He didn't just play the bass; he wrestled it, his thighs bracketed around the curve of the wood like he was trying to keep it from bolting.
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[TRANSCRIPT OF SESSION 14: INTERVIEWER DR. ARIS THALASSA / SUBJECT: JULIANNE M.]
[TIME: 14:22]
DR. THALASSA: Let’s go back to the night at the club. The place you mentioned—The Iron Lung.
JULIANNE: It’s a basement dive on 15th Street. You have to walk down these stairs that feel like they’re made of petrified chewing gum. It’s cramped, maybe twelve tables total, and the stage is just a slightly elevated platform in the corner. The ventilation is a suggestion, not a reality.
DR. THALASSA: And this was where you met him. Elias.
JULIANNE: Yes. Elias Thorne. I was there because I’d heard the acoustics were good for a travel piece I was writing on Denver’s underground scene. I sat at the bar because the tables were reserved for people who actually bought dinner. I ordered a neat bourbon—High West—because it tastes like the high desert, and I waited.
DR. THALASSA: Tell me about the first version of the story. The one you told your editor.
JULIANNE: The sanitized one? Fine. Version one: The band came on at ten. A quartet—drums, piano, tenor sax, and Elias on the upright bass. He was wearing a charcoal linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He didn't look at the audience. He looked at the strings. He has these large, heavy hands—the kind that look like they’ve spent time clearing brush or building fences. He played a twenty-minute set of Monk covers. The chemistry between the musicians was evident. After the set, we ended up sharing a narrow hallway near the restrooms. We talked for about five minutes. He was polite, asked if I liked the music, and told me they were playing again the following Thursday. We shook hands. I left. That’s the version that makes it into the blog.
DR. THALASSA: It’s very... logistical. Very neat.
JULIANNE: It’s a sequence of events. It’s what happened, strictly speaking.
DR. THALASSA: But it’s not what happened to *you*. Let’s try version two. The sensory one. Don’t worry about the timeline. Just tell me what you felt.
JULIANNE: [Silence for 8 seconds] Version two. Okay. The room was hot. Not just 'summer in the city' hot, but that thick, communal heat that happens when fifty people are breathing in a space meant for twenty. The air felt heavy, like the atmosphere right before a hailstorm in the foothills. When Elias started playing, I didn't just hear the bass; I felt the vibration in the soles of my boots. It traveled up through the barstool, a low-frequency hum that settled right in the base of my spine. He didn't just play that instrument. He inhabited it. He leaned his chest against the back of the bass, his legs wide, bracketing the wood. The way he gripped the neck of that bass reminded me of how you have to hold a steering wheel on an icy descent down Independence Pass—white-knuckled and praying for traction.
I couldn't stop looking at his forearms. They were ropey, corded with muscle that shifted every time he plucked a string. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that caught the amber stage light, making him look like he was carved out of something harder than skin. When our eyes finally met during the second song, 'Round Midnight,' it wasn't a glance. It was an impact. It felt like that moment when you’re hiking and you turn a corner and see a bull elk standing ten feet away—that sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline that tells you you’re in the presence of something that could crush you if it wanted to.
DR. THALASSA: And the conversation in the hallway?
JULIANNE: The hallway wasn’t a conversation. It was a pressure cooker. We were shoved together because a waitress was trying to squeeze past with a tray of empty glasses. He smelled like cedarwood and salt and that metallic tang of old coins. He didn't move away when the waitress passed. He stayed. His shoulder was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him like a woodstove in a mountain cabin. My pulse wasn't just racing; it was thudding in my ears, mirroring the rhythm he’d just been playing. I asked him where he learned to play like that, and he looked down at me—he’s a head taller, easily—and his voice was this gravelly baritone that made the hair on my arms stand up. He said, 'I didn't learn. I just stopped fighting the noise.' Then he reached out and touched my wrist. Just a thumb against the pulse point. He held it there for three seconds. He knew. He knew exactly what my heart was doing.
DR. THALASSA: That’s much more vivid, Julianne. But we’re still missing the core, aren’t we? You came here today because you can’t stop thinking about the third version. The one you haven't told anyone. The version that is, as you put it, the only one that actually matters.
JULIANNE: [Exhalation] You want the clinical truth? Fine. Version three. The real one.
When he touched my wrist in that hallway, I didn’t just feel his thumb. I felt the callouses on his fingertips—rough, hard skin earned from years of dragging steel strings. It was a friction that made my stomach drop. I didn’t say anything clever. I didn’t have a travel blogger’s quip. I just leaned back against the damp brick wall and looked at him. The hallway was dark, illuminated only by a dim red 'EXIT' sign and a sliver of light from the kitchen door.
'You’re staring,' he said. He didn't sound arrogant. He sounded like he was observing a fact, the way I might observe a change in the weather.
'You’re worth staring at,' I told him. My voice was thinner than I wanted it to be.
He stepped closer. There was no space left. His chest was brushing my silk camisole, and I could feel his heart hammering—not fast, but heavy. Like a slow, deliberate drum. He didn't ask. He just reached down, his hand sliding under my chin, his thumb hooking into the corner of my mouth. He pulled my lower lip down, just a fraction, exposing the wetness inside. His eyes went dark, the pupils swallowing the iris until they were just two black pits.
'Do you have any idea how loud you are?' he whispered. 'Sitting at that bar, watching me. I could hear you over the drums.'
I reached for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the leather. I wanted to feel the weight of him. I wanted to get away from the jazz, away from the crowd, but we weren't going anywhere. He grabbed both of my wrists and pinned them against the bricks above my head. His grip was like iron—not painful, but absolute. He looked at me for a long beat, his breath hot on my face, smelling of the bourbon I’d been drinking.
'There's a storage room behind the stage,' he said. 'The lock doesn't work, but nobody goes in there during the second set.'
'Take me there,' I said.
We didn't walk. We moved like we were tethered. He led me through a heavy velvet curtain that smelled of fifty years of dust. The storage room was tiny, filled with instrument cases and extra chairs and a stack of old amplifiers. The only light came from the crack under the door. The band started their second set—a fast, frantic bebop number. The floorboards were literal percussion under my feet.
He didn't waste time. He pushed me back against a stack of Peavey amps, his hands immediately under my skirt. He wasn't gentle. He was efficient. He found the lace of my underwear and simply hooked two fingers into the side, pulling the fabric taut against my hip before sliding it out of the way. When his hand made contact with my skin, I let out a sound that was lost in the crash of the cymbals from the other side of the wall. He was so warm. His fingers were everywhere at once—probing, testing, finding the wetness that had been building since the first solo.
'Look at me,' he commanded.
I opened my eyes. He was unzipping his trousers with one hand, the other still buried between my thighs. He was thick, already hard, the skin of his penis dark and stretched tight. He didn't use a condom—I know, I know, it was reckless, but in that moment, the idea of a barrier felt like an insult to the intensity of the room. He spat into his palm, a quick, slick motion, and then he was rubbing himself against me.
I reached down, my hands finding his ass, the muscle there as hard as the granite in the Rockies. I pulled him in. I wanted the collision. He didn't just slide in; he forced his way, his size stretching me until I felt like I might break. It was a glorious, sharp pressure. He let out a low growl into my neck, his teeth grazing the skin over my carotid artery.
Every thrust was timed to the music. The drummer was hitting a heavy backbeat, and Elias was matching it, his hips slamming into mine with a violence that made the amplifiers rattle. I was clawing at his back, my nails digging through the linen of his shirt, trying to find purchase. The friction was incredible. His calloused fingers were still working on my clitoris, pinching and rolling it while he drove into me, creating a sensory overload that made my vision blur.
'Tell me,' he groaned, his voice vibrating against my collarbone. 'Tell me how it feels.'
'It feels like... like everything is too tight,' I gasped. 'Like I’m falling and I don't want to hit the ground.'
He pulled back, almost all the way out, the tip of him just barely hooked inside, and then he lunged forward again, burying himself to the hilt. My head hit the wall behind me, and I couldn't breathe. I was hovering on the edge, that precarious ledge before a total white-out. The music outside was reaching a crescendo, the saxophonist screaming through a solo, and inside that dark, dusty room, the air was purely electric.
He shifted his grip, lifting my legs and wrapping them around his waist. Now he was taking all my weight, his arms supporting my thighs while he continued that relentless, rhythmic pounding. I could feel the sweat from his chest soaking into my shirt, our bodies slick and sliding against each other. The smell was primal—musk, sex, and the sharp scent of old electronics.
He stopped suddenly. Not because he was finished, but because he was listening.
DR. THALASSA: Listening? To what?
JULIANNE: The music. The tempo had shifted. It had slowed down to a crawl—a deep, bluesy stroll. He looked at me, his face inches from mine, his eyes searching. He was still deep inside me, pulsing, but he’d gone dead still.
'I have to go back out there in three minutes,' he whispered. 'They need the bass for the finale.'
'Then make it count,' I said. My hands were in his hair now, pulling his head down so I could bite his lip.
He didn't just start again. He changed the angle. He leaned me back further, his hands bracing against the amps, and began to grind his pelvis against mine in slow, agonizing circles. It wasn't the fast friction from before; it was a deep, internal pressure that felt like it was reaching into my very core. I could feel every ridge of him, the way he filled every millimeter of space. My breath was coming in short, ragged hitches.
'Julianne,' he said. It was the first time he’d used my name. I hadn't even told him what it was. He must have seen it on the credit card I left at the bar.
He started to move faster now, the slow circles turning into sharp, desperate stabs. He was close. I could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his fingers were digging into my skin. I was right there with him, my muscles clenching around him, a rhythmic pulsing that seemed to drive him even harder. The sax outside was winding down, the piano taking over with a delicate, haunting melody.
And then, just as I felt the first wave of the orgasm starting to break at the base of my spine—
[TIME: 14:48 - SUBJECT STOPS SPEAKING]
DR. THALASSA: What happened, Julianne?
JULIANNE: [A long, shaky breath] The door opened.
JULIANNE: It was a wedge of yellow light, sharp as a blade, cutting right through the dark. I could see the dust motes dancing in it, looking like tiny, frantic insects. My heart didn't just skip; it felt like it had been physically seized by a cold hand. I stopped breathing. I think the music outside stopped for a second, too, or maybe that was just my hearing failing under the weight of the adrenaline.
It was a kid. A stagehand, maybe twenty years old, wearing a black t-shirt and a lanyard that clinked against his chest. He didn't see us at first. We were tucked back in the shadows, braced against those heavy, vinyl-covered amps. I was pinned between Elias and the gear, my legs still locked around his waist, my skirt bunched up around my ribs.
Elias didn't pull out. He didn't even flinch. He just tightened his grip on my thighs, his knuckles digging into the soft skin of my outer legs. He went absolutely still, but I could feel him inside me—that low, rhythmic twitching that happens right before the dam breaks. He was looking over his shoulder, his profile silhouetted against that sliver of light. He looked like a predator that had heard a twig snap but wasn't about to give up its kill.
The kid stepped in, his boots crunching on the grit on the floor. He was looking for something on a shelf to the right of the door. He was so close I could hear the wet sound of him swallowing. I could smell the cheap energy drink he’d been nursing.
I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against Elias’s collarbone. I could taste the salt of his skin. Every nerve in my body was screaming, a high-frequency whine like a downed power line in the snow. The risk wasn't a deterrent; it was a catalyst. Being that close to being caught, to having the messy, wet reality of what we were doing exposed to the fluorescent glare of the hallway—it made the friction between us feel like it was glowing.
I felt Elias’s chest expand as he took a slow, silent breath. Then, under the cover of a sudden burst of applause from the main room, he moved. Just an inch. A slow, agonizingly deep slide of his hips. It was the most arrogant thing I’ve ever felt. He was testing the silence. He was daring the world to notice.
I bit down on his shoulder to keep from making a sound. The fabric of his shirt was damp and tasted like laundry detergent and man. I felt his cock swell even further, filling me so completely it felt like he was rearranging my anatomy. The kid outside muttered something to himself, grabbed a coil of XLR cable, and turned around. The door swung shut with a heavy, muffled thud, and the room plunged back into that thick, velvet blackness.
The moment the latch clicked, Elias exploded.
He didn't wait. He didn't build back up to it. He just drove into me with a raw, desperate force that made the stack of amps behind me groan. I was hitting the wall with every thrust, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that I was sure must be audible over the piano. He had one hand wrapped in my hair now, pulling my head back so he could get at my throat. His mouth was everywhere—biting, sucking, leaving marks that I knew would turn into the kind of bruises I’d have to hide with a scarf for the next week.
It wasn't "lovemaking." It was a collision. It was the way the tectonic plates grind under the Rockies—slow, hidden, and capable of leveling everything in their path. I was clawing at his arms, my fingers finding the hard cords of muscle in his forearms. I wanted to be closer. I wanted to merge. I wanted to get rid of the clothes and the skin and the air between us.
“Now,” he hissed into my ear. “Right now, Julianne.”
His hand came down, his fingers finding me again, and this time there was no finesse. He was heavy-handed, rubbing his thumb against my clitoris with a pressure that was almost too much, almost painful, but exactly what I needed to tip over. I felt the first contraction start deep in my pelvis, a sharp, electric spark that shot down my inner thighs.
I gave up. I just let go. My head fell back, and I saw white—not a metaphorical white, but a literal flash of light behind my eyelids like a lightning strike over a dark plain. I felt my internal muscles clamp down on him, milking him, and that was it for him, too. He let out a sound that wasn't a moan; it was a guttural, wounded noise, like he was being torn open. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and shook, his entire body vibrating with the force of his release. I could feel the heat of him hitting me, pulse after pulse, a thick, liquid warmth that felt like it was branding me from the inside out.
We stayed like that for a long time. The only sound was our breathing—ragged, wet, and loud in the small space. The piano music outside had turned into a slow, mournful bass solo. His solo.
He realized it the same time I did. He pulled back, his skin sticking to mine with a wet, tacky sound. He looked at me in the dark, and even though I couldn't see his eyes clearly, I could feel the weight of his stare. It was the look of a man who had just seen something he wasn't supposed to see.
“I have to go,” he whispered. His voice was completely shot, a ruined rasp.
“I know,” I said. I was sliding down the front of the amps, my legs shaking so badly I wasn't sure they’d hold me. I felt the wetness running down my thighs, the cold air of the room hitting skin that had been searing hot seconds before.
He reached out, his thumb catching a tear I didn't even know I’d shed, and then he was gone. He slipped through the curtain, and a second later, I heard the deep, woody thrum of the upright bass joining the piano. He was playing the finale. He was out there in front of fifty people, his hands still smelling of me, his heart still slamming against his ribs, playing like nothing had happened.
DR. THALASSA: And you? What did you do?
JULIANNE: I sat on a crate of old cables and I waited. I listened to him play. I reached down and touched myself, feeling the mess of him and me, the slick reality of it. I felt... hollowed out. Not in a bad way. Like a canyon that’s been carved by a flash flood. The water is gone, but the landscape is permanently altered.
I waited until I heard the final applause. I waited until I heard the chairs scraping and the low murmur of the crowd leaving. I didn't want to see him again. Not then. I didn't want to ruin it with a conversation or an exchange of phone numbers. I wanted to keep it exactly what it was: a moment of total, unvarnished truth in a world of curated bullshit.
I cleaned myself up with a handful of rough paper towels I found in a corner. I straightened my skirt. I put on my coat. I walked out the back exit, into the cool Denver night. The air smelled like rain and exhaust. I walked ten blocks before I realized I was still shaking.
DR. THALASSA: You said this was the only version that mattered. Why?
JULIANNE: Because it’s the only one where I wasn't an observer. My whole life is spent observing. I go to beautiful places, I stay in boutique hotels, I write about the "texture" of a city and the "spirit" of the locals. I’m a professional ghost. I move through the world without leaving a footprint.
But that night, in that storage room, I wasn't a blogger. I wasn't a tourist. I was just a body. I was friction. I was noise. For twenty minutes, I wasn't writing the story. I *was* the story.
DR. THALASSA: Do you regret it? The recklessness of it?
JULIANNE: [A small, sharp laugh] Regret it? Doctor, I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to find that feeling again. I go to different clubs. I sit at different bars. I look at men’s hands and I wonder if they have that kind of weight in them. But they don't. Most people are afraid of the noise. They want the sanitized version. They want the blog post.
DR. THALASSA: And Elias? Have you seen him since?
JULIANNE: No. I went back to The Iron Lung last Thursday. The quartet was there, but the bass player was a different guy—older, thinner, with gentle hands. I asked the bartender where Elias was. He told me Elias was a session player from New York. He was only in town for the week. He’d already moved on to the next gig.
I went back to my apartment and I tried to write about it. I tried to put it into words that would fit the brand. I wrote about the "haunting melodies" and the "intimacy of the underground jazz scene." I wrote about the bourbon.
But every time I closed my eyes, I didn't see the stage. I felt the brick wall against my back. I felt the vibration of the bass in my teeth. I felt the way he looked at me right before he pushed the door shut in his mind and decided to take what he wanted.
DR. THALASSA: You’re crying, Julianne.
JULIANNE: [Wiping her eyes aggressively] It’s the light in here. It’s too bright.
DR. THALASSA: Or maybe it’s the realization that the "real" version is the only one you can’t get back. You’re a travel writer who found a destination she can’t return to.
JULIANNE: That’s very poetic, Doctor. Very "literary." But you’re wrong. It’s not a destination. It was an impact. And the thing about impacts is that they leave a crater. You don't live in the crater. You just have to figure out how to walk around it without falling in every time you pass by.
I got up from the chair then. I could feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my hips, a ghost-touch that made my skin prickle. I didn't need to tell the doctor the rest. I didn't need to tell her about the way I wake up at 3:00 AM with my heart hammering, my sheets tangled around my legs, the smell of cedarwood and salt seemingly trapped in my hair.
I walked out of the office and down to the street. It was a Tuesday in October. The sky was that bruised, purple-grey color it gets before the first real snow. I stood on the corner of 17th and Stout and I watched the people go by. They all looked so busy. So contained. So safe.
I reached into my pocket and felt the small, jagged piece of wood I’d picked up off the floor of that storage room. A splinter from a bass, or maybe just a chip off an old amp. It was rough against my thumb. It was real. It was sharp.
I didn't call an Uber. I started walking toward the Highlands. I had a deadline for a piece on "The Best Rooftop Bars for Autumn Sunsets." I had a brand to maintain. I had a voice that people recognized.
But as I walked, I kept my hands in my pockets, gripping that piece of wood until it drew blood. I wasn't looking at the sunsets. I was looking for the basement doors. I was looking for the places where the ventilation was a suggestion and the music was loud enough to drown out a scream.
I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve seen the world. But I’ve never been as alive as I was when I was pinned against a stack of amplifiers in a room that smelled like dust, being broken open by a man whose last name I only knew because of a credit card receipt.
That’s the truth, Doctor. The rest is just travel.
[TIME: 15:02 - SESSION ENDS]
