy, I think it gives very manly fucking man energy instead. It doesn't really match the weird things he says, but I'll take it. I'll take a McKinney with a big side of fries... I mean, jokes. And dessert to go with the meal, y'know. 'Cause when I'm in his presence, I've always got free weed and the consequential munchies. The munchies for food, but for the smooches too. I am sure he's part French too, 'cause that mouth can do things. Talking, but also kissing. And that huge jewel adorned, Roman nose can't lie. Oui oui c'est bon. Tout parfait à moi.
'Sean?' I ask, and for a moment I bless that Cock Soup is sleeping on my shoulder, or he would've gone Sean! Squawk! I need some cock, squawk! straight away. Having a bird that speaks is fun because you never know what's going to come out of his mouth at any given time, but it can get hella embarrassing. More or less like having a Sean in your life. I've had a taste of it the night we met. He is one tongue in cheek, inappropriate little bastard. He tells things in your face, and he could be joking or be hundred percent serious, but you wouldn't be able to tell. He bugged the hell out of me when I asked him if we were going to catch up again, and he flat out spat out a 'no'. To have me cringing, frowning and lessening all hopes on ever seeing him again. Then he cracked a joke on his elusiveness, and gave me his number. He kissed me, and not so long after the smooches were over 'cause I had to go, and Chrissie was looking at us tapping her feet on the floor in impatience... I hopped on my bike, and he stared at me with heart eyes as I fired my engine. Then he told me 'ride safe back home, Cherry. 'cause I gotta see you again', he waved at me... and spilled all of his coffee on his T-shirt. Clumsy hot. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment I fell head over heels for him. Unlike Kim Thayil, he can call me Cherry. And I fucking hate being called Cherry...
'Kinney. I know him. And he knows me'. He speaks, and when I realise that he's in the mood for 'em jokes and that he's talking like he's had a few drinks before he picked up this call... I get the feeling that I don't want to keep this going on. He was probably having a nice night out, beers and babes included because he doesn't work at the post office, he plays in a rock band... and I have interrupted his idyll. Judging from what I can hear, it sounds like he's in a quiet spot of a crowded place. I can hear music, cackles and screams in the background. He's probably at a party, but not partaking. Being elusive like his usual. Kinney? I know him, I feel like I've known him since way before we spent the night together talking ...and drinking... and smoking ... and kissing. He's real funny and he never takes himself seriously. And he knows me. I could qualify myself, but honestly? I don't know if he would actually remember me. So I'll keep playing games until I feel like calling him out of nowhere after two days no see, and after I've just hung up on my past lover, has been a good decision or a real bad one.
'I am Lauren, from the insurance company. We have a special offer for you... if you insure another motorcycle, we're gonna discount the price to fifty percent '. I chime in, and I qualify myself as Lauren from the insurance company, rather than as Cherry. Or as Tori with the fire red Triumph Bonneville. For absolutely no reason, except the sheer sense of discomfort that comes with knowing that I've hit him up while he was partying. And probably another chick was sitting on his lap, enjoying his company and smoking weed with him. Suddenly, I get the vibe that Cherry couldn't be any less relevant to him, in his current place and in his current state of mind.
'Lauren... it's past midnight. How much do they pay you for working night shifts?' He speaks, a muffled laugh to accompany his words. Because he sure knows that it ain't Lauren from the insurance company, definitely not at well past midnight ... and it could only be one of the countless chicks he's given his number to. And he finds it funny. The joke, the teasing, the female desperation, the ego stroke that comes with having a girl hitting you up 'cause she's interested in you. From a male, rockstar prospective ... makes total sense. Bet he gets this a lot. And it makes me low-key butthurt.
'I'm Tori, you idiot. Tori with the fire red Triumph Bonneville at Cuntrell's party'. I finally qualify myself in a proper manner, and I sigh at my own self-reveal. Because I reckon that I've opted for qualifying myself, instead of carrying on with this Lauren the insurer skit, just because I didn't want him to assume I was another one of his flirts or fucks. I didn't want him to call me by another girl's name. Another girl he's met in another social setting, before or after I came along. Another girl he was more interested in hearing from, rather than Tori with the fire red Triumph Bonneville. This is one of 'em moments when I realise that I ain't cut for the groupie lifestyle. That there's much better looking girls out there, that rockstars don't do focusing on a single woman at a time ... and that a dirty grunge musician dude, even the most elusive of 'em all, could have each and every object of his interest at his feet with two selected words. If it's Sean, he's gonna drag any chick he digs to the sack with two selected jokes and two thorough peepee scratches.
'Who?' He speaks, and I flat out drop the phone to the floor at his words. He doesn't remember Tori with the flame red Triumph Bonneville, and I can tell it from how serious-toned his monosyllable has found my poor ears. I should not be surprised. And I am not surprised, just a little bit disappointed cause I thought he had some sort of interest in me. I should just hang the goddamned phone right now and call it a night. Cancel all plans for next week and focus on my exams and on my girl on girl movies, instead of road tripping with my besties to grab a piece of one of the Phellus in Chains guys.
'Sorry... this was a mistake. I'm sorry'. I speak, I speak my last sentence into the dial before I hang up the call and I slip back under my blanket. In low-key sorrow, disappointment and bitterness. If I don't cry, it's just because at the end of the day Sean and I are almost strangers, and he hasn't used me as a fuck doll before forgetting about my existence. I admire that of him, but I'm still bitter. All that fawning over an elusive Seattle piece of meat, all of that shitting my besties' dicks just to find out that said piece of meat doesn't even remember me? Cool, Victoria, you definitely have the most imaginative mind and the weirdest knack in picking men in all of Seattle, and you ain't even from Seattle.
Cock Soup squawks, and only when he crawls by my side and pokes my arm, I slightly cheer up. I tickle his tummy, and I can hear the phone ringing on the bedside table between a Mama! Squawk! and a What the fuck, squawk! I am reluctant to pick it up and to witness that Sean wants to keep making fun of me til I can take it no more ... but hey, I can't let the phone ring without picking it up, if I know it's him by the other side of the dial. He probably doesn't remember me... but I remember him well, and I still like him a bit too much. Let's start this all over again, I think to myself, as I glue my phone to my ear and Cock Soup starts to bite the wire like it's bird dessert.
'Cherry, don't be sour. I was waiting for your call so bad'. Sean speaks, tongue in cheek as his usual, and I feel my cheeks going on fucking fire at his words. He remembers me. He remembers the nickname he gave me, not because I've got cherry tits, not because I'd look good on top of him, but because I've got cherry red hair ... and because his kisses would always make me blush a bit too much. And he'd find it sweet, somehow. He remembers having given me his number, right before we had to bid farewell. And he has been waiting for my call for two days at a time, at least judging from his newly fabricated, almost scold. A call that never came, until now, because I didn't want to give off weird, obsessive and clingy chick. But now we're back at it again. Talking. Joking. Blushing and laughing. And man... he still calls me Cherry with that hint of interest in his tone ... I am meeeeltiiing. But I won't say a word to save my life. 'Cause it would most likely just be a squeak, a cackle and a slightly nervous laugh.
'Hold on... are you Tori with the fire red Triumph Bonneville, or is this just Fentanyl?' He adds, when he grabs the hint that I ain't gonna say a thing to save my life. And he low-key apologises for having pretended he didn't remember about my existence, with this. It wasn't funny of him to drag me around like that, not even a little bit, it was fucking nerve wracking for me. But nevermind. I know what I've signed up for, with this nose pierced hunk with the little sarcastic coffee brown eyes. I've ignored all the warnings I've been given by people on his account, and I've kept pursuing him even if I know that he's weird cursed in the ass, always drunk or/and greened out, insane in the head and affected by multiple personality disorder. My kinda man. As long as he doesn't play with my feelings and he doesn't make me feel like I'm the only one who's doing the chasing.
'Depends on what you're doing right now '. I implicitly ask, a double sided weapon in my hand with this one. First, I want to find out if he's doing Fentanyl like he's just told me, or if he's just clowning. With Sean, you never know if what you're getting is the truth as it is, unfiltered and as brutal as it comes, or if he's joking a bad taste joke. Second, I want to know what he's doing. Like for real, materially. Sounds like he's at a party, but why isn't he screwing a babe? Or two at once? Why isn't a chick replacing me on his lap? Like what the hell, elusive man? Are you sure you're alright ?
'Your twin sister. Lovin' it'. He answers, laughing into the phone... and flushing the toilet. Cause man is always in the toilet, and apparently not just to take a piss like the normies, but also to do Fentanyl and fuck my twin sister at the same time. Except the bathroom Fentanyl use, this is low-key sweet, not gonna lie. I feel like it's a tongue in cheek way to let me know that he's still thinking about me. But made super extra uber weird... cause man, that's Sean. That's Sean's way of handling stuff, and I loooove love love his way of handling stuff. Ever so humorous, never too clingy, ever so ridiculously funny.
'You, or her? Who's loving it the most ?' I ask, riding the joke with him as a smile finally makes a cameo on my lips. Talking nonsense with him, having a good laugh out of everything with this man makes me feel like I don't have a care in the world. He sweeps me off my feet everytime he opens his mouth and tells me something dumb... and I always want more of it. I could sit there for hours, right on his thigh, talk to him all the while and it'd still be better than all the sex in the world. I don't mind it if he's fucking my twin sister in the bathroom stall, while I'm rubbing my cockatiel's tummy ... he's having imaginary intercourse with someone who looks exactly like me, at the end of the day, and it's the closest to a love declaration to my love dummy ears.
'Me... she's doing me from behind, and 'em beads feel so damn good'. He comments, a bunch of fake moans and groans escaping his mouth as soon as he's done speaking. He's pulling a horny lustful chick for my amusement, and it cracks me up with big success. I've never heard him moan and groan like a horny man, 'cause we've never fucked, but I've just heard him repping a ravaged lady. And I've heard people calling him gay too, so this must be an inside joke to him or something. This, ladies and gentlemen, is by far the weirdest snippet of a conversation I've ever had with a reasonable human being. Bet he's high on Fentanyl for real. Or maybe, more likely... it's just Sean doing the Sean.
'Which colour?' I ask, 'cause the temptation to keep this anal bead joke going is far too strong ... and I can't resist it. There's a time and a place for everything, and now we just gotta unleash the weird until we feel like it's our main mood. If we somehow end up talking about which bikes we are going to purchase in the future, as soon as we're done speaking about him being pleasured from behind by my twin sister ... it's all cool. We are weird people and we have a pace of our own with stuff. We can talk about pretty much everything... it just depends on what's the prevalent mood between the two of us at a given time.
'Slut fuchsia'. He answers, deadass serious tone in his voice, and I crack up laughing. This man can take a joke, even one about his sexuality, he can swallow pretty much everything ... and make it even cringer 'cause he lacks sense of shame and he doesn't do taking himself seriously. He's like a Tori, but a bit more in your face-like, with better English and with a peepee between his legs. The more I talk to him, the more I realise that he's my kinda man. Much more of a better fit for me than Mike the golden retriever guy ever was. Mike is wholesome, harmless and sweet funny, while Sean is a hilarious, no filter, inappropriate sass bomb. And back to the joke ... slut fuchsia for a gay slut like him, I totally understand it. My good taste, girly self thinks that fuchsia would bring out his little sarcastic brown eyes and look good on his pale, cold complexion. But I would look good on him too. Much, much better than my twin sister pegging him with anal beads in the bathroom stall at the party he's at.
'Cherry, are you in Seattle right now?' He asks me, and I melt when he calls me like that, all over again. And he asks for my whereabouts with it, let's not forget 'cause that's pretty relevant too. My urgent, very horny for him self can't help but imagine him calling me 'Cherry' while his cock is in my mouth, I blow him real nice and he pulls my cherry red hair to show me his enjoyment. Of course, before he slams me onto the bed and fucks me however he fancies. I get the vibe that he isn't the gentlest man around, in bed, and that he's a bit on the dominant, kinda pushy side. I think I've said it before, but I'll say it again, he doesn't even look like he's into aftercare. But I'd fuck him in a heartbeat, nonetheless. I generally wouldn't let a man own me the way he wants without showing resistance or pulling a fight... but he could do everything he wants to do to me. And it'd get me off just for how bad I'm craving him.
'Give me a good reason to answer this question ... 'cause you're sounding like a creep to me'. I joke, because I haven't felt any ounce of creepy in his tone. On the contrary, he sounded like he was genuinely interested to find out if I'm in town or if I'm someplace else. Maybe he's asked that because he thinks I'm on the road with some band that ain't Phellus in Chains. That I've been elusive for two days in a row because I was fucking another man... but I wasn't. I was here in Seattle, living my usual life, not fucking at all, day and night dreaming about him, arranging a road trip to get to spend some time with him next week and all the good things. I'm here. I'm still here, Seattle based and bound. Only that I'm doing better than I was half an hour ago... 'cause I'm finally hearing from him again. And he sounds like his interest in me hasn't lessened at all.
'I'd like to serenade you... but I can't sing. Would you accept some very humble revving?' He asks, and I bend down in half laughing again as he puts up another show. This time, doing the perfect impression of the engine of a motorcycle revving. More or less like when you're going 120mph on a super flat road, and you switch to fifth gear. Except that he isn't riding... he's in the bathroom stall of the party he's at, wherever he is 'cause I still haven't had the guts to ask for his whereabouts... doing Fentanyl and fucking my doppelgänger. He isn't a full fledged romantic, and I can tell it from how his idea of serenading a lady doesn't involve bringing a guitar and singing a tune under her window. But bringing his Honda Four and revving it until his exhausts melt. I like the concept of this unconventional type of serenade, to be honest. And I like to think that he isn't putting up this show because he wants to come over right now to get into my panties. He wouldn't have to put up a show of any kind to fuck me. He sure doesn't mean what he's just said in a full fledged, romantic way. But it's still, low-key, kinda sweet of him to put it in such terms.
'Gladly. My address is...'. I try to speak, but his laugh into the phone suggests me that it's time to halt die klappe and leave my sentence unfinished. He probably knows my address already, because he was with Chrissie, before I came along ... he sure knows the address of his ex, and he knows I live with Chrissie and Bessie. But I can only hear the sound of his laugh, not the sound of the keys of his Honda Four. All that talking about my whereabouts, him telling me he wants to serenade me with his engine 'cause he can't sing to save his life... but he isn't telling me he's going to be under my window before I can even realise it. This is very cryptical weird of him. But I shall not be surprised anymore at this point.
'Hey hey, you'll have to hold on 'til I'm back to Seattle. Or come over to Texas... it's up to you, sweet Cherry'. He chimes in, and I blush like an idiot when he calls me 'sweet Cherry'. I have to pinch my reddened cheek to find out that I'm not hallucinating. And only when Cock Soup bites the hoop into my nose and pulls it like his usual, I realise I'm not hallucinating. Definitely not, this is real.
My heart flutters, when he so randomly lets me know that he isn't in Seattle, but he is indeed somewhere in Texas. I thought that he was coming to pick me up or something, I had hopes he was going to come over here and serenade me with his engine in no time... turns out he ain't gonna do it until he gets back home. As of right now, he's in Texas, touring with Phellus in Chains... music, debauchery, Ozzy Osbourne, Sepultura, elusive Fentanyl use in the bathroom stall and all. My heart shunts, when I finally realise that he's asked me if I was in Seattle just because he wanted to find out if I was taking it on the road with another band. He thinks I'm one of these girls who sleep around with a different rocker every night, but I ain't. Just because I've fucked the bass player for Ozzy Osbourne, who's most likely going to sleep on his same floor at the hotel tonight, and have breakfast with him at the same buffet by tomorrow morning cause they're in the same tour and I didn't know it until Mike spilled the tea ... it doesn't mean that I'm a groupie. I flat out die, when I realise that he's implicitly asked me to join him in what of Texas. So that he can serenade me from a close and with an actual motorcycle, instead of having to do it with his voice through the phone. I have no words. Is he trying to hit on me with this, or what exactly?
'Are you high on Fentanyl or legit?' I tease him, honestly unaware of the effects of Fentanyl on the human brain functions, but pretty sure that he sounds rather legit. I would really hop on my Bonneville and ride all the way to Texas to spend some time with him, if it wasn't a fifteen hour ride. If I didn't have to get as much stuff done as possible before the girls and I get on a road trip to see his band next week. Not even the most die hard groupie in this city, Bessie, would give me a thumbs up if I told her I'm going on a fifteen hour ride for a man who told me he's in Texas, but that could as well be joking all the way from New Jersey. Not to shag him later, of course, but just because I'm fucking smitten.
'Legit, baby. Still thinking 'bout you... and sometimes you're clad, sometimes you ain't'. He answers, and I can hear a door slam coming from the other side of the phone. I am very flattered to find out that I'm in his thoughts, and sometimes I'm fully clad while some other times I'm lacking clothes... but I'm also surprised to hear him so upfront and so cheeky with me. He's never given away hints of wanting to see me naked, and he's passed on his golden chance to undress me. But now I'm getting the vibe that he wants to pull a phone fuck with me out of nowhere. And I would be okay with it, a part of me is dying to hear him groan 'Cherry... I'm cumming'. If he could only be more specific about his intentions, because I have to put my bird to bed if I gotta have phone sex, it would be amazing of him. But hey, it's Sean. It's cryptic.
'I'm sorry'. I joke, because he ain't the only one who can't take himself too seriously in this hood. And because it's Tori, it's mirroring. It's self deprecating. I ain't the prettiest girl in Seattle, I ain't even the prettiest girl in my house and I don't mind it. I'm sorry he's having to deal with scary thoughts of my not very intriguing, buck naked self. But as long as he's allured by them thoughts, not scared... he can keep 'em going. I've tried to figure out how he'd look like, with a lack of clothes on his body, and my gut feeling tells me that my jaw would drop to the floor. For as far as I'm concerned, we can keep fawning over eachother until the lusting gets unbearable, and we have to hit it off before the tension kills us.
'Don't be. That's a very nice thought'. He grins, and his straightforwardness leaves me in shambles. In shambles... and very horny. He does the cheeky pervert, and I fancy him even more. Because I'd never seen that part of him prior to now, and it intrigues me. I wish I were in Texas, in that bathroom stall with him, stripping myself off my clothes under his gaze. Then stripping him off his own clothes. Then just us, fucking, possibly with me against the wall. Hard. Real hard. Unbearably hard. Until I break. While I cry out his name and he calls me 'slut Cherry' for everyone to hear. Including Mike Inez. Ahem. That was very detailed, but that's exactly how bad I need him.
'Victoria, I fucked everyone from the other acts... good hunks and all, but now I need a woman '. He speaks, probably to fill the silence gap, because he's a decent drummer and filling gaps is his job... and probably also because I've so gotten lost into my non very biblical stream of thoughts that I've forgotten to reply. And it hasn't gone unnoticed to him. This is one funny joke, and I'd normally laugh at it 'cause he's slandering his own male pride with no shame whatsoever. Then I think that one of the men he's ghostfucked over the last few days is my ex loverboy Mike. And I just can't bring myself as far as laughing. Sean doesn't know it just yet, because I'm keeping it as a secret for a reason, and the reason is that I want to surprise him with special effects... but next week I'm going to be by his hip. In California. And it's gonna be cringe, 'cause Mike's gonna be around too, and at some point I will have to confront him.
'Bet there's plenty out there... I can hear 'em cackling, Sean'. I comment, reasonably enough, when I remember that he's at a party, a number of chicks are in the lounge, and I can hear some of them cackling loud and clear. There's good fun and a bunch of potential fucks out there, but he's still doing elusive Fentanyl use in the bathroom, and he's still giving me the time of his life. I am sure he is no choir boy and he deals with debauchery on some level, but right now he's focusing on me instead of going on a pussy hunt. And it makes me feel like I've called him for a good reason.
'I said I need a woman. Not a chick'. He answers my taunt, and his firmness and his way with words don't fail to leave a trail of sticky into my panties. The only thing I'm wearing right now, beside a smile, my tattoos and my oddly silent cockatiel on my tummy. Jesus fuck, that was so real fucking hot of him to say, that I may have to hump a pillow before I finally manage to call it a night. And if I don't touch myself right now, it's just because I get the vibe that he wants to have phone intercourse with me no more. Also partially because Cock Soup is playing with the hip band of my panties, and I don't want to strip myself off and take away his fun.
'Baby, how many miles can you ride on your bike without crashing? Asking for my friend who's dying to see you... but he's on war duties right now. Can't move'. He asks, tongue in cheek and cryptic as I absolutely adore, and I giggle like an idiot at his words. He's low-key offending my riding skills, but I don't mind it 'cause I still haven't forgotten the look he had in his eyes when I rode my way out of Cuntrell's parking lot two days ago. He's playing that silly 'asking for a friend' game that he should've stopped playing at around the time he turned fourteen, and it's real sweet of him to convey his interest in me in such a childish, laid back, funny way. I don't know how old is he, I've never asked because he may ask for my age and realise that I'm a bit too young to mingle with him, if he ain't a creep that digs teenage pussy. I assume he's maybe like twenty five or so, but he's still a child at heart. And I. Fucking. Dig this. I vibe with this a lot. He's the friend on war duties who can't move he's talking about, and he wants to see me just as much as I want to see him. He fucking wants me to join him where he is because he-wants-me. This is beautiful, all mutual and very genuine... and it's giving me reasons to believe that next week's road trip he knows nothing about just yet is going to be the best thing that's happened to me in a while.