Speaker 1: Hello, my love lies. I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to
My Erotic Whispers, the podcast where we celebrate the pleasure
and passion of women's sexual joy. This includes long romantic
buildups to amazing love making in a soft bed and
getting fucked by three guys in a dorm room for
no other reason than that's what you want. This week's
episode is definitely about finally getting what you want, but
it's about working through your fears to get it. In
this case, it's two musicians that I've worked together for
years and don't want to risk their creative tension with
attention of a relationship. But who says these things are
mutually exclusive? And on a personal level, this is one
of the very few times I've actually cried at the
end of an erotic romance. So kudos to this week's stars,
Mara and Rand. Please now, but this podcast is intended
for adult listeners.
Speaker 2: The humming starts at exactly six two am. It's the
same four bar loop he's been obsessed with for a week,
and it's drilling a hole in my skull. God, Ash,
must you I snap? My voice rough with sleep? My
ass is already numb. From the passenger seat, and we're
not even out of Pennsylvania. Seven hours of this, seven
hours in this subrew that smells like old guitar cases,
stale coffee, and him he just grins, not looking away
from the gray ribbon of the highway.
Speaker 3: It's a hook tour. It's catchy. If you can't get
it out of your head, it's a good thing.
Speaker 2: I can't get it out of my head because you've
been constantly humming the damn thing. He sighs, a dramatic,
long suffering sound. I know by heart. He's been my
creative partner, my work husband, my other musical half for
six years. And I know this sigh. It's the Toria
is being prickly. Syh Well, I am prickly her driving
seven hours on no notice to fill in for a
band that got COVID all for a gigt some tiny
club in East Village that probably won't even cover gas.
But it's New York. I can't be that mad.
Speaker 3: Despite what Toy says. It's a damn good hook, it's memorable.
She's just grumpy. She hasn't had her second coffee yet,
you know, the one that actually makes her human. Besides,
she always gets like this before a big gig, tense coiled,
ready to fight. But she's right, it is just a hook.
It needs something more, It needs her that discordant, minor,
ky thing she does that somehow makes everything makes sense.
I call it her grit, which either annoys her or
pleases her, depending on whether she likes what she came
up with. I glance over at her. She's all restless energy,
her dark hair already escaping its messy bun, her legs
tucked up on the seat. She looks like a beautiful,
pissed off bird. I hum the notes again and glance
at to her. She turns and glares at me. Hey,
it smiles better than your sad girl Shred's playlist. If
I have to listen to that one more time, I'll
drive this car directly into the media, and I mean it.
I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Anyway, I'm
pulling off the next exit. You want your usual, my usual,
he knows.
Speaker 2: I want a large black coffee with one row sugar
and a pack of peanut M and ms. He knows
that's my I'm stressed but also creative snack. The fact
that he just knows it's so easy it's why this
whole thing works, why we're a duo and not in
a band or solo artists. My last boyfriend, Dave spent
six months bringing me Carme Lantes. No matter how many
times I told him I hated sweet coffee, he never
really listened. Ash listens to the things I don't even say.
I feel a familiar pang of deep affection and file
it immediately under He's a good partner only if you
promise not to steal all the m and ms before
we had Jersey, I say, and you're paying. You lost
the bet on the last song.
Speaker 3: The bet was whether I could write a bridge for
Flicker in under ten minutes. She knows I threw it.
I let her win. She needs the wind when she's
this wound up. It's just part of managing the creative process,
managing her. I pay for the coffee and snacks at
the gas station and toss the M and ms into
her lap. When I get back in, the car is
quiet for a while, just the sound of the road
and her tearing the crinkling yellow package. I watch her
out of the corner of my eye. She's staring out
the window, but her right hand is tapping a rhythm
on her knee, a fast, complicated, syncopated rhythm. I heard instantly.
It's in seven eight. She's fighting the four or four
time of my hook. Okay, what's that the tapping? That's
the grit. You found the grit, didn't you? He heard
that from my knee. This, this is what no one
else gets. My ex boyfriends would call it fidgeting. Ash
doesn't just listen.
Speaker 2: He hears the music in my head, even when it's
just a ghost of a rhythm on my fingertips. A thrill,
sharp and bright as a plucked string, runs through me.
It's the thrill of creation, of being truly, deeply understood,
and the only way that matters. This is our magic.
Maybe I can't help but smile. Reach back and grab
my guitar, not the gibson, the beat up acoustic.
Speaker 3: I'm not sure you noticed, but I'm driving.
Speaker 2: You have longer arms than me, and I don't want
to spill my coffee. Hash shakes his head as he
reaches into the back. His arm bushes my shoulder as
he expertly maneuvers the worn case between the seats. Okay,
I tune the lower east string, sing your hook he
starts to hum. No, vocalize it but in minor. Now
what if I hear? Instead of resolving to the major,
we just hang let the vocal carry it like this.
I sing the note, a high, bluesy sound that bends
and hangs in the air, full of tension and longing.
Speaker 3: The next hour is a blur, the exit ramp, the
bad coffee, the shitty gig, It all dissolves. It's just us.
We're shouting, harmonizing, scribbling lyrics on the back of a
gas receipt. It's electric. She's found the dissonance, the dark,
aching chord that my simple melody needed, and now it's
ours when we find it. When the song finally clicks
into place, the car falls silent. The air is still
vibrating with the echo of the last chord. I look
over at her. Her face is flushed with victory. Her
eyes are bright, and she's completely unaware of how fucking
incredible she looks. I'm wave of something, a powerful, protective warmth.
I don't know whatever it is. It washes over me.
It's an intensity that scares me. It feels different, it
feels bigger than just the song. I immediately crank the
radio blasting a random classic rock station. It's our mutual
signal for resetting the boundary. That's it, I say, my
voice a little too loud. That's the song. Holy shit, toy.
We're not just good, we're geniuses.
Speaker 2: We did it. It's perfect. The creative high is better
than any drug, better than any orgasm I've ever had.
I look at Ash. He's bobbing his head to the radio,
his easy grin back in place. He's a great partner,
a great creative partner. But that moment, our voice is blending.
The way he looked at me when I surprised him
and harmonized. When he hit that high note, it felt
like more. I immediately forcefully pushed the thought down. No,
stop it. That's the partnership. We're a duo, and that's
the magic. You mess with that, you lose everything. It's
not worth it. It's just the stress of the gig. Okay,
it's good, I say, finally, relaxing back into my seat.
AN empty bag of M and m's in my lap.
But we're not geniuses until they cheer. Now, put on
my playlist. You're going to love this sad girl. I
put on her playlist and to be honest. Although I
would never tell her this, I really like it. The
last chord of East River, the song we wrote in
the car, rings out. For one agonizing second, the world
is pure silence. There's just the hum of the amplifiers
and the thud of my own heart in my ears.
I can't feel my fingers, my throat is raw, and
I'm completely totally empty. And then the sound hits us.
It's not just applause. It's a roar, a wave of
sounds so big and unexpected. It feels like a physical
force pushing me back a step. I look at Ash.
He's trunched in sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead,
his face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated shock.
He looks fairal, he looks beautiful. He catches my eye
through the blinding purple and blue lights and gives me
a single, triumphant nod. We did it. That song we
wrote on a fucking gas station receipt just killed. I
step up to the mic. My leg's shaking with adrenaline.
Thank you, New York, You've been incredible. We're Tori and Ash.
Good night.
Speaker 3: My heart is trying to hammer its way out of
my chest. The noise is still ringing in my ears.
The energy of a thousand people fee back into us.
I've never felt anything like it. I stumble off the
tiny stage and into the grimy, exhilarating darkness of the
backstage hallway, and Tory stumbles in right behind me, laughing
and completely out of breath. Who are fucking geniuses? I pant,
leaning against this cinder block wall. She turns, her face
flushed and glowing, her eyes bright as spotlights. She doesn't
say anything. She just launches herself at me, throwing her
arms around my neck, her body light and sweaty, and
she buries her face in my shoulder. I hold her.
My arm's instinctively wrapping tight around her waist. I can
feel her heart hammering against my chest. Or maybe that's
just mine. I can't tell where one of us ends
and the other begins. For this one perfect, unguarded second.
We're not Torrey and Ash, we're not partners, We're just us.
It's the most terrifyingly perfect feeling I've ever had. She
pulls back, her hands still resting on my shoulders, her
smiles so wide and unguarded it punches air from my lungs.
We are, and just like that, the moment breaks. She
drops her hands, a flicker of something, awareness, fear, passing
through her eyes.
Speaker 2: His arms were so strong, his body was so warm.
For one insane second, I just wanted to stay there.
I wanted to pull his face down to mine and
kiss him right there, in the smell of sweat and
stale beer and victory. The thought is so loud, so visceral,
it terrifies me. That's the adrenaline, I tell myself, stepping back,
forcing a laugh that sounds too high. That's all it is.
It's the show, okay, I say, running a hand through
my damp hair. I need a shower. I feel dis disgusting.
Speaker 3: Yeah, me too.
Speaker 2: He's looking at me with an unreadable expression.
Speaker 3: Seriously, tor that was that was amazing.
Speaker 2: I'm not sure if he's referring to us holding each
other or the show. Damn it, Tory, of course he's
talking about the show. It was, I finally answer, grabbing
my bag, I walk to my dressing room and he
walks to his. The door clicks shut between us, a small,
definitive sound. The boundary is back in place.
Speaker 3: Worse safe, I'm half dressed, talon water for my hair.
When my phone buzz is on the counter. It's our
manager Ben. The text is all caps. Where are you need?
Speaker 2: You?
Speaker 3: Both? Front of house? Now? Shit? Did we run long?
Is the club on our pisted? I pull on a
clean T shirt. My HeartMate kicking up for a whole
new reason. I text Tory, Ben needs us now meeting
the hall. I pressend and step out. She's already there,
her hair damp, her face pale and worried.
Speaker 2: What did we do?
Speaker 3: No idea, I say, trying to sound more confident than
I feel. Let's go find out.
Speaker 2: We walk back into the main room. It's mostly empty
now and the staff clearing glasses. Ben is standing near
the entrance, and he's vibrating with an energy I've never seen,
like he just drank a gallon of espresso. He's with
two other people, a guy in an expensive looking blazer
who looks like he owns things, and a woman. She's tall,
with an intense, kind face and slightly quirky glasses.
Speaker 4: She looks familiar Ash Tory. This is Paul Vance and
this is Credit Gerwig.
Speaker 2: Sorry what my brain ish short circuits? Credit Gerwig. Here
at our tiny film gig in the East Village. I
must be hallucinating. I look at Ash. His mouth is
literally hanging open. I'm pretty sure mine is too. Greta
Gerwig smiles, a warm, genuine smile. That was just extraordinary.
She says, her voice exactly like it is in interviews.
Your sound, the way you two. She gestures between Ash
and me, a little wave of her hand, the interplay
of joy and pain. It's exactly what we've been looking for.
The man in the Blazer. Paul steps forward. We're in
post production on Greta's new picture. It's an intimate story,
a complicated one, and we need a song for the credits.
A song that is the relationship, what we just saw
on that stage. That's the exact thing we're looking for.
This isn't real. I'm still asleep in the subaru. This
is a stress dream, Greta. Leen's in her eyes, focused
and serious. We'd love for you to write it. The
words just hang in the air. A credit Gerwig movie.
A theme song. This isn't just a big break, miss
the break, the one that changes your life forever. Yes,
Ash blurts out, finding his voice before I.
Speaker 4: Can what my client means.
Speaker 2: Ben says, jumping in and smoothing his tie.
Speaker 4: Is that we are extremely interested in discussing this opportunity.
Speaker 2: Paul hands Benecarte as they turn to leave. I'm completely frozen.
My entire future just tilted on its axis. I look
over at Ash. He's looking at me, his eyes wide
with the same terrifying, exhilarating, universe ending thought. Holy shit,
the stakes just went from making rent to making history.
Speaker 3: Is it strange that in that exact moment all I
wanted to do was sterritory and see her full of joy,
that all the work, all the sacrifices, and all of
her genius has paid off. You deserve this so much,
I think, as she turns to me and smiles.
Speaker 2: The screening room in Los Angeles is small, dark and freezing.
It's just me, Ash and the producer, Paul, who's scrolling
through his phone, already looking bored. My heart is trying
to beat its way out of my chest. This is it,
this is real. I'm sitting so close to Ash I
can feel the warmth radiating off his arm. His knee
is a scant inch from mine. I've spent six years
in his personal space in cramped vans on tiny stages
and shared rehearsal rooms. But this feels different. The darkness
and quiet makes it intimate charged. The movie starts. It's
not a comedy. It's definitely not Barbie. It's a raw, quiet,
devastating film about a long term relationship. The two main
characters are musicians. My breath catches. I'm watching a scene
where they're in the apartment bickering. It's not a louder fight,
it's a quiet, intimate one full of shared history. He's
annoyed that she keeps leaving our tea bags in the sink.
She's annoyed that he's humming a melody that's not quite right.
It's so real, so us it makes my skin crawl.
Then the scene shifts. They haven't resolved to fight, but
he sits down at an old, upright piano and starts
to play a simple, searching melody. She stands by the door,
her back to him, her arms crossed. Then, almost against
her will, she turns, walks over and starts to sing,
her voice fitting into the spaces of his melody, correcting it,
elevating it. The music is their apology. It's their entire
relationship played out in chords and harmony, A jolt, sharp
and electric goes through me. Holy shit, that's that's us.
That's the song we wrote in the car. That's him
hearing the rhythm. I was tapping on my knee. That's
our telepathy. I risk a glance at Ash and the
flickering light of the screen. His face is pale, his
eyes fixed on the couple. He isn't just watching a movie.
He's watching us, and I know with a terrifying absolute
certainty that he sees it too.
Speaker 3: I'm trying to be professional. I'm trying to focus on
the vibe, the tone. That's what Paul said, get the vibe,
but it's impossible. All I can think about is that
Torre is sitting so close to me that I can
smell her perfume, that faint, familiar scent of vanilla, and
something I can only describe as her. I'm trying to
take notes, but then that scene hits me. The bickering,
it's so us. It's her snapping at me about a
chord progression and me sniping back about her sad girl playlist.
It's the shorthand the brutal honesty, the way they communicate
in a language, and no one else understands, and then
they make up, not with words, with music. I feel
a jolt of recognition so strong it's like a physical blow.
My god, that's us, that's our magic. That's what we do.
That's what no one, not my excol friends, no my
family has ever understood about us. It's this, this secret language.
I look over at her. Her eyes are wide locked
on the screen. She knows she sees it too, And
suddenly this isn't about a song anymore. This is about us.
Our one protected, sacred space, our creative partnership has just
been exposed, held up to a mirror, and it's reflecting
back something I'm not sure I'm ready to face. When
the lights come up, Paul is typing on his phone,
So that's the vibe. He looks up. We need a
song that feels like that, like a whole relationship in
three minutes. You guys can do that, right. Her throat
is dry. I look at Tory. She looks completely shell shocked.
Speaker 2: Yes, absolutely, We're back in Pittsburgh, Ash's home studio. It's
two in the morning, the floor littered with empty coffee cups,
crumpetable lyric sheets, and attention is so thick. I feel
like I'm breathing water. This should be easy. We just
saw the movie. We are the movie. This song should
be writing itself. But it's not. It's hollow. It's empty.
Ashes at the keyboard playing a progression. It's fine, it's
technically good. It sounds on the surface like a Tory
and Ash song. But as I said, it's empty. He's
hiding behind it. He finishes the loop and looks at me,
waiting for me to add my special part, to bring
the grit. I can't. I just shake my head, my
arms crossed tight over my chest. What his voice is
already defensive.
Speaker 3: That's a solid start tour.
Speaker 2: It's it's not ash, it's not honest. I see him flinch,
a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw. Honest, I
can see him thinking, what does that even mean? It's
our sound. He's retreating. He saw what I saw in
that theater, and now he's pretending he didn't. He's giving
me the same safe, easy progression we can right in
our sleep, but now it feels like a lie.
Speaker 3: It's not honest. It's a CG, a minor F progression tour.
It's the foundation of half our songs. It's what works.
Why are you overthinking this? She's pushing, She's pushing right
at the boundary, the one we've never ever touched. Why
why now? This is Greta Gerwig. This is our entire career.
This is the one time we cannot afford to get weird.
We have to be Tory and Ash. We have to
be the pros, the two headed monster, the creative telepaths.
But she's trying to make it personal. She's trying to
make it about us. You're overthinking it. I stand up
from the keyboard, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
We don't need to reinvent ourselves just because it's a movie.
We just need to deliver our sound. Why are you
trying to make this so complicated? Why can't we just
stick to what works? Why are you pushing this? I'm
screaming internally. Why are you trying to break the one
thing that's perfect?
Speaker 2: He thinks it's perfect, denying to himself that it's not
that he's high behind a lie, that it's incomplete. He's yelling.
He never yells. The tension in the room is suffocating.
It's all the unspoken words from the plane ride back,
all the subtext from the movie, all the sexual energy
from six years of forced blotonic partnership, and it's all
boiling over disguised as a fight about a fucking chord progression.
He's demanding to know why I'm making it complicated, because
it is complicated. I look at him, because what works
isn't working anymore. Ash, New York wasn't an accident. And
I'm not talking about the show in Greta, Gerwig. I'm
talking about the song we wrote. We wrote it differently.
I don't know if it was the stress, the lack
of sleep, or something else, but things changed and it
changed us for the better. Can't you see that? I
can't sit here and write a song about a telepathic, intimate,
all consuming, creative love with you and pretend and pretend
that all it needs is a chord progression. I'm shaking,
my fist clenched. He's staring at me, his chest heaving,
waiting for me to back down, to be the cool girl,
to just write the damn song, because Ash, it's not honest.
You're not being honest with me, with yourself, I say
in my head. He just stares at me. I can't
do this. I can't write a lie. I grab my
jacket from the back of the amp. My movement sharp
and jerky, Tori de haunt. I can't, I can't write
to this. I walk out and slam the studio door
behind me. The sound is final. I half expect him
to follow, to grab my arm. I stand in the hallway,
the silence of his house ringing in my ears, and
I have no idea if I just destroyed our song,
our career, or the most important relationship in my life.
Speaker 3: The studio is a morgue. It's been twenty four hours
since she slammed the door, and the silence is so
total it has a sound. It's the sound of failure,
of a promise broken. I'm staring at the keyboard, at
the empty chair where she's supposed to be. The song
is dead, the entire project is dead. And I know,
with a clarity that feels like a shard of glass
in my gut, that she was right. The music was
hollow because I was being a hollow. I was the
one being dishonest. I saw us on that screen, our magic,
our secret language, and I got scared. I ran right
back to the one thing I thought was safe, our
old dynamic. I tried to hide us from our elves,
and in doing so, I've broken the one thing I
was trying to protect. I can't write this song without her.
I can't imagine writing any song without her. My fingers
are shaking. As I pull out my phone, my thumb
hovers over her name. This is it. This is either
the end of us or at the beginning of something terrifying.
I text, you were right, it's hollow. I was scared.
Can we try again your way? I hit sen and
feel like I'm going to be sick.
Speaker 2: I'm curled up on my sofa, buried under a blanket,
convinced I've just detonated my entire life, my career, my friendship,
the one relationship that mattered. I'm crying not because he
was an asshole, but because I wanted him to be one.
I wanted him to follow me to Yell, to prove
to me that what we had was worth that he
saw what I saw in the movie theater, But he
just let me go. And that silence confirms my worst fear.
When I felt in that theater, that earth tilting recognition,
I felt it alone. My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I slowly reached for it, terrified it will be ash,
Desperate it will be ash. It's him. You were right,
it's hollow. I was scared. Can we try again your way?
I read the text once twice. My tears are for
a different reason now, a dizzy and terrifying wave of relief.
Your way. He knows what that means. It's not just
about a different chord progression. It's about honesty. It's about
facing the thing we saw in that screening room. It's
about the mirror. This is scarier than the fight, but
I can't run from it. I text him back, I'm
on my way.
Speaker 3: When she walks back into the studio, the air is electric.
The anger is gone, but the tension is still there,
humming between us, low and dangerous. She's wary, her arms
crossed over her chest. I don't blame her. I've rearranged
the room. The keyboards, the computers, the amps, they're all off.
I've just put two simple stools in the middle of
the floor, facing each other. The acoustic is in my hands.
A single notebook is on the floor. No technology, no hiding. Okay,
my voice sounds rough in the quiet. No more hiding.
You said I was dishonest. You were right. I was
trying to hide. But that's not what the song is.
I look her right in the eye, forcing myself to
be as brave as she was. Forget the movie. She
tilts her, not knowing where I'm going. I hold up
my hand. Just trust me. She nods, We're not going
to write about the couple in the movie. He's terrified.
I can see it in the way he's gripping the
neck of the guitar. His knuckle's white. But he's not running.
He's here, open and vulnerable in a way I've never seen.
This is the ash from the car. This is the
man who hears the music in my head. My fear
gives way to a strange sharp focus. He's right, this
isn't about the movie, okay, ash. I walk over and
take my stool. The two feet of space between us
feels like a canyon and no space at all. If
we're not going to write about the couple.
Speaker 2: In the movie. I take a breath. The most dangerous
question of my life is forming on my lips. And
it's dangerous because I already know the answer. Who are
we going to write about.
Speaker 3: She's asking me a question, but I know it's actually
an invitation. I put my fingers on the strings. I
don't play our old progression. I play something new, a
minor chord. The hearken, questioning and full of tension. I
look up at her, holding her gaze, and I sing
the first line. It comes, a rough flow confession. Was
it a promise or a secret? Or a line we
couldn't cross? Her eyes? Got her eyes. She doesn't look away,
she doesn't flinch. She's right there with me. She's in
the fire.
Speaker 2: The chord vibrates through my chest. He's not hiding, he's confessing.
The music is our shield, our permission slip. My mind
is erasing, and I find the harmony, almost without thinking.
My voice breathy, fitting into the space he loved for me,
six years of silence, afraid of the cost, is locked
on his This isn't a song. This is our conversation,
the one we should have had five years ago. His
eyes are so intense it feels like a physical touch.
He's not just harmonizing. He's answering me. He's answering the
question we both asked over and over again but never heard.
He strums again, a little harder, the tempo pushing.
Speaker 3: I read the book of you, memorized every page, but
we stay.
Speaker 2: In character, stuck on the stage. I sing back the
lyric of painful, honest truth. He strums harder. The music swells.
The lyrics are pouring out of us now, a torrent
of every unspoken, forbidden thought. It comes so easy.
Speaker 3: I've always wanted to.
Speaker 2: He sings, his voice, cracking with raw e motion. That's
not performance.
Speaker 3: Just see what's in your eyes.
Speaker 2: I've always wondered. My voice trembles. What it feels like
when you I stop. I can't finish the line. The
hair is too thick, the admission is too real. My
eyes dropped to my hands, my hair falling forward like
a curtain.
Speaker 3: She stops singing. The music hangs in the silence, an
unresolved chord. The only sound in the rooms are breathing,
shallow and fast. She's hiding her face, but I can
see the pulse hammering in her throat. This is it,
this is the honesty, this is the song. I have
to know. I have to see her. I slowly, silently
put the guitar down on the floor. She's in her chair.
I'm in mine. I lean forward, bridging the small agonizing
gap between us Tory Tory. She looks up, her eyes
are wide, her lips parted. She's not my partner, she's
not my friend. She's the only person in the world.
I'm an inch away. I can feel the warmth of
our skin, the soft exhale of her breath. My entire
universe narrows to this one point, this one inevitable, terrifying second.
Speaker 2: He's leaning in. It's happening. After six years. He's going
to kiss me. He's finally going to kiss me. My
entire body is a single, screaming nerve, and it's all
shouting yes. But as his lips are an inch from mine,
a cold, sharp, panic, familiar in gutting, cuts through the heat,
the music, the song Greta. If we do this, if
we cross this line for real, and if it goes wrong,
it's over everything. This magic, this telepathy, this thing that
makes us us, it will shatter. It will be replaced
by failure, by resentment, by awkwardness, by the ghost of
what we had. It will be destroyed. Just as his
lips are about to touch mine, I turn my head.
The motion, jerky, agonizing ash. If we can't. Please don't
listen to me, Please ignore me, Please just do it.
Speaker 3: Her words hit me like a physical blow. We can't.
I freeze. My body is locked an inch from her face.
I can see the tears welling in her eyes, the
agony of her decision, and it all crashes down on me.
I know she's right, She's always been the one to
protect us. I pull back and the space between our
chairs feels like a thousand mile chasm. The rejection is
a cold, sharp ache in my chest. Yeah, uh, you're right.
The partnership, it's everything. I look away from her, at
the guitar on the floor. We did it, We wrote
the song. It's perfect, it's honest. It's the best thing
we've ever done, and it has cost us everything.
Speaker 2: I stumble out of Ashes studio, wondering if I made
the greatest mistake of my life. Did I protect us
or did I ruin us?
Speaker 3: It's been a full day since she walked out, and
the silence is absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket. The song
is sitting right there on the hard drive, ninety percent finished,
brilliant and completely unsavable. It's missing the ending, it's missing
its resolution. I'm staring at the empty stool where she
always sits. Her coffee cup ring's still on the side table.
I've spent the last twenty four hours in a self
imposed hell, coming to a single, gunt wrenching conclusion. She
was right. I was the one who broke it, and
I know that's what she felt before she left my studio.
I can't write this song without her. The thought is
so clear, so final, that it stops my breath. It's
not even a creative admission, it's a fact. I can't
write any song without her. I can't imagine my life
without her. My fingers are shaking as I pull out
my phone. My thumb hovers over her name. This is it,
This is the last chord. It's either the end of us,
or it's the beginning of something else, some new song,
something terrifying. I text her, you were wrong. The song's
not finished. I hit send and feel the blood drained
from my face.
Speaker 2: I'm on my couch, wrapped in the blanket. I don't
deserve convinced I've just committed career suicide or worse. I
didn't just walk out on a song. I walked out
on Greta Gerwig. I walked out on Ash. I walked
out on us. My phone buzz is on the coffee table.
This sounds so violent it makes me jump. I lunged
for it. It's Ash. He's telling me I'm wrong that
the song's not finished. I fread the text once twice.
My tears start again, but this time there for a
different reason, a dizzying, terrifying wave of hope. He's not
talking about the song, not really. He's talking about us.
And this is scarier than the fight. This is the surrender.
I text back, I'm on my way.
Speaker 3: When she walks back into the studio, the air is
so thick with unspoken words it's barely breathable. I crossed
the studio in two strides. I'm standing in front of her.
She smells like tory, like vanilla and guitar strings and
safety and all those things that are her. My hand
comes up. I tangle my fingers in her soft hair
and tilt her head back. My other hand finds her waist.
I pull her flush against me and feel her sharp,
sudden inhale. I kiss her. It's not a kiss, it's
six years of unspoken, repressed, agonizing want. My mouth is desperate, hungry,
claiming hers. This isn't my buddy, this isn't my partner.
This is the other half of my soul, and I've
been starving. My tongue tastes her lips, and then her tongue,
and it's no longer a kiss, It's a song. She
moans into my mouth, her body melting against me, her
hand's grabbing my shirt.
Speaker 2: He's finally, finally kissing me. And it's a million times
better than my dreams. It's raw, and it's him. It's ash,
but it's an ash I've never known, unleashed and full
of a dark, demanding passion that I'm meeting with my own.
His taste is intoxicating, his mouth devouring me, I moan,
pressing myself closer, needing to feel all of him. And oh,
my god, do I feel him his cock, which I've
dreamt about, And although I would never have admitted it
to myself, I've fantasized about his pressing against me. He
pulls back just enough to look at me, his lips open,
his eyes black with desire. He lifts me as if
I weigh nothing. My leg's instinctively wrapping around his waist,
and he sits me on the edge of his workstation,
scattering lyric sheets across the floor. He's standing between my
spread legs. His hands slide up my thighs. I can
feel how hot his palms are, even through the material
of my jeans. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband
of my jeans, his keys locked on mine.
Speaker 3: I've been dreaming about this.
Speaker 2: He doesn't rip my jeans off. He unbuttons them slowly,
his eyes never leaving mine, and he pulls the zipper
down with an agonizingly slow zip. As he slowly undresses me,
I whisper, so have I. He tugs my jeans and
panties down my legs in one motion. He tosses them aside,
and then kneels. My heart stops. He looks at my pussy,
exposed and glistening in the dim studio light. The smell
of my arousal, sharp and sweet, fills the air between us.
He looks up at me, and his smile is the
smile of hundreds of nights and hundreds of stages, a
smile of us knowing, connecting on stage. It purss my heart.
But then he buries his face in me.
Speaker 3: She's so wet, the taste of her is a revelation, musky,
sweet and absolutely addictive. I try to be gentle, but
I'm ravenous. I want to taste all of her immediately.
I'm making up for years. I need to touch every
part of her with my tongue. I lightly flick it
against her clit, and it's a perfect hard pearl. I
circle it, then suck it. My hand's gripping her thighs,
holding her open for me. I can feel her body tense,
her fingers twist in my hair, pulling me closer. It's
not just pleasure, it's music. I'm setting a rhythm, a driving,
relentless beat. I'm playing her body, and she's screaming my name.
Speaker 2: His mouth is electric, His tongue is a baseline, a
perfect driving beat against my clit. It's making my vision
go white. I'm close, too close, It's too fast. I
can feel the orgasm building, a wave of heat that's
about to crash ash. I cry out a plea. He
pulls back, leaving me suspended, panting on the very edge.
He stands up, his cock straining against the fly of
his jeans, his mouth slick with my juices. He kisses
me again, and I taste myself on him. It's the
most decadent, intimate flavor in the world. He rips his
own shirt off over his head, then works at the
button of his jeans. I'm too impatient. I push forward,
grab his hands away, and unfasten them myself. I pull
down his zipper and he's free. He's hard and hot
and real. I wrap my hand around his cock, and
it's like my hand was made to hold him. I
stroke him once, and a low grown tears from his throat.
I push him back and slide down the kneel in
front of him. I take his cock in my hand
and just lose myself and the feeling of it. It's
so hard and yet so soft. I rub the head
of his cock against my lips, against my cheeks. I
slide it all over my face, wanting to just feel
it everywhere the head, and then take him inside my mouth.
Hash moans as I slide him in and out, and
my orgasm again builds as he takes my hair in
his hands and starts to thrust slowly into my mouth.
He's gentle, and not so much fucking my mouth as
exploring it with his cock.
Speaker 3: I love the feel of her tongue the feel of
her lips. I've watched those lips move for years, producing
the most extraordinary music that made my heart hurt at
its beauty, and now they are making my heart beat
fast with pleasure. I slowly pull out, and she looks
up at me. We are so connected and so in
tune that I know what those eyes are saying. They're saying,
fuck me, and I realize it's the only thing I've
ever truly needed. I slide down to my knees to
face her.
Speaker 2: His hand is against the back of my head as
we kiss. As he leans forward, he is slowly lwering
me to the floor. I lie back and stretch and
spread my legs. He's kneeling between them, his hard caught
glistening in the soft lights of the studio. He leans
forward and I close my eyes, taking it all in.
This is the stage.
Speaker 3: I enter her slowly, and it's like every nerve is
connected to her in some way. The pure pleasure of
feeling her pussy pressed around me. As I slide deeper
and deeper, It's a feeling of completion, of a cord
finally resolving. She's warm and wet and unbelievably tight. Clutching me,
her body welcoming me home. I watch her face as
I slide deep into her. Her eyes are closed, her
lips parted, her expression one of pure agonizing bliss. I
pull out almost all the way, just to feel the
exquisite torture of pushing back in. She gasps, this is
our rhythm. I start to move, slow, deliberate. I'm setting
the tempo.
Speaker 2: I feel every delicious moment of him slowly sliding into me.
It's all I can feel. He's purposefully focusing all of
our pleasure on just that, his cock, slowly sliding in
and out. He's setting the tempo, and I follow without thinking.
Our bodies like our voices, just know. He speeds up,
and my hips are already there, meeting his thrusts. He
changes the angle, and I'm already arching into him. This
isn't just sex. We're composing. He leans down and his
mouth finds my breast, sucking my nipple in perfect time
with his thrusts. His hand reaches down and finds my clit,
his thumbs starting its own relentless rhythm, cock mouth thumb.
He's twisted above me and playing me like he plays
the guitar with a virtuosity that's breathtaking. It's a three
part harmony, and I'm coming apart. He's pounding into me now,
a drive in powerful beat. He's fucking me hard, and
it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
Speaker 3: I can feel her every breath, I can feel the
tensing of every muscle. It's like her body is mine.
Her orgasm is building, her pussy is squeezing my cock.
She's screaming my name, and it's the only lyric, the
only note that matters. It pushes me over the edge.
I feel my own release building, a tidal wave of
six years of waiting. I come with a deep shout,
emptying myself into her, and just as my muscle's pulse,
my cock throbbing inside her, I feel her own orgasm,
sees my cock tightening around me as her body convulses
around mine. It's the final perfect harmony.
Speaker 2: Collapse, a tangle, panting, sweaty mess on the studio floor,
surrounded by our instruments, amplifiers and soundproofed walls. I smile,
Thank God for soundproofed walls. He's lying on his back,
his arm heavy and perfect across my waist. The moment
is too perfect. I don't want to ruin it, and
am too terrified to speak. So now what he whispers?
The old fear, just a tiny, fading echo. I hear
the question, did we just ruin everything? I lift my head,
my hair a wild, damp mess, my body aching in
the most wonderful way. I look at him and his beautiful,
worried face. I finally realize something important. There's nothing to ruin.
We are exactly where we want to be. A slow,
incredibly happy smile spreads across my face. But I don't care.
And as I say the words I don't care, an
unbidden thought enters my mind. It's a perfect harmony of
lyrics and music. It's so clear, it's right there. I
scramble to my feet, naked and glorious in the dim
studio light.
Speaker 3: I just watch her. My heart's so full, I think
it might burst. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
But then she scrambles to her feet, and I'm terrified
that she's having regrets and will rush out of the room,
leaving me. She doesn't rush out of the room. She
walks over to the guitar stand, her body still glistening
and naked and picks up my acoustic She slings the
worn leather strap over her shoulder, the dark wood of
the guitar barely covering her breasts. I just stare you
naked playing my guitar. Out a shaky laugh that is,
without a doubt, the single hottest thing I've ever seen.
She smiles and strums a single, perfect, resolved C major chord.
It rings out in the quiet room.
Speaker 2: We need an ending for the song, Ash, and I
found it.
Speaker 3: I look at her, this incredibly sexy woman standing there
playing a guitar, completely naked, and as she turns to me,
this perfect joining of us, our music, our desire, our love,
al laid bare.
Speaker 2: Just for me, she says, we found it. The theater
is vast and dark, the air hushed. I should be
watching the movie, this film that has consumed our lives
for the past six months, but I can't. I'm watching Ash.
He's sitting next to me in a suit that I
know he hates, his eyes fixed on the screen, his
profile lit by the flickering images. My hand is in his,
our fingers laced together on the plush velvet armrest. I
feel the steady, reassuring tap of his thumb against my finger.
The whirlwinds since that day in the studio has been insane,
a framptic, joyful blur of recording sessions, meetings with lawyers,
and a new record deal. We finished the song, the
real song, the honest version, in a single breathless take,
but it all feels secondary, like noise happening in another room.
The only thing that has felt truly real is this
his hand in mine.
Speaker 3: I'm pretending to watch the movie, but all my senses
are tuned to her. The scent of her perfume, the
soft sound of her breathing, the way her hand feels
small and warm, anchored to mine. My mind flashes back
to that moment on the studio floor, the raw, terrifying honesty,
the way she looked, naked and holding my guitar, the
most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The song that came
from that moment. It was the best, most honest thing
we've ever written. It was the truth. Now the movie
is ending, The final heartbreaking scene fades to black, the
theater is suspended in a moment of perfect, respectful silence,
and then I hear it, the sound of my own
acoustic guitar, The simple minor chord we found in my
studio fills the vast dark room.
Speaker 2: Our song begins, MY voice, breathing and vulnerable, weaves with his,
our harmonies as interlocked as our fingers. It sounds perfect.
It's the sound of our sixty years of silence, of
our fear, of our final explosive surrender. It's the sound
of us. The credits role, I see our names appear
on the screen, a line of white text that changes everything.
Original song written and performed by Torrian Ash. A tear
slips down my cheek. I'm overwhelmed, not by the screen,
but by the hand the titans on mine. I turn
to look at him. I feel her turn and I
look away from the screen. In the dim glow of
the credits, I see her face, the tears on her cheeks,
the smile that's just for me. The song might be
a hit that might win awards, it might change our
entire career. But as I look at her, I know,
with an absolute certainty that settles deep in my bones
that it really doesn't matter, None of it does.
Speaker 3: All that matters is her is us, And at that
moment I feel it. She's tapping her finger onto the
back of my hand A sinkle pated beat. She's writing
a song. Is the credits roll? I squeeze her a hand.
I know that song. It's the one that will never end.
Speaker 1: Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
tenth Muse Studio.