The Next Song You Write About Me

Hi, hello, you're gorgeous. Thank you for taking a chance on my story! This is a standalone, but if you've read White Knighting there might be some fun surprises.

TW:

a character discusses an abortion she had outside of the narrative

*****

Here's the Song from

That

Sexy TikTok Trend

Chartwatch Magazine

May 31, 2022

If you're on TikTok, you have undoubtedly seen the new sexy trend making its way around the platform.

Videos in the trend follow a similar format: posters film themselves singing along to an upbeat, double-entendre-filled rock song, falling backward out of the frame to transition to new locations and outfits. Invariably, the post ends with the poster falling backward into bed into an enticing boudoir pose, smiling hungrily at the camera.

Users both old and new embraced the trend. Some of the biggest stars on the app have taken part, baring a little teeth and a lot of skin.

For a lot of TikTokers, seeing the people they follow in lingerie is a thrill, but the song has been the real surprise. "Sometimes Girl" by Strawberry Street, a Richmond, VA-based band, was originally released in 2018 to little attention outside of the indie rock community. Now, in 2022, it's impossible to escape as it keeps climbing airplay charts.

Alison Esposito, known on the app as allyadastra, is credited with creating the trend. Her original video featured shots of her at work, at the gym, in her kitchen, and then in bed in a purple lingerie set that matches a streak in her hair.

"I used to see the band live all the time before COVID hit," Esposito said. "I always thought it was a really fun, really hot song. People always sang along. I was just goofing off when I put that post together, but people really responded.

Reading the comments on these posts makes it clear that a lot of users find the trend empowering and entertaining all at once.

"I love the attention the song is getting," said Annie Tucker, the band's bassist. Tucker released her version of the post to the delight of fans. "Steve wrote that all on his own, and he's the one singing it. I think the reason it resonates as this sexy thing is because he means every word he sings. There is a 'Sometimes Girl,' and he put it all out there for her."

While Tucker swears she's not her bandmate's fixation, she won't name names.

"Ask Steve."

***

June 2022

Steve woke at 5 a.m. with a hangover and no hope of getting back to sleep. He spent 20 minutes trying to keep his stomach from turning over before he decided to risk a shower.

He made his way to the bathroom in the hall across from his room. A fluffy purple towel was waiting, folded neatly on the toilet seat. He smiled.

Thanks for looking out, Sperry.

When he texted his sister the night before, she'd gotten her spare bedroom ready, left him a cup of water on the nightstand, and left a towel out. She never asked why he needed to crash at the last minute. Instead, she just asked that he not wake her up.

Hope you can't hear the shower going.

Steve opened the faucet and pulled the little ring on the drain to start the water. While Steve waited for it to heat up, he pulled off the white tee and boxers he slept in. He looked at himself in the mirror. The red eyes and disheveled hair were a blast from the past. He hadn't looked this rough since the last tour.

Fuck me, that was three years ago.

His eye wandered to the tattoo over his heart. He, Annie, and Slip were riding high then. The alt-rock websites noticed (and liked) their sophomore album. Shows sold out. Other acts started asking if

they

could open

for

Strawberry Street. He couldn't remember who suggested getting matching tats of the band logo, but he'd gone along happily. Not long after, COVID shut down the live music business and their momentum ground to a halt. What was supposed to be a quick pause turned into a real hiatus.

Now you're a grown man with fruit tattooed on his chest.

He stepped into the shower, excited for the momentary relief from the misery the hot jet of water would bring. The problem was there wasn't a hot jet of water. More like a lukewarm trickle. He jiggled the handle and tried turning the shower off and on again. No dice. Steve made a silent promise to never drink again and resigned himself to a terrible shower.

It wasn't a hangover buster, but the shower cleared his head enough to let him start the day. He got dressed and made the bed. He checked the band's social accounts. They had gotten thousands of streams overnight because a B-list actress had shown off her underwear.

To words I wrote,

he thought.

Eat your Nobel Prize-winning heart out, Bob Dylan.

There were also 27 comments on Instagram about a post from the night before. It was a photo of three beer glasses clinking together mid-toast. The caption simply said, "reunited and it feels so good."

The comments were all from the diehard fans. Steve loved hearing from them. Strawberry Street has been fortunate to attract overly enthusiastic music nerds instead of obsessive creeps. The nerds always had nice things to say, and he got a kick out of their speculation on what the photo could mean. Plus, as Steve would admit to anyone around, he

was

an overly enthusiastic music nerd before he was ever in a band.

As he scrolled, one comment jumped out at him and barreled into his strawberry tattoo-covered heart like a fantasy speed metal riff into a crowd of 15-year-old virgins.

roxieroller

I wish I knew you were in town

Oh hell, that's trouble.

He clicked the username to check out her profile. The short dark bob, the red lipstick, the big couture shades. Yep, definitely her, and all over apparently. The feed was full of the typical influencer content: hot girl in great clothes posing in fantastic locations. The most recent posts were all from the nation's capital.

I wonder what she's doing back here?

Steve navigated to his contacts and scrolled to one simply labeled Break Only in Case of Emergency. He pulled up a new message.

703-902-xxxx: Sorry, I didn't tell you I was in town, but to be fair it was a last-minute business visit. Also, I didn't know you lived here. Heading back to RVA later today, but we can grab a coffee if you'd like.

Steve hit send and exhaled. He felt every ache in his body flare up, in mere anticipation of seeing her again. He lay down on the couch and was asleep before he could even put his phone on the coffee table.

His eyes fluttered open an hour later. A woman sat next to him, cross-legged on the floor. Her bushy brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and she stared at him with wide brown eyes from behind her tortoiseshell glasses.

"You look terrible, Steven."

"Good morning, Sperr-bear," he said. His throat was parched, and the sun coming through the balcony doors hurt his eyes. Suddenly, something hit his face with a wet slap.

"Keep this warm compress on for fifteen minutes," Sperry said. She forced the washcloth over his forehead and eyes. He felt her hand reach for his and press pills into it. She lifted a cup to his mouth. "This is ibuprofen."

"Yeah, I assumed it wasn't MDMA," he replied. He lifted his head off the pillow enough to take the meds and water then handed the cup back to his sister. "Something is wrong with your shower."

"No, Steven, something is wrong with

your

shower," she said. "I have new low flow fixtures. Don't you realize we only have so much fresh water to go around? Most people in the world can't even take a --"

"Sperry."

"What?"

"Can you tell me about it when my headache goes away?"

"Yes, but I need a cuddle."

Steve opened his arms up and felt her crawl on the couch. She put her head on his chest and they lay quietly for several minutes, floating in the unconditional closeness of twins.

"Your phone has gone off eleven times," she said after a while. "Three of those seem to be texts from a strange emergency number."

"Sperry, you can't just go through my--wait, what? Where's my phone? Give it here!"

***

The first two texts read, in order:

571-822-xxxx: It makes me happy to hear from you.

571-822-xxxx: Come by anytime after 11 and we can do lunch.

The third was an address on Belmont Road in the city. He pulled up a map on his phone and groaned his head in dismay. Adams Morgan. That beautiful little pocket of the town with tons of stuff to enjoy and no easy Metro access from the Virginia side of the Potomac. He decided to drive in, and then just head home from lunch.

As fate would have it, there was a spot right outside the address. He parallel parked and locked the car. It felt too easy and an eerie foreboding fell on his shoulders. For the next five minutes, he walked up and down the block looking for hidden No Parking sides. After a fruitless search, he figured he was as safe as he could be.

You're stalling, Steve

, he thought.

She's not that scary.

He checked himself in his rearview mirror. She'd recognize him. Still tall, but just shy of lanky. Still blessed with the curly brown hair she liked, but the hairline was ever so slightly headed north. Still the same tattoos on his chest and arms, plus a few new ones she hadn't seen. All things considered, he was still Steve Byrd.

He climbed twelve stairs up to the door of the red brick rowhouse. There were two doors at the top, each with a tenant's name. Her's was on the right. He knocked loudly on the old wood door.

"If that's Steve, come in."

Steve obliged. He pressed the door open and strode boldly into her apartment. Of course, had he walked in like a normal person he would've noticed the pile of mail that had come through the slot and not slipped on the small package and pile of envelopes in his way. Steve caught the wall and used it to right himself. He picked up the mail from the floor and held it out in front of him to the girl standing twenty feet away in the flat's open kitchen.

"Hey, Roxie," he said. He looked at the mail in his hands, exaggerating his effort to make the stumble look intentional. No point seeming cool now. "I'm seeing mostly junk, a few bills, and a package from your mom."

She stared at him. He shuffled from foot to foot. Slowly, a smile crept across her face.

"Thank you, Beanpole," she replied, coming around the kitchen island. "I was going to pick that up, but I was so excited to see you that it must've slipped my mind."

"Right." He walked across the apartment's main living space. Everything was immaculate. A cream-colored mid-century modern sofa sat facing the bay window to the street, across from a long console table, mostly dedicated to Roxie's record player. Two armchairs sat close to the wall where long built-in cabinets groaned under all her books. "Because Roxie Cortland is famous for being a mess."

"I'm famous for lots of things."

She leaned her elbows back on the island behind her and Steve exhaled sharply as he took in the sight. This time, like all the others, she knocked him out.

Since she never minded putting herself on display, he enjoyed the show. Roxie was 5'9", and right now most of that looked like leg. She had one pushed in front of her, the other bent at the knee. His eyes ran up them, starting at a pair of low, round-toe leather heels with straps around the ankle, up her calves and thighs, to a red mini skater skirt. She was wearing a black scoop neck tank top that looked so plain that it probably cost hundreds of dollars. The neckline plunged deep, drawing the eye to her breasts--

"Are you good?" she asked, Cheshire grin still spread on her face. Steve snapped back to reality, spell broken.

"Enough attention already? What have you done with Roxie?"

"Nothing, I just want to get to lunch," she said. She stood up from the counter and touched his arm. "You look like you need to eat."

"Yeah, I mean, I haven't had breakfast, but can't I get the tour...oh...damn."

He'd been looking around while talking and failed to notice Roxie reach down and pull the front of her skirt up.

"You remember how to do this?" When Steve didn't make an immediate move, she flicked her eyes down expectantly. "Come on, we've got a lot to catch up on."

He looked down at the antique hardwood floors and sighed. This would be hell on the knees.

Steve sank in front of Roxie and pulled himself a few inches closer. The black top was a bodysuit and judging by a little wet spot spreading she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

He leaned in quickly and ran his tongue across the spot. Roxie yelped in surprise at the sudden motion and swayed for just a second. Steve looked back up at her and winked.

"You were supposed to unsnap it first," she said.

"I know what I'm supposed to do," he replied, running his fingers through the closure. A button popped open. "You can drop the dominatrix act." A second button popped open. "It's just us." The final button popped and the taut garment slid back up her torso.

There she was. Steve always remembered Roxie's pussy as perfect and found his memory served him. She confessed once years ago that she was self-conscious of the size of her mons, which made everything else look oddly small. Steve never understood that. Here was Roxie, with lips he loved to kiss, a little clit he loved to find, and a smell he couldn't get enough of.

He inhaled and let the scent carry him off into one of those weird thoughts one has during sex that sounds creepy if said aloud.

She always smells like home.

Steve looked up into her eyes again.

"It's good to see you again, Roxie."

He pressed his lips to her again and opened them against her folds. He used his tongue to lick her, slowly, from the perineum to the hood. Roxie took a deep breath and her hips rolled, bringing her closer to him.

"It's good to see you again, Sometimes Boy."

He smiled for a half-second before she collided with his face. He began to lap at her, and not indiscriminately. Steve knew Roxie couldn't handle precision. He ran the tip of his tongue along the edges of her lips. He flicked it across the bottom edge of her vulva, to a little sensitive spot just outside, towards her ass. He dragged it back up through her labia, ending with a little swirl and kiss on her clit.

Roxie moaned, signaling approval with his work. She was wetter than the spot on her clothes prepared him for. Steve imagined her pacing around her kitchen waiting for him to arrive, as nervous as he was after these years apart. Imagining an even playing field did wonders to help him ignore the pain in his knees.

Steve put his hand on Roxie's right leg. As he licked her, he ran it up and down in time, from the bottom of her thigh up to her cute ass. Each time he came back down to start again, he could feel her knees quivering.

"I'm ready...to cum...make me--"

He pushed his mouth down, making a seal around the top of her pussy. With strong, flat strokes he licked her clit, applying pressure to all sides as best he could. She ground on his tongue. Roxie's moans slid up the register into whimpers.

Steve knew this was it. He didn't change pace or technique. That was for amateurs. He kept the pressure on her, the way she loved it, wrapped up in his tongue with each little shake.

She screamed as she came, really screamed, and fell away from him back towards the island. He followed and licked her again playfully, but she pushed him off.

"How did I do?"

Roxie laughed and pulled Steve to his feet. She kissed him on the cheek, close to his lips.

"You did great, Beanpole," she said. "It's still early enough to grab brunch. Let's go because I'm starving."

***

There were about fifteen brunch spots within five blocks of Roxie's rowhouse. She told Steve on the walk that she hadn't tried them all yet since she'd only been there for about three months. In the end, they just chose the one that was second closest because they had a two-top ready for them.

Roxie wanted to order the bottomless mimosas but Steve turned her down. She pouted as he explained that he didn't want to chase his hangover since he had a two-and-a-half-hour drive home.

"Well, it's not my fault you can't handle your alcohol," she said.

"Nothing is ever your fault," he replied. "You're always gone out the window or disappearing out the back door while the rest of us get the blame."

"It's not my fault you're slow."

Steve laughed and put out a hand. She slapped it. The feel of her soft hands in his, even for an instant, flooded Steve's brain with nostalgia. It was always like this with her, this wild oscillation between crazy sexual misadventure and feelings of total comfort and ease. That's what they did. It's what they'd always done.

It had been four years since they'd seen each other though. Each had somehow missed the others' entire mid-20s, or as she'd put it, "the fucking pandemic ruined our hot years."

He watched her sip a Bellini. She winked as she sucked it through a bendy straw. Her hair was cut a little shorter, which made her look like a whole ass adult. Her skin had the same pretty sun-kissed tan, but now with one tiny little line near her eye. Her confident poise was intact, but he could see a tiny new weariness creeping in around the edge she thought he wasn't looking.

The last time we met neither of us had real jobs,

he thought.

She's still crazy hot.

"Sperry would be pissed if she knew you were using that straw," he said lightly.

"Sperry would love me if you ever introduced us," she replied. "Does she have a thing against straws? Is she still trying to save the sea turtles?"

"She has a Ph.D. in marine ecology and she works for the EPA."

"So, yes about the turtles then? Well, I already opened this straw so the damage is done." She took a long slurp of the drink.

Steve turned his attention back to his egg biscuit. It was good, not great, and he missed Richmond. He always got funny looks when he talked about how good the food scene was in the smaller city, but once you have the spicy chicken and waffles at GWARbar it's hard to go back to anything else.

"Speaking of never getting introduced," he said after a few bites, "how's your mom?"

"She's doing well, but going stir-crazy. Now that people have just given up on 'rona, she wants to go to Spain. I'm helping her plan the trip, which is full of drama, but also, hello, Spain."

"Drama? You?" He tried to put as much shock and surprise into his face as he could. She picked up a piece of bread from the basket and threw it hard, hitting him on the shoulder. "Sorry, sorry. Is it your dad?"

"Sì," she said with a resigned sigh. "El Papa Fantasma." Steve had tried a few times over the years to get the entire story out of Roxie, but talking about it upset her. He eventually realized that sharing too much triggered something very not nice in the otherwise bubbly woman and gave up. She did offer clues over the years. Steve had pieced together the broad strokes: her mom had a torrid affair with a Spaniard when she was 18, got pregnant, and lost all contact with the man. Roxie spent her teen and college years learning Spanish and did a study abroad thing in Toledo, but that never brought her closer to the ghost. "A couple of months ago, mom found an old diary with his name in it. We thought it was Adelardo Herrera."

"It wasn't?"

"Adelardo Hierro."

"Oh shit. Are you going to find him?"

"Mom wants to. That package that came today is something for her. Some genealogy thing that'll help us trace his surname in Spain."

"Good luck," Steve said, raising his glass of water with a tentative shrug. She clinked her Bellini against it.

"How about you?"

"'How about me' what? Am I trying to find my dad? No, he's a dick." She laughed and clapped her hands excitedly. Over the years, Roxie had gotten much joy out of the fact that it was better to have no father than to have one like George Byrd. Steve let her enjoy the moment. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. The breeze from the bistro's open windows helped put him at ease. "Lots of news to be honest. Let's see. Sperry got her Ph.D., as I said. Jamie got married. I went back to school to complete my degree, and just finished my first year of teaching. Huge band news though. You're the first to know. Strawberry Street is playing shows again. We have some dates this summer lined up here in DC. That's why I'm in town."