Gear, Technique, and Fuckability: The Ember Files - Log 5
Wyatt’s back. High, horny, haunted - and Mara’s done playing nice. Archived as Erotic Behavioral Playback File.
To read pevious log - Log 4 - click here.
Date of Incident: December 8, 2023 (continuation of ProLOG and Log 4)
Location: Mara Luz’s private residence – Palm Springs, CA
Classification: Erotic Playback | Subject: WYATT VEGA (51, Virgo Sun)
Access Level: 3 – Somatic Loop Recognition
INSTITUTE CONTEXT
Filed as direct narrative artifact from Observer 014 (Mara Luz).
Captured for analysis of Subject Vega’s continued seduction cycle, use of confessional vulnerability to sustain intimacy, and Observer’s oscillation between attraction and emotional containment.
Highlights the dynamic of compulsive erotic negotiation as boundary erosion, typical in long-term contamination patterns.
He nestled deeper into the couch, head against my shoulder. I kissed the top of his head, pressed my nose into his scalp.
He smelled like sweat and acrid cigarette ash. Musky, like semen. Smoky, like mezcal. His hair was sticky from the gel he’d sweated out on stage.
I’ve always said men who use hair gel and wear tighty-whities are disqualified from serious consideration. Two cardinal sins. Fortunately, Wyatt’s only guilty of one. And even then - only sometimes. He rarely wears anything underneath those jeans.
Wyatt: I’m tired.
Mara: God. You’ve been on tour how long now?
Wyatt: Exactly a year. Yesterday.
Mara: No shit.
Of course I knew that. I’d been clocking every setlist, every crowd pic, every grainy hotel selfie on the band’s Instagram. Not from him—he’s allergic to social media. Brags about it in interviews. “Doesn’t have time.” But the machine runs on it.
What really ate at him was the bootleg footage. He hated how the mystery leaked out of every venue and onto the internet—pixelated, shaky, raw. He wanted to be legend. Not livestream.
Mara: You don’t look good.
Wyatt: I don’t feel good.
Mara: How’s your throat?
Wyatt: Deep.
Mara: (laughs) Of course. Ever sucked a dick?
Wyatt: Maybe. You?
Mara: None worth mentioning.
Wyatt: That’s cold.
Mara: You look like shit. Puffy, dehydrated, pale. Not especially fuckable tonight.
Wyatt: Plenty of people would. Fuck me, that is.
Mara: Women. Men. The gender-fluid.
Wyatt: The gender-what?
Mara: Oh my God, you are ancient. You’re like a Scorpions cassette or a Men at Work video. Did I ever tell you the first video I saw was Men at Work’s ‘Who Can It Be Now?’ I didn’t even know what I was looking at. I just knew I wanted more.
Wyatt: Mine was probably ‘Rio.’ Duran Duran. Friday Night Videos. But let’s get back to me. I’m still fuckable, right?
Mara: Yeah. You are. You’re still holding. Aging rockstar syndrome suits you. Mick Jagger still got laid at your age.
Wyatt: Don’t compare me to Mick.
Mara: Fine. You’re hotter than Mick. But come on, Wyatt—it’s not hard for someone like you to get laid. Vince Neil still gets action, and he looks like a bloated corpse in a Harley vest.
Wyatt: I’ve still got it, baby.
Mara: You do. Instagram proves it. Fire emojis. Girls thanking you for existing. Meanwhile, the rest of the band gets comments about their pedals and tone settings.
Wyatt: They’re not complaining. At a certain age, men stop caring about the sex and start caring about being known for their gear and technique.
Mara: Riiiiiiight. Okay. But don’t the fellas get annoyed that you hog the spotlight?
Wyatt: That’s the gig. Frontmen get the light. Always have.
Mara: Even in the Stone Age?
Wyatt: What?
Mara: Caveman bands. Bone flutes. Proto-drum solos. First groupies were probably cavewives who blew the lead singer behind a mammoth carcass.
Wyatt: You're so fucking weird.
Mara: Historically accurate.
He lifted his head and met my eyes. His gaze burned—tired, sure. But still predatory.
Mara: You smell like pure sex. Like a feral mountain lion out too long. It’s been a month since we fucked.
I reached for the unfastened belt buckle he’d been fingering earlier and yanked the belt out of his jeans.
Wyatt: Oh, okay. That’s where we’re going. But wait - seriously. I need to talk to you. Don’t flip out. Just… listen.
Mara: So you’re already assuming I’ll flip out?
Wyatt: Yeah.
Mara: This I gotta hear.
I laid the belt across my knees like a weapon. Not angry yet—but preparing. My tolerance for this was eroding fast. Maybe he was about to say the one thing that would snap the cord. Maybe this was the moment we reached the edge.
Wyatt: We’ll get to the sex. Just hear me out first.
END OF LOG 5
To read the next log - Log 6 - click here.
