Stage Left Collapse but His Dick’s Still Hard: The Ember Files - Log 4
We continue with Mara and Wyatt from the ProLOG - archived as an Erotic Behavioral Playback File.
To read previous log - Log 3.2 - click here.
Date of Incident: December 8, 2023 (continuation of ProLOG)
Location: Mara Luz’s private residence – Palm Springs, CA
Classification: Erotic Behavioral Playback | Subject: Wyatt Vega (51, Virgo Sun)
INSTITUTE CONTEXT
Filed as direct narrative artifact from Observer 014 (Mara Luz).
Captured for analysis of Subject Vega’s established seduction patterns, boundary erosion strategies, and compulsive intimacy under substance-induced disinhibition.
Highlights the observer’s internal conflict and her continued complicity in cycles of symbolic contamination.
He wants to talk. Or make out. Or whip me. Or whatever.
Sure enough, tap-tap-tap at my front door. Not urgent. Just enough to let dread crawl in.
Wyatt: "It’s me. I’m not here to fight. I’ve got something for you."
I paused. Looked through the peephole. That smug lean, like he was still backstage somewhere in LA instead of outside my door. Eyes glassy, sweating tequila.
I should have left him out there.
The desert was dead quiet behind him. Just the buzz of my fridge. The neighbor’s dog barked once, then fell silent like even it knew better.
But he didn’t pound or yell. Just that same soft tap-tap-tap.
Wyatt: "Come on. Open the door."
I opened it.
He steadied himself on the frame, trying to look languorous and sober. He wasn't. He looked seconds from face-planting.
Same cocktail as always. Half a bottle of tequila, pills, coke, maybe meth to keep the party going.
His face was puffy, like candle wax about to melt. I could have pressed a thumb in and left a dent.
I sighed and stepped back. He stumbled in and dropped onto my couch, boots hanging over the armrest.
I hoped he’d pass out.
No such luck.
Wyatt: Babe. Take my boots off.
Mara: Fuck you. I can smell them from here.
Wyatt: Then I’ll fuck you with them on.
Mara: Right.
I was sure he was too wasted for sex. No way his dick was getting hard tonight even if I tied a brick to the tip and dropped it off my roof.
Wyatt: Is that douche-fuck here? Was he here?
He was unbuckling his belt. The cracked leather snapped in his hand.
Wyatt: I’m gonna whip you with this belt. You know you like it.
He wasn’t wrong. I did like it. Just not tonight.
That belt was worn to hell. Holes stretched out. A metaphor for us.
I stood there stiff. Silence meant I was pissed. Or I hoped it did.
But my resolve was already softening.
Wyatt: (after a beat) I’m getting a divorce. She wants the kids. The dogs. The Malibu house.
He forgot about the imaginary bass player hiding in my closet.
We never did small talk. We just launched straight to the fire.
Mara: You have a house in Malibu? Jesus. Your bougie ass. You’re supposed to be all punk rock, DIY, "I don’t care about money."
Wyatt: I don’t care about money.
Mara: Bullshit. You don’t even hear what you say anymore.
Wyatt: Why are you so pissed? I didn’t come here to fight.
He scanned the room.
Wyatt: That dude’s not here? The fucking bass player?
Mara: Nobody’s here.
He kept playing with the belt.
Part of me felt sorry for him. The other part was furious. For his wife. For myself. For every woman dumb enough to love a man like this.
He deserved the divorce.
Brilliant. Charismatic. Bastard.
Wyatt: Please sit down. I need you. I want to kiss you. Let’s make out.
Mara: Make out? What are we, fifteen? You said you had something for me. What is it? Your limp dick?
Wyatt: Damn. That’s cold.
He patted his lap.
Wyatt: Baby, my dick’s not limp. Come check.
Mara: So do you want me to kiss you or check your pants?
Wyatt: Both.
Turns out he wasn’t as gone as I thought.
He wanted to talk. Or fuck. Or both.
Earlier that day I swore I’d block him forever. No more 2 a.m. knocking. No more tequila-sweat apologies. No more half-conscious humping on my couch.
But here I was.
Heart pounding.
Throat tight.
I wanted to straddle him. I wanted to taste him.
I turned away. Busy hands. Busy mind. Coffee. I’d make coffee.
Wyatt: Mara. Please. Just listen. Give me a second.
His cheeks were flushed. Blood pressure? Coke? Age creeping in? Blood pressure meds now sat in the same pocket as the coke baggie in his wallet. I sat beside him.
He turned to me with that same animal pull in his eyes.
And his dick? It really was hard.
I could see it.
I could feel it.
And goddammit, I smiled.
Yee-damn-haw.
END OF LOG 4
To read the next log - Log 5 - click here.
