November 6, 2025 • 54 mins
Six years of shared vans, tiny stages, and unspoken desire. For Tori and Ash, the line was clear: they were creative partners, and nothing more. But after a fight that threatens to end it all, the truth can no longer be ignored. The song they have to write isn't just about music—it's a confession. And the only way to finally finish it is to let six years of forbidden passion explode on the studio floor.
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The Five Year Kiss
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Introducing Roxy's Bookshop!
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The Five Year Kiss
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hey there.
Speaker 2 (00:00):
This is Annie and I play Emma in the Swipewright
series of episodes here on Roxy's Erotic Whispers. I just
wanted to let you know that Roxy has all of
the Swipewright stories now available in a deluxe e book.
You can find it on Amazon at Roxy dot show
slash swipe right All one word. If you enjoyed the
(00:21):
swipe Right episodes, you'll love reading ebook.
Speaker 3 (00:27):
Hello, my lovelies, 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 build
ups to amazing love making in a soft bed and
getting fucked by three guys in a dorm room for
(00:48):
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.
In this case, it's two musicians that I've worked together
for years and don't want to risk their creative tension
with a tension of a relationship. But who says these
(01:09):
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 note this podcast
is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 1 (01:30):
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 snapped 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
(01:52):
hours in this subaru that smells like old guitar cases,
stale coffee, and him he just grins, not looking away
from the gray ribbon of the highway.
Speaker 4 (02:02):
It's a hook tour. It's catchy. If you can't get
it out of your head, it's a good thing.
Speaker 1 (02:07):
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 Torris
being prickly. Si Well, I am prickly her driving seven
(02:30):
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 4 (02:44):
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
(03:07):
key 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
(03:30):
at 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 median.
Speaker 5 (03:41):
I mean it.
Speaker 4 (03:43):
I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Anyway, I'm
pulling off the next exit. You want your usual, my usual?
Speaker 1 (03:52):
He knows. I want a large black coffee with one
raw sugar and a pack of peanut m and ms.
He knows that's my I'm stressed, but also creative. 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
(04:14):
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.
(04:35):
You lost the bet on the last song.
Speaker 4 (04:38):
The bet was whether I could write a bridge for
Flicker in under ten minutes.
Speaker 5 (04:42):
She knows I threw it. I let her win.
Speaker 4 (04:45):
She needs the win 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.
Speaker 5 (05:02):
I watch her out of the corner of my eye.
Speaker 4 (05:05):
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
(05:29):
no one else gets. My ex boyfriends would call it fidgeting.
Ash doesn't just listen.
Speaker 1 (05:34):
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
(05:58):
my guitar, not the gibson, the the beat up acoustic.
Speaker 5 (06:02):
I'm not sure you noticed, but I'm driving.
Speaker 1 (06:04):
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 C minor.
(06:25):
Now what if we 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 4 (06:41):
The next hour is a blur, the exit ramp, the
bad coffee, the shitty gig, It all dissolves.
Speaker 5 (06:48):
It's just us.
Speaker 4 (06:50):
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,
(07:10):
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
(07:34):
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 1 (07:56):
We did it. It's perfect. The 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, her voice is
(08:18):
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
(08:39):
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 him 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.
Speaker 4 (08:59):
I put on her playlist, And to be honest, although
I would never tell her this, I really like it.
Speaker 1 (09:07):
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.
(09:31):
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 trenched 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
(09:55):
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, were Torri and Ash?
Good night.
Speaker 4 (10:16):
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 feeding 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? Ipant?
(10:41):
Leaning against this center 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 burries her face in my shoulder. I hold her,
my arm's instinctively wrapping tight around her waist. I can
(11:04):
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
(11:26):
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 1 (11:47):
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,
(12:07):
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 disgusting.
Speaker 5 (12:25):
Yeah me too.
Speaker 1 (12:27):
He's looking at me with an unreadable expression.
Speaker 4 (12:30):
Seriously, tor that was that was amazing.
Speaker 1 (12:35):
I'm not sure if he's referring to us holding each
other or the show. Damnit Tory. Of course he's talking
about the show. It was I finally answer, grabbing my bag.
I walked 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. Worse safe.
Speaker 4 (12:59):
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 you?
Speaker 5 (13:09):
Both? Front of house? Now? Shit?
Speaker 4 (13:12):
Did we run long? It's the club on our pisted.
I pull on a clean T shirt. My HeartMate kicking
up for a whole new reason. I text toy Ben
needs us now meet in the hall. I pressend and
step out. She's already there, her hair damp, her face
pale and worried.
Speaker 1 (13:31):
What did we do?
Speaker 4 (13:33):
No idea, I say, trying to sound more confident than
I feel. Let's go find out.
Speaker 1 (13:39):
We walk back into the main room. It's mostly empty now,
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 6 (14:02):
She looks familiar, Ash Toy. This is Paul Vance, and
this is Credit Gerwig.
Speaker 1 (14:12):
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. Credit
Gerwick smiles, a warm, genuine smile. That was just extraordinary.
(14:34):
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,
(14:55):
a complicated one, and we need a song for the credits.
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 Gradeleine's in her eyes, focused and serious. We'd love
(15:16):
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, This is the break, the
one that changes your life forever. Yes, Ash blurts out,
finding his voice before I can.
Speaker 6 (15:35):
What my client means.
Speaker 1 (15:37):
Ben says, jumping in and smoothing his tie.
Speaker 6 (15:40):
Is that we are extremely interested in discussing this opportunity.
Speaker 1 (15:44):
Paul hanns benechart 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 4 (16:08):
Is it strange that in that exact moment, all I
wanted to do was ster atory 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 1 (16:28):
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
(16:49):
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 rock, quiet,
(17:12):
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 loud,
dramatic 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
(17:34):
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,
(17:56):
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 us.
(18:22):
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
(18:44):
certainty that he sees it too.
Speaker 4 (18:49):
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
Tore 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
(19:11):
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
(19:31):
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 ex girlfriends, not my family,
has ever understood about us. It's this, this secret language.
(19:56):
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.
Speaker 5 (20:06):
This is about us.
Speaker 4 (20:08):
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.
Speaker 5 (20:25):
He looks up.
Speaker 4 (20:27):
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 1 (20:40):
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 so thick. I feel like
I'm breathing water. This should be easy. We just saw
the movie. We all the movie. This song should be
(21:02):
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
(21:23):
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.
That's a solid start tour. It's it's not Ash, It's
not honest. I see him flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible
(21:49):
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 could right in our sleep. But now
it feels like a lie.
Speaker 4 (22:10):
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.
Speaker 5 (22:30):
Why why? Now?
Speaker 4 (22:32):
This is Grete 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
(22:55):
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 1 (23:18):
He thinks it's perfect, denying to himself that it's not
that he's hiding 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
(23:39):
from six years of forced platonic partnership, and it's all
boiling over the Skui stays 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,
(24:01):
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,
(24:22):
all consuming creative love with you and pretend and pretend
that all it needs is a chord progression. I'm shaking,
my fists 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.
(24:50):
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 movements sharp
and jerky, toy dehn't. I can't. I can't write to this.
(25:15):
I walk out and slam the studio door behind me.
The sound is final. I half expect him to follow,
to grab my arm. He doesn't. 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 4 (25:39):
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,
(26:00):
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 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
(26:20):
old dynamic. I tried to hide us from ourselves, 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.
Speaker 5 (26:40):
This is it.
Speaker 4 (26:41):
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 send and feel like I'm going to be sick.
Speaker 1 (27:02):
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
(27:22):
to me that what we had was worth fighting for.
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
(27:44):
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
for a different reason. Now a dizzy and terrifying wave
of relief. Your Way. He knows what that means. It's
(28:09):
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 4 (28:28):
When she walks back into the studio, the air is electric.
That 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.
(28:49):
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 hui. Okay,
my voice sounds rough in the quiet.
Speaker 5 (29:05):
No more hiding. You said I was dishonest. You were right.
Speaker 4 (29:09):
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 head, not knowing where I'm going. I
hold up my hand. Just trust me, She nods. We're
(29:30):
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 knuckles 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.
(29:53):
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 in
the movie.
Speaker 1 (30:12):
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 4 (30:24):
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
(30:47):
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 in the fire.
Speaker 1 (31:03):
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 left for me,
six years of silence, afraid of the cost. My gaze
(31:24):
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 4 (31:48):
I read the book of you, memorized every page, but.
Speaker 1 (31:53):
We stay 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 5 (32:11):
I've always wanted to.
Speaker 1 (32:13):
He sings, his voice cracking with raw emotion. That's not performance.
Speaker 5 (32:17):
Just see what's in your eyes.
Speaker 1 (32:20):
I've always wondered. My voice trembles. What 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 5 (32:40):
She stops singing.
Speaker 4 (32:42):
The music hangs in the silence, an unresolved chord. The
only sound in the room is our 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.
Speaker 5 (33:01):
I have to know. I have to see her.
Speaker 4 (33:04):
I slowly, silently put the guitar down on the floor.
She's in her chair.
Speaker 5 (33:10):
I'm in mine.
Speaker 4 (33:11):
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 her skin, the soft
(33:33):
exhale of her breath. My entire universe narrows to this
one point, this one inevitable, terrifying second.
Speaker 1 (33:42):
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.
(34:04):
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
(34:25):
what we had. It will be destroyed. Just as his
lips are about to touch mine, I turn my head.
The motion jerky, agonizing, hashed. If we can't, please don't
listen to me, please ignore me, please just do it.
Speaker 4 (34:44):
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
(35:07):
chairs feels like a thousand mile chasm. The rejection is
a cold, sharp ache in my chest. Yeah, you're right.
The partnership, it's everything. I look away from her, at
the guitar on the floor. We tit it, we wrote
the song. It's perfect, it's honest. It's the best thing
(35:30):
we've ever done, and it has cost us everything.
Speaker 1 (35:37):
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 4 (35:49):
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 rings still on the side table.
(36:13):
I've spent the last twenty four hours in a self
imposed hell, coming to a single, gunt wrenching conclusion.
Speaker 5 (36:21):
She was right.
Speaker 4 (36:22):
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.
(36:44):
My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone,
my thumb hovers over her name.
Speaker 5 (36:49):
This is it, This is the last chord.
Speaker 4 (36:51):
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 drain from my face.
Speaker 1 (37:10):
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
(37:32):
for it. It's Ash. He's telling me I'm wrong that
the song's not finished. I freak 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.
(37:54):
And this is scarier than the fight. This is the surrender.
I text back, I'm on my way.
Speaker 4 (38:06):
When she walks back into the studio, the air is
so thick with unspoken words it's barely breatheable. I cross
the studio in two strides. I'm standing in front of her.
She smells like toy, like vanilla and guitar strings and
safety and all those things that are just her. My
hand comes up. I tangle my fingers and her soft
(38:28):
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
(38:49):
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.
Speaker 5 (38:59):
It's a song.
Speaker 4 (39:01):
She moans into my mouth, her body melting against me,
her hand's grabbing my shirt.
Speaker 1 (39:08):
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,
(39:29):
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 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
(39:52):
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
(40:13):
of my jeans, his keys locked on mine.
Speaker 5 (40:16):
I've been dreaming about this.
Speaker 1 (40:18):
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
(40:40):
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 knights and hundreds
of stages, a smile of us knowing, connecting on stage.
(41:04):
It purss my heart. But then he buries his face
in me.
Speaker 5 (41:11):
She's so wet.
Speaker 4 (41:13):
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
(41:36):
suck it, my hands 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 1 (41:58):
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
(42:18):
pulls back, leaving me suspended, panting on the very edge.
He stands up, his cock straining against the fly of
his jeans. His mouths 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
(42:41):
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.
(43:03):
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. I kiss the head and then take him
(43:26):
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 4 (43:43):
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
(44:04):
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 1 (44:16):
His hand is against the back of my head as
we kiss. As he leans forward, he is slowly lowering
me to the floor. I lie back and stretch and
spread my legs. He's kneeling between them, his hard cot
glistening in the soft lights of the studio. He leans
forward and I close my eyes, taking it all in.
(44:36):
This is the stage.
Speaker 4 (44:40):
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
(45:01):
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
(45:23):
is our rhythm. I start to move, slow, deliberate. I'm
setting the tempo.
Speaker 1 (45:31):
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,
(45:54):
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,
(46:14):
his thumb 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
(46:35):
it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
Speaker 4 (46:39):
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 building, a tidal wave of six
(47:02):
years of waiting. I come with a deep shout, emptying
myself into her, and just as my muscles pulse, my
cock throbbing inside her, I feel her own orgasm seize
my cock. Tightening around me as her body convulses around mine.
It's the final perfect harmony.
Speaker 1 (47:23):
We 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. I
(47:46):
am too terrified to speak.
Speaker 5 (47:50):
So now what?
Speaker 1 (47:52):
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.
(48:14):
There's nothing to ruin. We are exactly where we want
to be. A slow, incredibly happy smile spreads across my face.
Now what, 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,
(48:38):
it's right there. I scramble to my feet, naked and
glorious in the dim studio light.
Speaker 4 (48:47):
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 a regret 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
(49:12):
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. I let 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
(49:33):
C major chord. It rings out in the quiet room.
Speaker 1 (49:38):
We need an ending for the song ash, and I
found it.
Speaker 4 (49:43):
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 hole laid bare just for me, she says, we
found it. The theater is vast and dark, the air hushed.
(50:09):
I should be watching the movie, this film that has
consumed our lives for the past six months, but I can't.
Speaker 1 (50:16):
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 frantic, joyful blur
(50:40):
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 and in mine.
Speaker 4 (51:03):
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,
(51:23):
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
(51:44):
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 1 (52:01):
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
(52:22):
on the screen, a line of white text that changes everything.
Original song written and performed by Tory and Ash. A
tear slips down my cheek. I'm overwhelmed, not by the screen,
but by the hand the titans on mine.
Speaker 4 (52:38):
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
(53:01):
my bones that it really doesn't matter.
Speaker 5 (53:04):
None of it does. 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 syncopated beat.
She's writing a song. Is the credits roll. I squeeze
her hand. I know that song. It's the one that
(53:24):
will never end.
Speaker 3 (53:30):
Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
tenth Mused Studio.
Hey there.
Speaker 2 (00:00):
This is Annie and I play Emma in the Swipewright
series of episodes here on Roxy's Erotic Whispers. I just
wanted to let you know that Roxy has all of
the Swipewright stories now available in a deluxe e book.
You can find it on Amazon at Roxy dot show
slash swipe right All one word. If you enjoyed the
(00:21):
swipe Right episodes, you'll love reading ebook.
Speaker 3 (00:27):
Hello, my lovelies, 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 build
ups to amazing love making in a soft bed and
getting fucked by three guys in a dorm room for
(00:48):
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.
In this case, it's two musicians that I've worked together
for years and don't want to risk their creative tension
with a tension of a relationship. But who says these
(01:09):
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 note this podcast
is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 1 (01:30):
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 snapped 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
(01:52):
hours in this subaru that smells like old guitar cases,
stale coffee, and him he just grins, not looking away
from the gray ribbon of the highway.
Speaker 4 (02:02):
It's a hook tour. It's catchy. If you can't get
it out of your head, it's a good thing.
Speaker 1 (02:07):
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 Torris
being prickly. Si Well, I am prickly her driving seven
(02:30):
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 4 (02:44):
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
(03:07):
key 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
(03:30):
at 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 median.
Speaker 5 (03:41):
I mean it.
Speaker 4 (03:43):
I see the corner of her mouth twitch. Anyway, I'm
pulling off the next exit. You want your usual, my usual?
Speaker 1 (03:52):
He knows. I want a large black coffee with one
raw sugar and a pack of peanut m and ms.
He knows that's my I'm stressed, but also creative. 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
(04:14):
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.
(04:35):
You lost the bet on the last song.
Speaker 4 (04:38):
The bet was whether I could write a bridge for
Flicker in under ten minutes.
Speaker 5 (04:42):
She knows I threw it. I let her win.
Speaker 4 (04:45):
She needs the win 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.
Speaker 5 (05:02):
I watch her out of the corner of my eye.
Speaker 4 (05:05):
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
(05:29):
no one else gets. My ex boyfriends would call it fidgeting.
Ash doesn't just listen.
Speaker 1 (05:34):
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
(05:58):
my guitar, not the gibson, the the beat up acoustic.
Speaker 5 (06:02):
I'm not sure you noticed, but I'm driving.
Speaker 1 (06:04):
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 C minor.
(06:25):
Now what if we 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 4 (06:41):
The next hour is a blur, the exit ramp, the
bad coffee, the shitty gig, It all dissolves.
Speaker 5 (06:48):
It's just us.
Speaker 4 (06:50):
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,
(07:10):
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
(07:34):
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 1 (07:56):
We did it. It's perfect. The 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, her voice is
(08:18):
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
(08:39):
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 him 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.
Speaker 4 (08:59):
I put on her playlist, And to be honest, although
I would never tell her this, I really like it.
Speaker 1 (09:07):
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.
(09:31):
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 trenched 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
(09:55):
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, were Torri and Ash?
Good night.
Speaker 4 (10:16):
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 feeding 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? Ipant?
(10:41):
Leaning against this center 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 burries her face in my shoulder. I hold her,
my arm's instinctively wrapping tight around her waist. I can
(11:04):
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
(11:26):
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 1 (11:47):
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,
(12:07):
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 disgusting.
Speaker 5 (12:25):
Yeah me too.
Speaker 1 (12:27):
He's looking at me with an unreadable expression.
Speaker 4 (12:30):
Seriously, tor that was that was amazing.
Speaker 1 (12:35):
I'm not sure if he's referring to us holding each
other or the show. Damnit Tory. Of course he's talking
about the show. It was I finally answer, grabbing my bag.
I walked 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. Worse safe.
Speaker 4 (12:59):
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 you?
Speaker 5 (13:09):
Both? Front of house? Now? Shit?
Speaker 4 (13:12):
Did we run long? It's the club on our pisted.
I pull on a clean T shirt. My HeartMate kicking
up for a whole new reason. I text toy Ben
needs us now meet in the hall. I pressend and
step out. She's already there, her hair damp, her face
pale and worried.
Speaker 1 (13:31):
What did we do?
Speaker 4 (13:33):
No idea, I say, trying to sound more confident than
I feel. Let's go find out.
Speaker 1 (13:39):
We walk back into the main room. It's mostly empty now,
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 6 (14:02):
She looks familiar, Ash Toy. This is Paul Vance, and
this is Credit Gerwig.
Speaker 1 (14:12):
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. Credit
Gerwick smiles, a warm, genuine smile. That was just extraordinary.
(14:34):
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,
(14:55):
a complicated one, and we need a song for the credits.
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 Gradeleine's in her eyes, focused and serious. We'd love
(15:16):
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, This is the break, the
one that changes your life forever. Yes, Ash blurts out,
finding his voice before I can.
Speaker 6 (15:35):
What my client means.
Speaker 1 (15:37):
Ben says, jumping in and smoothing his tie.
Speaker 6 (15:40):
Is that we are extremely interested in discussing this opportunity.
Speaker 1 (15:44):
Paul hanns benechart 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 4 (16:08):
Is it strange that in that exact moment, all I
wanted to do was ster atory 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 1 (16:28):
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
(16:49):
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 rock, quiet,
(17:12):
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 loud,
dramatic 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
(17:34):
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,
(17:56):
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 us.
(18:22):
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
(18:44):
certainty that he sees it too.
Speaker 4 (18:49):
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
Tore 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
(19:11):
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
(19:31):
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 ex girlfriends, not my family,
has ever understood about us. It's this, this secret language.
(19:56):
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.
Speaker 5 (20:06):
This is about us.
Speaker 4 (20:08):
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.
Speaker 5 (20:25):
He looks up.
Speaker 4 (20:27):
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 1 (20:40):
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 so thick. I feel like
I'm breathing water. This should be easy. We just saw
the movie. We all the movie. This song should be
(21:02):
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
(21:23):
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.
That's a solid start tour. It's it's not Ash, It's
not honest. I see him flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible
(21:49):
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 could right in our sleep. But now
it feels like a lie.
Speaker 4 (22:10):
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.
Speaker 5 (22:30):
Why why? Now?
Speaker 4 (22:32):
This is Grete 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
(22:55):
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 1 (23:18):
He thinks it's perfect, denying to himself that it's not
that he's hiding 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
(23:39):
from six years of forced platonic partnership, and it's all
boiling over the Skui stays 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,
(24:01):
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,
(24:22):
all consuming creative love with you and pretend and pretend
that all it needs is a chord progression. I'm shaking,
my fists 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.
(24:50):
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 movements sharp
and jerky, toy dehn't. I can't. I can't write to this.
(25:15):
I walk out and slam the studio door behind me.
The sound is final. I half expect him to follow,
to grab my arm. He doesn't. 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 4 (25:39):
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,
(26:00):
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 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
(26:20):
old dynamic. I tried to hide us from ourselves, 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.
Speaker 5 (26:40):
This is it.
Speaker 4 (26:41):
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 send and feel like I'm going to be sick.
Speaker 1 (27:02):
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
(27:22):
to me that what we had was worth fighting for.
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
(27:44):
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
for a different reason. Now a dizzy and terrifying wave
of relief. Your Way. He knows what that means. It's
(28:09):
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 4 (28:28):
When she walks back into the studio, the air is electric.
That 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.
(28:49):
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 hui. Okay,
my voice sounds rough in the quiet.
Speaker 5 (29:05):
No more hiding. You said I was dishonest. You were right.
Speaker 4 (29:09):
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 head, not knowing where I'm going. I
hold up my hand. Just trust me, She nods. We're
(29:30):
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 knuckles 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.
(29:53):
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 in
the movie.
Speaker 1 (30:12):
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 4 (30:24):
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
(30:47):
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 in the fire.
Speaker 1 (31:03):
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 left for me,
six years of silence, afraid of the cost. My gaze
(31:24):
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 4 (31:48):
I read the book of you, memorized every page, but.
Speaker 1 (31:53):
We stay 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 5 (32:11):
I've always wanted to.
Speaker 1 (32:13):
He sings, his voice cracking with raw emotion. That's not performance.
Speaker 5 (32:17):
Just see what's in your eyes.
Speaker 1 (32:20):
I've always wondered. My voice trembles. What 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 5 (32:40):
She stops singing.
Speaker 4 (32:42):
The music hangs in the silence, an unresolved chord. The
only sound in the room is our 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.
Speaker 5 (33:01):
I have to know. I have to see her.
Speaker 4 (33:04):
I slowly, silently put the guitar down on the floor.
She's in her chair.
Speaker 5 (33:10):
I'm in mine.
Speaker 4 (33:11):
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 her skin, the soft
(33:33):
exhale of her breath. My entire universe narrows to this
one point, this one inevitable, terrifying second.
Speaker 1 (33:42):
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.
(34:04):
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
(34:25):
what we had. It will be destroyed. Just as his
lips are about to touch mine, I turn my head.
The motion jerky, agonizing, hashed. If we can't, please don't
listen to me, please ignore me, please just do it.
Speaker 4 (34:44):
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
(35:07):
chairs feels like a thousand mile chasm. The rejection is
a cold, sharp ache in my chest. Yeah, you're right.
The partnership, it's everything. I look away from her, at
the guitar on the floor. We tit it, we wrote
the song. It's perfect, it's honest. It's the best thing
(35:30):
we've ever done, and it has cost us everything.
Speaker 1 (35:37):
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 4 (35:49):
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 rings still on the side table.
(36:13):
I've spent the last twenty four hours in a self
imposed hell, coming to a single, gunt wrenching conclusion.
Speaker 5 (36:21):
She was right.
Speaker 4 (36:22):
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.
(36:44):
My fingers are shaking as I pull out my phone,
my thumb hovers over her name.
Speaker 5 (36:49):
This is it, This is the last chord.
Speaker 4 (36:51):
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 drain from my face.
Speaker 1 (37:10):
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
(37:32):
for it. It's Ash. He's telling me I'm wrong that
the song's not finished. I freak 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.
(37:54):
And this is scarier than the fight. This is the surrender.
I text back, I'm on my way.
Speaker 4 (38:06):
When she walks back into the studio, the air is
so thick with unspoken words it's barely breatheable. I cross
the studio in two strides. I'm standing in front of her.
She smells like toy, like vanilla and guitar strings and
safety and all those things that are just her. My
hand comes up. I tangle my fingers and her soft
(38:28):
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
(38:49):
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.
Speaker 5 (38:59):
It's a song.
Speaker 4 (39:01):
She moans into my mouth, her body melting against me,
her hand's grabbing my shirt.
Speaker 1 (39:08):
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,
(39:29):
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 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
(39:52):
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
(40:13):
of my jeans, his keys locked on mine.
Speaker 5 (40:16):
I've been dreaming about this.
Speaker 1 (40:18):
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
(40:40):
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 knights and hundreds
of stages, a smile of us knowing, connecting on stage.
(41:04):
It purss my heart. But then he buries his face
in me.
Speaker 5 (41:11):
She's so wet.
Speaker 4 (41:13):
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
(41:36):
suck it, my hands 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 1 (41:58):
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
(42:18):
pulls back, leaving me suspended, panting on the very edge.
He stands up, his cock straining against the fly of
his jeans. His mouths 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
(42:41):
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.
(43:03):
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. I kiss the head and then take him
(43:26):
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 4 (43:43):
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
(44:04):
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 1 (44:16):
His hand is against the back of my head as
we kiss. As he leans forward, he is slowly lowering
me to the floor. I lie back and stretch and
spread my legs. He's kneeling between them, his hard cot
glistening in the soft lights of the studio. He leans
forward and I close my eyes, taking it all in.
(44:36):
This is the stage.
Speaker 4 (44:40):
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
(45:01):
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
(45:23):
is our rhythm. I start to move, slow, deliberate. I'm
setting the tempo.
Speaker 1 (45:31):
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,
(45:54):
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,
(46:14):
his thumb 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
(46:35):
it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
Speaker 4 (46:39):
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 building, a tidal wave of six
(47:02):
years of waiting. I come with a deep shout, emptying
myself into her, and just as my muscles pulse, my
cock throbbing inside her, I feel her own orgasm seize
my cock. Tightening around me as her body convulses around mine.
It's the final perfect harmony.
Speaker 1 (47:23):
We 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. I
(47:46):
am too terrified to speak.
Speaker 5 (47:50):
So now what?
Speaker 1 (47:52):
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.
(48:14):
There's nothing to ruin. We are exactly where we want
to be. A slow, incredibly happy smile spreads across my face.
Now what, 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,
(48:38):
it's right there. I scramble to my feet, naked and
glorious in the dim studio light.
Speaker 4 (48:47):
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 a regret 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
(49:12):
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. I let 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
(49:33):
C major chord. It rings out in the quiet room.
Speaker 1 (49:38):
We need an ending for the song ash, and I
found it.
Speaker 4 (49:43):
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 hole laid bare just for me, she says, we
found it. The theater is vast and dark, the air hushed.
(50:09):
I should be watching the movie, this film that has
consumed our lives for the past six months, but I can't.
Speaker 1 (50:16):
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 frantic, joyful blur
(50:40):
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 and in mine.
Speaker 4 (51:03):
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,
(51:23):
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
(51:44):
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 1 (52:01):
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
(52:22):
on the screen, a line of white text that changes everything.
Original song written and performed by Tory and Ash. A
tear slips down my cheek. I'm overwhelmed, not by the screen,
but by the hand the titans on mine.
Speaker 4 (52:38):
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
(53:01):
my bones that it really doesn't matter.
Speaker 5 (53:04):
None of it does. 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 syncopated beat.
She's writing a song. Is the credits roll. I squeeze
her hand. I know that song. It's the one that
(53:24):
will never end.
Speaker 3 (53:30):
Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
Callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
tenth Mused Studio.
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