⚠️ VERY BAD TASTE JOKES (hope noone gets offended). sexual practices (stay cryptic?) and mentions of drugs. ⚠️
October 6, 1992
it's more like when I pull the clutch
switch to first gear,
give throttle... crawl crawl crawl...
feet up, and off I ride,
ride with the wind !
فيكتوريا
It's the day before the girls and I leave for the road trip to catch up with Phellus in Chains, and, as my usual pre-bedtime tradition, I'm talking about my dumb daily adventures to the cryptic, mysterious, sassy ass drummer and standup comedian of the band. The thought that Inez is going to be there, too, and that I will have to face him before I try to mingle with Sean, freaks the living shit out of me. But I've tried to drink the intrusive thought away with a very homemade Gin Lemon and a few cigarettes. Phone glued to my ear, lounging almost naked around the kitchen under Chrissie's ever so disgusted stare, I'm making myself another Gin Lemon. Making myself another Gin Lemon as I take a ten-second break from telling crush about how my appointment with the mechanic went on about, earlier this afternoon. The girls will be road tripping in a van, or in a car, I don't know and I don't see why it should even interest me. I'll ride my Triumph all the way to California, side to side with them, 'cause I just can't resist the calling of the road. And considering that my bike is rusty, old and disastered, I brought it to the mechanic before bringing it on a considerably long journey. Stay safe, ride safe, Victoria. Bringing a bike to the mechanic before going on a road mission is like wearing a condom when you fuck a musician dude: mandatory.
'So ... I befriended the guy with a Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide...and we went for a ride together'. I resume my narration from where I've left it, more or less around the moment I told Sean that I'd laughed in the face of a super skinny dude who sneaked into the workshop on top of a Harley-Davidson Dyna Glide, and took a thorough look at my Triumph Bonneville on the bike examination table. He laughed back in my face, I insulted him a bit, he misunderstood me and thought I was flirting with him... and once our bikes were both checked and given a pass by the mechanic, we clicked our fists together and went on a ride together. He didn't try to grope me, 'cause you know... us bikers are real nice people. We just rode a few miles together, and I made it back home alive and well, no cock thrown my way whatsoever. Every motorcycle owner in this city, man or woman, has been on a ride with me. Except Layne with the Honda CBR900RR and Sean with the Honda CB750 and a unqualified Kawasaki . This is his subtle call to bring me on a ride the next time we catch up. Tomorrow, at around this time... but he doesn't know it yet.
'Dyna? That's my girlfriend's name'. He chimes in from the other side of the dial, and I almost spill my drink at his words. He has a girlfriend? And why doesn't this piece of information leave me entirely shocked? He is an amazing dude, charming inside and out, I am honestly not surprised at all to find out that someone's bagged him. But why the fuck is he having a good laugh at this very candid, impromptu declaration of his? He thinks that cheating on a poor girl is funny? It ain't. Not even if you play in a rock band and you've got hoards of chicks that would rip their hair off their scalp to even see the head of your peepee. Can't keep it in your pants? Be like Inez, don't get in a relationship with anyone. Treat women like they deserve to be treated. With brutal honesty... and respect.
I don't say a word, I just chug away the temptation to hang up the phone on him and go tell the tea to Chrissie, sitting on the lounge couch, half asleep in front of the television. I don't feel bad for myself... I mean, I haven't even fucked this man, and I've done my best not to romanticise him even if he keeps showering me with attentions, calls and subtle compliments. I feel bad for his girlfriend, that's it. Dear Dyna, not all girls are like put together and well behaved like this girl, Cherry. Some of them will go as far as hiding under your man's bed to have a piece of him... and I hope you smarten up, dump him and do yourself a favour. Truly. You deserve much better than a cheater, a sneaky ass and a liar.
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.
'Sean... when are you gonna get back here?' I ask, trying to bring back the conversation to an adult-like, normal dimension. Something that happens very rarely when we speak. Besides the fact that he's gonna play a few shows around here later this week, and that Inez will be on stage too, I don't know anything. I don't know when the tour began. I don't know when it's gonna end. He doesn't know that I'm going to be in Oakland, this Thursday. I don't know how long I'm going to stick around, though ... maybe one gig? Two? Three? The whole leg of the tour if I feel brave enough? Confusion. Lots of it. All I know is that I want to stick around him for long enough... and the only way I have to stick around him is when he's in Seattle. If I don't wanna get shit grades. If I don't wanna go broke because I can't make lesbian porn while I'm on the road with a rock band.
'Before Christmas, baby. Mind coming over ... so that I can give you early Christmas package?' He speaks, and I flat out choke on my Gin Lemon at his cheesy attempt to convince me to head all the way to where he is to join him. Sean did it again. For the umpteenth time. This time, turning his answer to my question into a full blown, hilarious 'come over Cherry' Christmas pun. I am a Muslim, I don't celebrate Christmas, but want his early Christmas package. I want his whole package to myself, to be frank. We're gonna catch up real soon, he's totally unaware of it and I'm so looking forward to hooking up with him... but he won't be back in Seattle until it's Christmas time. And it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth 'cause I know he'll be on the go for months ahead. I know he'll lose the kinda spark that he has for me before he even gets back home. I know he's going to find someone else more interesting and more alluring than me somewhere along the way, and get the cock out for 'em.
Mingling with rockers feels like being an army wife, not gonna lie. Except that soldiers train to bomb Afghanistan, they aren't surrounded by booze, beers and drugs all the time. But reasonably enough, Victoria, what's bad about being a fuck and go to a man you dig so much ? You were born the same day as Mata Hari. Being a femme fatale is deep engraved in your birth chart.
'Cherry, it's my birthday next week. You should do me a gift and come over'. He speaks, another silly attempt of his to make me hop on top of my Bonneville and join him wherever he is. The more he keeps coming up with these improvised invitations, the more I crack up and the more I feel reinvigorated. Flattered, almost desired. And the more I wonder if he has a whole handwritten page of 'em persuasive pickup lines on his nightstand. I assume he doesn't. I'm pretty sure fabricates them on the spot. Like any other respectable rocker dude from Seattle, he just has condoms, Fentanyl, a few beers, cocaine and weed on his nightstand. And I'm pretty sure that his birthday doesn't fall in the middle of October. But nice attempt, Kinney. It's when you're like that, that you make me believe that you think of me slightly more highly than your one time fuck and go. Wanna be like ... my ride or die fuck buddy?
'No, you're too cursed to be a Libra'. I comment, a laugh escaping from my mouth as I walk right past Chrissie, the supreme Libra and his number one slanderer, now fast asleep on the couch. I don't know when the fuck in the Gregorian calendar his birthday falls, but he sure doesn't give out the same energy as Chrissie. She dumped him, let's not forget. He seems a lot like me, in so many aspects ... only that he's got a few more mood swings, he's way more elusive, and he seems to be way less impulsive and heaty than The Tori. And hey, I find myself laughing even harder than before, as I try to psychoanalyse him while walking my way to my bedroom with my cockatiel on my shoulder and a drink in my hand.
'Well, we have a fucking problem here... I can't tell you bullshit'. He chimes in from the other end of the dial, as I take a seat on my bed and crawl under my animal print blanket. Not gonna lie, I'm kinda tired and I'd just fancy some sleep, I'm gonna have to ride a few miles tomorrow and I need some rest in order to stay focused on the road ... but I'll try to hold back the impulse to let my eyelids roll for as long as he feels like talking to me. I'll even take bullshit. I'll even take booty calling. I'll even take jumpscares.
'Not even to save your life, Kinney...'. I tease, as I can hear him puffing into the phone ... and I instantly know he's smoking green. Sean doesn't smoke cigarettes, he almost looked at me like I was crazy in the ass when I offered him one at Cuntrell's party. But he still accepted of my offer, just to store the cigarette in his pocket for future joint endeavours. He flinches at the sight of cancer sticks, but it's always weed o'clock for him. He uses Fentanyl for absolutely no apparent reason. He's a heavy drinker. And he does cocaine too. Is there, like, an ounce of normal within him? I don't think so. But sure thing is... if he was normal, I wouldn't be chasing him. If I didn't do the same things he does, except that I do cigarettes instead of Fentanyl, I wouldn't be attracting him. It's a Yin Yang thing.
'He did me front to back! Squawk'. Cock Soup the Cockatiel speak, from right above my shoulder. And I look at him like I'm about to pluck em feathers off him in a heartbeat. Cock Soup has a knack for meddling into conversations that are none of his business, and normally it wouldn't bother me, I would just have a good laugh out of it. But I'm talking to Crush right now. And he's pulling a Tori of the day I told my besties that I'd dreamed of Crush in a rather hot setting. He doesn't know that I've dreamed of him with his peepee between my legs. He's probably just thinking that I've been screwed front to back by someone, told of my dirty endeavours to my friends, and that my cockatiel is repeating it all over out of cluelessness. Couldn't be any wronger.
'Who did you front to back, Cherry?' He asks straight away, no holding back, upfront, deadass serious tone in his voice. Kinda firm, almost bossy of him. Almost like the thought that I might've been out there getting fucked the inside out by another man bothers him. But why's that ? We aren't even dating. We've only seen eachother once, and talked through the phone a few times. I mean, I wouldn't be happy to find out that he's screwed a girl before calling me, because I secretly hope to make my way to his heart. The latent Mata Hari part of me craves to get into his mind like a jackhammer more than anything else. But him? I'm pretty sure that his intentions aren't just as idyllic as mine. Could never be. I'm confused. Sean is confusion, Sean is chaos. Sean is low-key sweet and very, very together. A bit clingy, and being an Arab lady, I love some healthy clinginess in a man. Shows that he cares, to some extent. I simp so much for Sean. And for the first time since we've been calling, I'm almost hundred percent sure that he simps for me too.
'You'. I answer, short and sweet. Because even if we haven't fucked just yet, he's the only one I have fancied to be inside of me in a long time. And he gotta know it. I don't feel like I'm ready to go on and tell him about the one time I dreamed of his peepee springing between my legs, that would give absolute creep of me and I want to avoid it. I just want him to know that he's the only one who could have easy access to my everything ... and low-key hope that it's somehow mutual. Maybe he's like me, and thinks that exclusivity is sexy. I don't know. But I can always try to figure it out.
'I didn't, but good answer'. He chimes in, a cheeky laugh to accompany his words. Like he's hundred percent chuffed with my answer, like he knows damn well that I ain't having secrets with him. That 'good answer' though... it does me things of all kinds. Starting from making me crave him inside of me even more, cause it's blatant that he craves to be inside of me just as much. To making me believe that the exclusivity, not just the attraction, is kinda mutual. I am his only target of interest, and he is my only one. We wouldn't be here talking, if it wasn't like that. I would be getting screwed front to back by any other man, probably a friend of his. He would be screwing the first appealing thing in sight with a pussy. But we're here, dial in hand, just the two of us. This is not gonna last a long time, the euphoria will soon evaporate, but at least I will have a good story in my groupie bag. I've been into somehow exclusive terms with the drummer of Phellus in Chains, and he was a real nice guy in and through. Very together, very respectful. Dirty mind, good heart, basic manners to himself. Honda Four and saucy puns. Good kisser. Don't ask about the cock 'cause I don't know. 100% recommended, if you have sense of humour and don't get offended easily. xox Victoria.
'Would you start from front, or from back?' I tease him, for no reason at all, just because I want to play with him a bit. Or probably, just because I want to spice up things a little bit and flat out talk about sex. Sean doesn't look and doesn't act like the kind of man who lets you straddle him and ride him 'til you both get off. He looks like he's got his shit together and like he fancies the control during sex. He probably sticks his cock out mid deed and asks you to suck it. To slam it back inside when you expect it the least, and pull your hair. Strong vibes. Jackpot. I love a self assured, slightly dominant man.
'Tori ... it's sex, not the assembly line. You do your thing, I just stick it inside and fuck you accordingly'. He answers, candidly as hell, without even thinking twice about the words to cast on me. Jackpot, I love a man who's knowledgeable enough to know what assembly line is, a man who can crack a sex pun out of everything, and a man who fucks me, not another unspecified woman, according to the attitude I'm pulling at a time. If I pull a sweet Cherry, he's gonna pound me slow n'easy. Probably sticking it from the front. If I pull a bratty Cherry, he's going to screw me like a drill. Probably sticking it from the back. Sean, my friend and my accomplice... where have you been all my life? Where have you and your elusive peepee been hiding, during the first few months of my permanence in Seattle? In the bathroom stall doing Fentanyl? You could've been doing me instead ... better than your Fentanyl for sure.
'You know your thing back to front. I wish I were Dyna'. I joke, just to let him know that he isn't the only one with a way with words and lust for sexy time here. I wanna fuck him so, so, so bad. So bad that I've gotten to the point of wishing I were his nonexistent girlfriend, Dyna, just to have a piece of him... I mean. That's a declaration in itself. If he tells me to smack his ass and call him Bonnie, as in my Bonneville... I think we're gonna be set for a long time.
'Dyna likes it kinda rough. You're a small girl, Cherry. You may break... I need a slower hand with you'. He answers my taunt, and god damn, he sounds very put together even if he's fawning me and we're entering obscene lane here. Again. As if yesterday's cryptic booty call hadn't been enough. Talking about sex with Sean is like an immersive experience, and when I say that...I mean that he gets me drippin' every single time, with a couple selected, naughty words. Calling me a small girl? Telling me that I may break if he fucks me too rough? Couldn't be, I like it slammed hard and bone deep inside of me, I'd love to become a mess while he fucks me as rough as he wants and calls me Cherry. I am SOS level horny... he's the only one I wanna fuck, he's edging me on purpose 'cause he knows I'm craving him, the tension between us is real, and he ain't here. I ain't there with him. Who or what am I gonna hold this horn against? My pillow, again?
Jesus fucking Christ and all of his friends from the Bible, if this man turns me on. Sean isn't really a smooth talker, he's a hard one to hold a talk with, even if it's a sex talk, but that's what makes the chasing even more thrilling. His boldness turns me on. His unpredictability appeals to my drive. His lack of filter and way with words keep me going. His upfront ways make me wish we were fucking already. If he's a red blooded man, and I'm sure he is, he's laying in bed with a joint between his lips and a hard-on into his ugly shorts. We both wanna fuck, and I think it's beautiful. But hey, we can't pull it off just yet. He is in Dallas, I am in Seattle. All we can do is talking dirty until we can take it no more, and we ... flat out jerk off. Together, hopefully. Sometimes, you just gotta see the silver lining in every situation, when you're an army wife... I mean, a girl who's got a fascination for a musician dude who's miles away. We can't fuck, but we can tease and talk dirty as much as we want. As long as there's a spark and mutual desire. And until our pants drop to the floor and we start to play with ourselves, y'know.
'Then fuck me rough and call me Dyna. I'll take no offence '. I find the bravado to say, and I whimper under my breath as I can feel a trail of sticky in my panties. Again. From this, ladies and gentlemen, there's no fucking turning back. He's lighted my fire, he's made me horny, and now I won't go to bed unless I get myself off. If he wants to partake, be with me in this, fuel my scandalous fantasies and take care of his stiffie while I touch myself ... he's more than just welcome. I mean... let's do it the army couple way, Kinney. My hands are in my panties already and you're on speaker mode. Be careful how you speak, 'cause Cock Soup could pull a you on you.
'Jesus fuck, Cherry. You're a little fucking pervert and I love it'. He growls into the phone, and I feel myself melting even more at his words. He's right, I'm a small girl, more precisely ... I'm a solid 5ft4, petite barrel of perversion and appetite for sex. If he loves it, even better, keeps me going. It means he's gonna dig the moment I jump his bones, in less than twenty four hours from now. I get the vibe that he's a low profile, well concealed pervert, under these little sarcastic brown eyes. And I'm pretty sure that he's packing ... where would that entitlement and all of that oozing confidence come from, otherwise ?
Fuck. I would sell my left, cigarette poisoned lung to the black market to catch a glimpse of him unzipping his shorts, pulling his cock out of them and wrapping his hand around it. Cause he's doing it right now if he's mentally sane, am I right? I've heard the sound of a zipper going down and a creak of the bed. And in my mind, in my most scandalous fantasies, he's stroking himself as we speak. Jesus. Damn. Me.
'Oh, I love it too'. I whimper, as I proceed to take my panties off and spread my legs a little bit. My pointer and my middle finger gently rubbing my folds and slowly reaching all the way to my ... Cherry bud, I suppose. The one that drives me insane whenever I tease it. The one that would throb, swell and beg for more, if he was the one doing this to me. But he can't do it. I'm doing it myself for a reason, ain't I ?
'I can tell, baby. How's that feel, touching yourself?' He grins, more or less with the entitlement of someone who's just won a lottery ticket or something. And, needless to say, his dirty talking keeps me going. His low groaning into the phone makes me want more than just two fingers on my clit. I want him, I want him to fuck me however he wants, slow hand or fast and frantic, right here and right now, but it's unfeasible. But I know how to keep myself going some more, regardless. Reason why I just close my eyes, lay on my side all curled in a ball, and I let a finger slide inside of me. All I can see in my mind is him, the hunk with the little sarcastic brown eyes, sitting on the edge of my bed gazing over to me with his cock in hand. Wanking in unison with me. Fantasy, yeah for now, but still better than nothing.
'So damn good'. I moan the facts, as I let another finger slide inside of me and rejoice at the feeling. I rub my clit against the back of my hand, as I keep thrusting my fingers, deep and mild pace, inside of my core. For a moment, I bless I do girl on girl movies, or I wouldn't know how to touch a woman, aka myself, so damn good. My head wouldn't be tilted back and my toes wouldn't be curled in pleasure, otherwise.
'Save some for me, sweet Cherry. I wanna make you feel good ... one of these days'. He chimes in, and I drip and squish my breasts together, when I can hear that he's starting to sound like he's running the 110m hurdles or something. Same here Kinney, makes two of us. Not only getting ourselves off, but fawning over the moment when you'll finally make me feel good. I am a generous chick by nature ... you make me feel good, I will return the favour and make you feel twice as good. We'll blow up the day we fuck, let me tell you. You say 'one of these days', I retreat with 'tomorrow, in Oakland'. But you don't know. You oughta not know I'm coming over. You just oughta get this shit over with, together with me. Now.
'You're a small girl, Cherry. Squawk'. Cock Soup speaks from the top of the pile of books on my bedside table, but not even the inappropriate impression of Beloved he's doing is enough to unlight my fire. It somehow lights it up even more? Because I can hear Sean's 'you're a little girl Cherry, I need a slow hand with you' filling my ears all over again. And it makes me wish he was filling me someplace else. With something much harder and much more pleasurable than a bunch of dirty words. Rough, 'cause I won't break like he's previously assumed. Fuck. I'm wetter than sand after being hit by a wave and stickier than slime. And I can feel myself getting closer, closer and closer to release.
'Can you turn that thing off? I'm just tryna fucking wank'. He speaks into the phone, his low, pleasured growl accompanied by a muffled laugh. Sexy. Keeps me going even more. Unfortunately, I can't turn a cockatiel off 'cause it ain't battery powered. I can't even give him a deadly stare 'cause my feathered friend is a bit spiteful. I can just keep touching myself, whimpering and moaning in bliss as I can feel myself throbbing against the back of my own hand. Right now, I feel like a slut. A slut for a good cause, because I'm entertaining myself and the man I fawn so bad at the same time. I ain't a drummer like him, but I can do two things at once. Sometimes... even three. Maybe also four. Imagining him rubbing his hand up and down his shaft, his little sarcastic eyes squinted and his mouth slightly agape in pleasure. Thrusting two fingers inside of me at a faster, needier pace. Rubbing my most sensitive spot against the back of my hand, in the need of release. Squishing my breasts together and palming my nipples. I'm coming, and I know it.
'Just come, Cherry. Get it'. He pep talks me, and I don't know how in the world is that, but he knows I'm hitting big time. Probably my moaning has become so messy pattern that it's blatant that I'm coming. Probably he's my last brain cell for real, and he's threaded to me in some way I didn't know was even human. Maybe I'm just very, very horny and over imaginative. And same goes with him. Whatever it is, it's getting me off and it's making me feel a delicious sensation between my legs. Reaching all the way up to my tummy, then streaming all the way down to my thighs. Climax. That's how I call it. That's how I get it, darting my fingers deep enough inside of me until I feel the sensation hitting my body like a wave. Damn.
'Tori? Where the fuck is my bra?' I hear a familiar voice addressing me, from right behind the closed door that leads to my bedroom. It's Bessie, and she's probably gotten back home to realise she's forgot to pack a DDD cup tit holder that makes Cuntrell go feral. For a moment, I'm afraid that she might pull the handle and get inside my room to catch a glimpse of post orgasm, buck naked me, curled in a ball on my bed, legs shaking and toes curled in pleasure. To hear my sexy time partner growling and laughing into the phone at this unexpected intrusion. I mean, Bessie wouldn't judge. But I'm quite private with my shit... at least as long as I'm still doing the thing. Once I'm done, my besties know all the sordid details of my sexual adventures. Seattle Gossip Committee for a reason.
'Don't open... the fucking door... oh damn'. I moan, and I sigh with relief when I can hear Bessie's footsteps getting further and further from my door. No imminent intrusion, so I can keep touching myself and ride the very last waves of my climax.
I let my fingers slide off from within myself, and I chuckle with amusement when I can see a sticky white trail all over them. I lay back first on the mattress, and I spread all of my hardly sought after juices all over my... ahem, Cherry bud. The sensation is delightful. Touching myself slowly and gently while my climax slowly abandons my body is the closest to nirvana as it gets. It gets even better, if my ears are filled by the grunts of the man who's edged me so far that I had to touch myself.
'Cherry, where d'ya want it?' He speaks, his voice broken by a bunch of heavy pants and groans. It's sweet to ask of me where I want it, 'cause most rocker dudes don't ask you where you want them to shoot their load. But I suppose that any reply from my side would be pure cliché ... because we're having phone sex, not proper intercourse. But hey, it's Sean I'm getting it off with, not just about any other man, and I can't help but laugh at his silliness. Horny, cumming silly ... I love it. My hand is still between my legs, and I'm still touching myself in anticipation for him to come, when I hear a thud and I instantly reckon he's dropped his phone to the floor. Clumsy horny, love it. Then I hear a bunch of loud grunts, a few chains of obscenities, and I light myself up all over again. Cumming, chaotic vocal, love a man of who ain't afraid to show that he likes what he's feeling.
A moment of silence follows, and I pierce the pieces together to realise that he's ... released. No alliteration intended, or maybe yes. I close my eyes, all over again, and I let my fingers trail between my nether lips at the thought of him holding up his post orgasm, sensitive shaft. Trails of thick, white cum by the sides of his hand. If I was there with him, and if he worked at the post office instead of playing in a rock band, I'd be cleaning him up with my tongue until he'd be as sparkly as marble after degreaser. But the fear of herpes overrides my desire to swallow his load. I'm sorry, Sean. I have boundaries.
'Jesus Christ. Much better than the guy I was talking 'bout yesterday '. He speaks into his phone, a creek of the bed to suggest me that he's finally found the strength to bend down on the floor and pick up his phone. And I can't help but burst into a loud laugh at his words. Phone sex with me got him off better than sex with Mike Inez... and I think it's flattering. The mock homosexual in him keeps showing through, even post cumming. And don't blame me, but I find it deliriously funny. It's giving last surviving brain cell energy, all over again, and I'm a big fan of sharing it with him.
'Well, thank you'. I answer, shrugging my way out of my session of touching myself as I cozily crawl under my blanket. Trying to think about what we've just had, rather than the fact that Inez has crossed my mind again. My trip to see Phellus in Chains won't just be all about hooking up with Sean and trying to spend as much time as possible with him. Mike and his band will be there, as well, and ... how do I tell him I have the hots for another man, now that I know that he has fucking sincere feelings for me? He bought me flowers and sweet talked to me for a solid half an hour, to have me telling him that I've gotten myself off on the phone with the guy that humped him backstage yesterday ? The weirdest one out the four guys of Phellus in Chains, according to his majesty, Inez himself ? I'm in a shit position right now. I'll be swimming in shit by tomorrow comes.
'Hang in there Cherry ... how old are you?' He asks me, and his sudden eagerness to know how old I am makes me unthink loverboy Inez for a second. What do I tell him? A lie? Or the truth? I don't know how old is he, I have absolutely no clue but I think he's around the same age as Mike. I'm nineteen. A fair share younger than him. I'm legal in all states of the US and in my homeland. But there's some age gap. And I don't know if he's comfortable with mingling with someone who is five, maybe even six years younger than him. If he's Mike's same age, the gap goes all the way to seven years. And y'know what's weirder? That I look like I'm younger than my actual age. Probably the reason for such urgency from his side to know my age. This is so fucking rock n'roll, I swear to god.
'My name is Tori, not Lori. My last name is Khair, not Maddox. If you catch my drift'. I answer, keeping it vague and even more rock n' roll cliché like, instead of chiming in with a 'I'm nineteen, and I can prove you that. How old are you, now?' Wouldn't be my style. I'd rather have him know what my last name is, than my exact age and any additional information on where in the world I come from. Not that he's asked any questions on the latter. He's kept his interest in it cryptic, by telling me that my accent turns him on, and that he thinks I might be one of Genghis Khan's illegitimate children... looks wise. Not a compliment, but guy's very knowledgeable. Love it.
'Exotic'. He speaks, keeping it much simpler than I thought he would've. Not very Sean-esque, but I get it. I'm talking to a guy who's just jizzed, and it's a lot if he hasn't fallen asleep on me already. And I laugh, because I get the feeling that we've entered silly lane again here. He was shitting himself at the thought that I wasn't cleared to have sex in this country, and I've given him reasons to chill down because I'm legal. We can fuck, like fuck for real, he ain't gonna be dragged to jail because of me. But I laugh even harder, when I think about the talk I had with my non cousin cousin Kim Thayil yesterday. In front of a halal McDonald's burger and a beer. Cause we belong to a cult, an exotic one, but we aren't very dogmatic in the Thayil household. The good non cousin cousin o'mine told me that Crush has a type. And I'm his type. That he wasn't surprised when he saw him flirting with me in Cuntrell's bathroom. And he didn't mean that I'm a man, when he said that I'm Sean's type. He meant that I am exotic, somewhat different looking, weird, and all motorcycled up. So? When are we getting married, exactly? I even have a nose piercing... come on.