This week’s #WickedWednesday prompt is A Musical Interlude. The rockin’ Rebel asks, “Is there a tune or style of music that gets your juices flowing? Is there an artist who gets your heart pumping, toe tapping, and heat rising?”
Why yes, Rebel, there is! Thank you so much for asking. I’ll take Chris Isaak for a million points, please.
Specifically, Wicked Game (which ties in oh, so nicely to Wicked Wednesday).
I spent most of the 90s lusting after Chris Isaak. Luscious lips, a creamy croon and melancholy eyebrows, oh my. Combine the sheer magnetism with soul-throbbing lyrics and a country-twangy electric guitar and you’ve got finger fuckin’… er, I meant finger lickin’ good.
Other than being wickedly delicious, what does Chris Isaak’s tune have to do with this week’s prompt? Well let me tell you, my friends.
Once upon a time, there was a girl. We’ll call her Debbi, and she loved a boy unto distraction. We’ll call him Dean. Fortunately, Dean didn’t notice Debbi.
She devoted an entire year of college to the abyssal depths of an unrequited crush. Nine months of heartache, of will-he-notice-me-today, of finding out his schedule so she could lurk for a glimpse.
Just as well Dean never noticed her. He turned out to be a total tool. She’d have ended up with a venereal disease, knocked up and dragged to a backstreet butcher for a botched abortion.
Dean’s roommate Patrick wasn’t a tool. In fact, Patrick was the kind of sweet, likeable, good looking young man you’d be proud to introduce to your mother. He also had an epic crush on Debbi and a rare gift of perception. Until she got over Dean, he knew she would view every other man as a cardboard cut-out.
So Patrick did what any reasonably intelligent guy would do. He got Debbi drunk and…
No, not really. That’s the kind of thing Dean would have done.
Patrick befriended her. He listened to her wax lyrical about the beauty of Dean’s thighs, his perfect smile, how he had almost smiled at her today. Patrick demonstrated a genuine interest in Debbi, talking to her about music and books and life dreams.
But his most dastardly move? Patrick friended her on Facebook.
By way of Dean’s posts that tagged Patrick which were then visible to Debbi, after nine months of obsession, she had no choice but to acknowledge his douchebaggery.
Dean had an internship for a modeling agency in Los Angeles. All summer, he posted pictures of drunk and/or unconscious girls in compromising positions, claiming to have slept with each one. Even in photos where you couldn’t see his face, the smirk came through.
By the time Debbi got back to campus – a week early, for her Resident Assistant (RA) training – her obsession had passed.
Patrick met her at the bus station. He hugged her, careful not to hold on too tight, not to show more than the barest hint of joy.
“Let’s get dinner at the Chinese place in town, then go watch a movie in my room.”
Debbi nodded, face pressed against his shoulder. He had carefully angled his hips so she wouldn’t feel his hard-on, acute at seeing her for the first time in months.
Her ribcage expanded and he realized she was breathing him in. He pressed his nose into her hair and did the same. Sunshine and salted caramel.
Dinner went quickly. Patrick entertained her with bizarre tales from his summer job on campus.
“So I stumbled on this couple having sex in the stacks,” he told Debbi, keeping his voice down.
“No.” She fumbled a chopstick, fascinated and horrified at the thought of having sex where someone might see you.
“Yep.” Patrick waved his lettuce wrap toward the floor. “They were going at it doggy style.” He leaned forward, grinning in anticipation of her reaction. “They were in the 203 section.”
Debbi raised both eyebrows. “Is this a library geek joke?”
He nodded, happy she got it, even if she didn’t get it. “203 is part of religion. It’s public worship.”
Both hands covered her mouth to hold back loud laughter.
“That is so wicked. They’re going straight to hell.” A snorting giggle ruined her pretense of being seriously offended. “Doggy style, huh?”
She sounded interested. Patrick went tongue-tied. He cleared his throat. “Yes. She had on a dress, he had pushed it up on her back and had her panties pressed against her mouth to keep her quiet.”
She shuddered. “Not my thing.”
Patrick couldn’t help himself. “Panties as a gag? Doggy style? Or sex in public?”
“The panties and sex in public.”
After an awkward pause, though his dick urged him to ask about favorite positions, he forced a socially acceptable question. “What movie you want to watch?”
“Let’s just talk. Listen to music. Maybe you can show me the app you’re designing.”
“Yeah, okay. I could use your opinion,” he agreed. “This game might be too geeky, sort of a Star Trek meets Wheel of Fortune.”
Debbi looked around Patrick’s room, clearly surprised. “A lot neater than it used to be,” she observed.
“Hard to keep it clean with five guys.” Patrick had been brought up by a father who believed in keeping things neat and tidy. Living with a bunch of guys the previous year had been tough. Only worry about the stuff you can change, he had finally decided, and you’ll use less Zantac.
“So.” Debbi sat on his bed. “What are we listening to?”
He pushed a couple buttons on his laptop. “Got a playlist lined up.” He grinned over his shoulder, anticipating her reaction. Sure enough, her eyes closed to savor Aretha Franklin’s “Natural Woman,” a smile curving her lips even as she lip-synched along.
Debbi’s immersion into music appealed to him on so many levels. Eyebrows, shoulders, lips, hips…every part of her responded. She refused to sing aloud, though, claiming familial resemblance to creaky hinges.
Aretha soared to a finish. The mournful wail of an electric guitar heralded Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game.” Goosebumps rippling down her arms, nipples puckering against the thin tank top.
When full, soft pink lips parted and her tongue darted out for a lick, Patrick had had enough.
Her eyelids fluttered, raised. “Such a sexy song.”
He leaned over and licked her bottom lip, then bit it. She sat statue-still.
“You’re my Helena Christensen.” Patrick traced her cheek and pushed a curl behind her ear. He meant every word, even though it sounded so corny when he said it out loud that he cringed. He waited, expecting her to laugh, to give him the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, the “let’s not ruin our friendship” speech.
She did none of those things. Instead, she punched his arm. “Why did you wait so long to tell me that?”
She pushed him back, climbed on top. “You remember I told you this song makes me melt?”
He grinned up at her. “It’s on endless play.” He reached under her shirt to pinch her nipples through the cotton bra. “Between his voice and my hands, we’ll take care of you.”
For your viewing pleasure, here is the full music video for Wicked Game, a gem of the 1990s.
Posted in response to prompt #206 for Wicked Wednesday, curated by the luminescent loveliness of Marie Rebelle. Click the rainbow circle for more wicked sexiness.
Feature image courtesy of Suriya Kankliang at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.