DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #31 - release (please)

⚠️ mentions of drugs and sex ⚠️

It didn't take me too long to realise that I'd signed up for groupie cringe, when I decided to sit on this couch, sandwiched by Chrissie & Chris and hot brunette & Starr. We are surrounded by a bunch scantily clad, rather hot, very lustful babes here: I can count about five of them, and they all look very scrumptious. All the fellow girlies around us have been talking about who they've done, from which band, when, where, how well hung they are, and how the overall deed was. Oakland Gossip Committee, I suppose. Except that I, Victoria, the self-proclaimed president of the Seattle Gossip Committtee, have kept my mouth shut about my past affair with Inez and my ongoing stint with Sean. Because my hookup life is nobody's business but mine, and partially these guys'. I'm slightly less rotten than flexing my sex n' almost sex adventures with guys who play in rock bands. Some things are meant to stay private, ain't them?
I see them guys as humans, not as prizes. Sometimes they have emotions, I promise, not just full balls. And whatever the case is, full balls or emotions, they shall be left alone, not become the gossip of the day.
Let them have fun in peace. They're living their best life, the dream life of just about every sane, red blooded man, and as long as they have fun in the right terms... what's bad about it?
I don't condone of slandering rocker guys. Except it's Cuntrell we're talking about, 'cause he's a shithead and he doesn't deserve a word that ain't a word of hatred.

Three Ozzy songs later, my mr. Honda Four is still nowhere to be seen. If I didn't know that he takes his time in everything he does, including 'fucking' and showering ... I'd assume he died under the water stream. But he's most likely alive, well, chilling and snorting Fentanyl with a towel around his hips. Yum.
Seriously now. That bastard went to take a shower and he didn't invite me... how rude was that? I just wanted to get in there with him. Not necessarily to fuck, because fucking is a veeeery slow burn kinda activity for us. But I just wanted to kiss him and finish what we've started in the supply closet ... but without clothes on, and under the water stream. Who said that he has to stick it inside, in order to have some fun?

Help me. I think that I'm enabling his peepee elusiveness, instead of getting frustrated by it. This means that the influence of mr. Honda Four on me is much stronger than the influence of the cherry red, love pill that Starr's brunette gave me. Yes, the one that I've already sucked on, and should've made a horny mess of me a while back. More or less around the time that this silly talk about who's gonna fuck who tonight got started. Yes, these girls with backstage passes glued on their tits are really talking about who they're gonna try their luck on, after the show, and they're fucking talking of men like they're prizes for the night. They're tryna bargain over who has to lay hands on who like this is the scramble of Africa, not a concert backstage,and I find it disgusting.

I ain't like them. I am way more interested in Scramblers, as in motorcycles, than in scrambles. And the extent of my difference from them doesn't empower me, it just humbles me. Because I'm different, yes, but when I say different ... I don't mean better. I mean a lot weirder.

'Who you here for, sister?' A dreadlocked, very pretty blonde asks of Chrissie, spread over Cornell's lap like a clam. That chick must be higher than me, if she still hasn't realised that my brunette bestie is here for noone else but her man... who is no less than the frontman of Sound-fucking-garden. Did she really, like, not recognise Chris? Where has she been living the last few years of her life? Under a rock in Oakland?

Chrissie just laughs a bit under her breath at the dumb question, her both hands entangled with Chris's. They're all cutesy, holding hands and exchanging smiles, and I'm genuinely happy for them. I couldn't be any more heartwarmed to know that Chrissie has finally found her one and only. I just sometimes wish I had something like this, all for myself. Someone who loves me, even slightly less than I love them. But maybe, maybe, love ain't for me in this life. I've never felt a deep, spine arching connection with someone. I have had crushes, little boyfriends and little girlfriends, but I don't think I've ever been hundred percent in love.  Not the same way as 'em two lovebirds, that's for sure.