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This story was adapted from a chat play between myself and an anonymous partner.
I’m at the Funky Underground once again to see and meet Paragon Express, a five piece indie pop group that is on the rise. The show was great, full of melody and introspective lyrics yet still upbeat and not too broody. As the crowd filters out I head to the back, my front zip ankle boots giving little me an extra inch or so of height as I seek out the singer for the interview that I have arranged, with my phone camera at the ready. My hair is bundled on top in what is usually called a pineapple (except that my three dreadlocks flop out and hang down like fern fronds) and showing off my undercut that I just had reshorn the other day. I’m in my favorite snagged up fishnet stockings that show my sorceress tattoo on my thigh, and black cutoff jean shorts held up by a thick studded belt. On top I have nothing but a black strapless bra and my old faded light blue denim jacket, showing plenty of light brown midriff, the Punjabi text inked down the right side of my ribs and of course my navel piercing. It’s one of many, the stud in my nose and the hoop in my brow and of course all of the punk bling in my ears as usual. It’s my makeup that sets me apart on this night as my dilated eyes are slashed with an eighties punk style orange band across them with heavy black mascara of course, and my lips are painted in ruby. I’m a tinge sweaty from the couple of bumps of coke I did before the show as I peer into the band room but don’t see anyone important, just a couple of guys from the opening act packing their cases.
“Let’s go! Everyone out!” the bouncer warns and I wander down the hall to the cool damp air of the back alley. Through the doorway I see him off to the side, having a smoke or a toke while a few yards away his band mates are loading their van. His name is Sam Wyman.
“Hey, I’m Jaz,” I approach him. “Great show.”
His face lights up, and he seems to be caught a bit off guard with the adrenaline from his set still wearing off. His plaid shirt was buttoned up on stage but is open now, showing the black v-neck with tattered hem that hangs right at his belt. He’s in dark blue selvedge jeans cuffed above black boots. A bottle of tequila hangs from one of his hands and a joint is in the other.
“Jaz! What’s going on! Thanks for coming out,” he calls to me as he sees me coming. With the bottle dangling from his fingers he pushes back his dark hair, thick and unkempt, from his eyes. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Sam Wyman.”
“Likewise,” I smile. “Tequila, good choice,” I nod towards the bottle and step closer.
“Drink of champions or something, right?” he chuckles, then sets the tequila between his feet for a moment to roll up his sleeves.
“Are you ready to do this?” I ask with a trace of nerves.
“I’m ready, but you’re not,” he says. Then he reaches down for the bottle and pops it open. “Have a drink with me and then we’ll get started.” He tilts it back and takes a quick swig. I’m sure that my eyes light up when he then holds it out to me. “Do you need to set up or are we good?” I take it and swig down a decent gulp myself.
“Thanks,” I blush in effervescence and then hand it back. “We’ll have to find a spot with enough light for the camera,” I say as I pat my camera phone in my front pocket and scan around the area. “Is there somewhere that you prefer or maybe we could just go under that street lamp,” I nod behind him a few yards down the lane past the dumpster and the loading door of the next address. Sam takes the bottle back and peers down the way where I pointed.
“Yeah, yeah that works. Let’s roll,” he agrees. Casually, we walk down a ways, putting space between us and the random smokers hanging out as the rest of the band loads up their gear. Sam stops directly under the street lamp. The light catches his hair and crowns it. “It’s not stage lighting, but it’ll do in a pinch!” Seeing how the light hits his hair makes me a bit giddy.
“Now let me find a spot for the camera,” I say as I lean down to the knee-high concrete ledge in front of that loading door and prop it up on it’s tripod case. Then I shift aside and check the framing, getting the lamp post into view just off center before stepping back and joining him next to the post, leaning against it with my palm. There’s a rusty green dumpster in the shadows behind us in front of a dirty brick wall and there’s a wooden crate on the ground on the left edge of the frame right next to the ledge, giving a real back alley look. I glance back at the camera screen. It’s quite small from here but it looks like we’re framed. “Ready?” I ask, my eyes brightening as I look up into his.
“I think I’m ready, yeah,” he says as he lights a joint and takes a couple of quick puffs. “Let’s do this,” he adds, half-wheezy with his lungs full of pot. He leans on the post and offers me the joint. I take a quick toke. “I’m all yours, Jaz,” he says.
I settle myself, exhaling the smoke, adana escort then stand up straighter at about a forty-five degree angle to the camera and look into the lens. The video starts like this.
“Hi again, it’s HardCoreJaz here to interview Sam Wyman of Paragon Express who just played the Funky Underground here in Seattle,” I start things off. “They’re originally from Pittsburgh but are currently fighting out of New York City.” Then I turn to him for the first question and hand back what’s left of the joint. “Great set. How did it go for you?”
“It went great!” he smiles broadly for the lens. “I love venues like these. You can really feel the energy in rooms like these. The crowd really gets into it.” My eyes gaze up at him rather adoringly as he answers, and silver font titles show up beneath us on the screen: “SAM WYMAN – Paragon Express / HardCoreJaz”. He discards the roach and continues. “I felt like we played well, but the best way to know what a good show is, is to ask the fans,” he says then turns to me. “So what do you think? You get to take a few minutes and rock out tonight?”
“I loved it. You guys were really delivering,” I tell him as I lean against the post. “It sounds like you’ve been playing together for some time. How did this all start?” I ask.
“Just a bunch of college kids,” he laughs as he pushes off from the post and shifts his stance. “It’s not that complicated, really. Jesse was at Pitt while Marcus and I were at Carnegie Mellon. Will worked at a record store we all went to. The rest was just nerds playing music.”
“And that was how long ago?” I follow up as I straighten a loose strand of my hair and my skull embossed bangle slips up my forearm.
“About eight years now,” Sam answers quickly, seemingly a bit distracted by the bracelet. “Hey, that’s really cool,” he remarks as he stops my wrist with his hand and admires the bangle. “That’s cool. You’ve got your own style. I like that.”
“Yeah, you might say, haha,” I chuckle. Then I turn to the camera, open my jacket and cock my head to one side as I slowly twist to show my outfit as skimpy as it is on this occasion, even lifting one foot briefly to show my boot. Then I turn back to him and lean against the post again. “I just have to say that I love your hair,” I blush. “Can I touch it?”
“When you look like that, you can touch whatever you want,” he laughs. “Don’t get me started on whatever’s going on under that jacket.” About a foot taller than me, he leans down so I can reach. I swivel on my heel as I’m backed into the lamp post. Tenderly I reach up and tug on a few strands at the front before running my fingers through deeper and deeper, gently messing it about before tugging it back into somewhat the shape it was when I started. I stifle a quiet nervous laugh and smile.
“You like my jacket?” I ask playfully. “This old thing?” and I stretch the corner down.
He straightens up and looks me over with a broad smile. The sudden flare in his eye turns me on. He wants me. Then he reaches up behind my head and links his fingers into my pineapple.
“You were so gentle with my hair. I usually start that way,” he says as he casually teases my locks. Then his grip tightens. “But usually I don’t stop there.” Now it’s my turn for my eyes to brighten and my mouth briefly gapes in nervous excitement before I settle back into interview mode.
“You’re far from home,” I note. “How has the tour treated you so far, and is tequila the band’s drink of choice?” I ask, eyes sparkling intently. He pulls my head closer leaving me to sway playfully against the post, the subtle motions causing sensual tugs on my scalp from his grip that periodically dim my eyelids.
“Tequila! Haha, that’s for me,” he answers. “Jesse hasn’t touched it since he woke up with his face in a saucepan. I think they’re more beer guys. But the tour’s been good,” he explains. While he speaks, my hand takes his free one and gives it a squeeze. “Things have been kinda chill, to be honest. Everything’s gone according to plan.” He looks deeply into my eyes. “Personally, I could go for a bit of the unexpected.”
“So, you’re not the only songwriter in the band but as the lead singer and the principal writer, could you explain the meaning behind your single ‘Since We’ve Been at War’?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was about feeling a little guilty, really,” Sam explains as he peers down at our linked hands. His other one still in my hair tilts my head back and slowly giving it a twist. “I was in a relationship that fell apart when I started seeing some more success,” he continues, his face closing in, looming over me. “And I wasn’t getting what I wanted in the relationship – emotionally, intellectually, sexually. As soon as I got out of that situation, things in my life started going really well.” I’m captivated by his gaze as my hair is in his grip and my neck cranes up to hold it unflinchingly. “So that one’s about how life can change after a relationship.”
“And ankara escort what do you want – sexually?” I ask almost breathily. He mock ponders for a moment before answering.
“I think you and I can figure that out, hm?” Then with a smirk he takes our linked hands and places mine on his belt buckle “There are a lot of potential answers at the moment.”
“I’m sure we can,” I agree and then take a breath. However smitten with his tender touch, I try to keep the interview on track. “Not only do you sing lead vocals, you also play guitar and keyboards. As a multi instrumental talent, how does that change the band’s sound when you are on the synth as opposed to when you are more of a two guitar rock band?”
“So I just started playing synth on this newest record. There’s more of a groove to it,” he says as his hand releases my hair and moves my other hand to join the first on his belt. The ends of my fingers curl in behind the buckle. He unclasps it and I tug the end length through before he reaches up to slide my jean jacket off my shoulders and down to my elbows, putting my small brown chest in my little black bra in display. “It gets people to their feet. It has more energy, more flexibility. I still love playing guitar on tracks, but the synth is a ton of fun. New toys are the best.”
“New toys,” I repeat and lead into my next question, “new album coming and a new label, Hot Winter Records. How is all that working out?” I ask as I pop the button on his fly.
“M-hm. Um, it’s good. Hot Winter has been great to us, and they were really supportive of the artistic direction of the band,” he says but his concentration seems to be slipping. His hands lower to my cutoff shorts, his eyes drifting about to the camera, the randos hanging out, and then back to me. He pulls me close by the waist of my shorts, urging a step forward from my boot. He leans down and plants his lips firmly against mine. Our bodies collide and I wrap my arms around his waist as we kiss, slow and indulgent, lapping at each others gums and palates. In the background the van door slams and there are faint inaudible voices. As our lips part my hand glides under his shirt and rests on his chest. I pause for breath, then gaze up at him intently.
“Your first two records ‘Half Life’ and ‘Late Night at the Harmon Arms’ have a definite new wave influence. Will you be going more in that direction with the influx of more synth on the next album?”
At this point Sam takes charge, turning me about and yanking my jacket the rest of the way off. One of his hands reaches to undo my shorts while the other roams up my ribcage to paw at my bra. My little breast pops out, it’s small dark taut nipple for the small off-camera galley to see and my spine writhes subtly in delight.
“We have just been playing music we enjoy lately,” he begins to answer. “We all love new wave and I think that does come through, but we’ve been playing around with old-school funk, weird proggy stuff, and just about anything else we can get our hands on.”
“Including me, apparently,” I blush as he manhandles me. Now that my jacket is on the ground, the camera gets a decent view of the thorned heart ink around my upper arm. I lean back against him, the dreamy expression on my face shows that I’m almost melting in his grasp.
“What can I say? The hands want what they want,” he explains as he slips my shorts down my thighs. My black satin panties make an appearance as he bends me forward a bit and I reach out to support myself against the post. Then he grips me with one hand on my hip and the other in my bundle of hair. I quiver in nervous excitement as a slight arch forms in my spine while my neck stretches. Then he whispers to my ear. It’s difficult to hear but listening closely he asks, “What do you want, Jaz?”
“I don’t want you to ask,” I breathe. “I want you to want to know,” I grin, quoting his own song while he paws at my fishnets, tearing another link or two which does nothing to change their already ratty appearance. “Can you tell me about that lyric?”
“We always ask how someone is without actually giving a shit,” he says. He keeps a hold of my locks while his other hand reaches down between my legs to finger my pussy through my panties. My hips twitch as he finds my damp slit and I jut my ass out, putting a little extra arch into my back. The bit of pudge in my thighs wiggles as I widen my stance to give him better access. His motions are in sync to the inflection of his voice. “What we really need most is someone who actually wants to know how we are.”
I hold onto the post with both hands. It’s a little bit cold (not that the camera can tell) and I wonder if we’re still framed well but I can’t really check from this position. With a bit of a laugh Sam pulls back.
“Oh, right. We should get a better shot, hm?” he suggests, seemingly cluing in to my concerns. “Don’t want to disappoint the audience.”
I chuckle adıyaman escort nervously. Even though I’ve done this more than once before, it still makes me a little anxious each time. I ease my head forward as a cue for Sam to loosen his grip so I can turn and see. He lets go and I bend my head down, twisting my neck to look back at the rather tiny screen on the concrete ledge looking up at the two of us. It’s difficult to see but I wave a hand and I detect the motion well within the frame.
“I think we’re good,” I say, looking back at him through my band of orange makeup. “You gonna stand in the alley with your hand in my pants all night then?” I tease blushingly. He smirks, then gives my ass a playful little smack.
“Not all night. Just enough to get you nice and wet for me,” he says before sliding the black satin down and slipping two fingers into my pussy. I gasp softly and arch my back again to jut my booty out for him. It has a little extra flesh on it. My panties and shorts hang around my spread thighs and expose the half that he doesn’t obscure for the camera. “Nhh,” I mewl as his fingers squidge around inside me. His grin spreads as his thumb finds my clit and starts to move in slow circles. I gasp a sharp hiss and my spine flinches.
“Woot!” someone shouts from further down the alley, perhaps one of the other guys in the band loading the van but there’s no way to tell for sure.
“You wish your night was this good!” Sam shouts out to our spectator. I chuckle nervously again as we’ve been spotted, before I begin rolling my hips subtly to go with the motions of his thumb spreading some of my wetness about around my hood. His other hand holds my hip keeping me steady.
“Did you have any other questions for me?” he asks. Then he gives my plump little ass another smack before unbuckling his belt.
“I have a few but… you’re spoiling my concentration,” I laugh as I self-consciously straighten my bra and put my nipple away. His belt clinks open and my breath deepens. His hand and my hips develop a rhythm while he let’s go of my hip to yank the rest of his belt through the loosened buckle. Then he positions himself behind me and reaches forward to give my hair another firm pull. “Unhh,” I grit my teeth briefly before peering back at him with a grin.
“Breaking your concentration?” he asks. “I thought you were a professional. Let’s hear it.”
“All right,” I agree between deep breaths. “We were talking about the eighties,” I say while grinding my booty back into him. “What bands more specifically influenced your writing and your sound?” I ask as he bends me further over.
“We have a lot of eighties bands that we listened to when we were kids, y’know? They all played a role,” he begins. Then his cock makes its appearance, the end with a slight upturn to his mushroom tip. He teases my entrance with it. “Adam Ant, Jesus & Mary Chain, Psychedelic Furs… we love those guys.” He tilts his head to look me in the eye as his tip nuzzles in. At such urging, I lean forward a bit more, trying to widen my stance but my shorts and panties near my knees keep my thighs from spreading too far and I gasp quietly, my mouth forming a gentle O for a moment before stretching slowly back to a grin. Our hips start to find a rhythm as he starts to push the rest of his length inside me. “The Cars and Madness, too. We try to take it all in, y’know?”
“Take it all in, you say?” I blush as I easily rock back to take his length. Suddenly Sam reaches for the pole and ushers me around. “Oop?” I gasp rather loudly, caught off guard by his manhandling. I step awkwardly, my legs restricted by my shorts and panties just above my knees, first facing the lens full frontal with him behind me, my black bramble showing rather clearly, then over to the left of the frame right next to the ledge where he gives me an urging shove and bends me over the crate. I set my elbows down and my bangle clunks on the wood. My face is now off camera but his white stalk bobs about, a little bit long, maybe seven smooth inches.
He holds me down firmly and buries himself back into my pussy, this time all the way to the hilt. He starts to fuck me, our hips knocking together in that squarely satisfying way that only happens at this angle.
“Yep. Take it alllll in just like that. See what I mean?” he says. Right at the edge of the frame his hand deftly unhooks my bra, pulling it away and dropping it to the side and my little tits drop free, the edge of the curve visible as it grazes on the wood. I fix my stance, my boots on the pavement to lift my ass as best I can. “You sure fucking know how to interview,” Sam mutters.
A couple of random spectators from the venue walk past behind the pole, a guy and a girl holding hands. Oddly, she’s taller than him with jet black hair and ample curves and he’s short and thin and blonde. They take a blushing glance as we start to gain intensity.
“Ohhhh,” I exhale as his shaft wedges into me and my walls form around it, trying to squeeze him back out. “Mnh, ngh, uh, uhh,” I take his thrusts, the smucky sounds of our bodies striking between my sighs. My ass pushes back into him. The passers-by pass by and one of them (presumably the guy) gives a quiet wolf-whistle. “Heehee,” I chuckle mischievously.
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