The show had just ended. Clown-town chaos. A dark-ass alley venue in some random city where the dirt stains the concrete and the Faygo soaks your soul.

It wasn’t a tour stop—just one of those nights when the Wicked Shit showed up to rot the skyline. And I was ready.

As soon as the bass dropped for “Bang! Pow! Boom!”, I did what I always do: rushed the stage.

Security tried—grabbing, yelling, blocking—but I slipped through like grease. Caught the side rail, boosted myself over, and made it to the front.

Here’s the difference: I wasn’t just up there acting wild. I was helping the crew. Carrying cases of Faygo, tossing bottles to the clowns, passing them out like a soldier of the Dark Carnival.

Then came the last full box. Mine.

I went off. Jumping. Spraying. Twisting caps and launching them into the crowd. Singing every damn lyric. I hosed the pit like I’d trained for it. My shirt clung to my skin. My face paint ran down my jawline.

When the last bottle flew and the lights dimmed, the Clowns left the stage. I climbed down into the night, heart pounding, lungs coated in sugar and bass. I stumbled into the humid air, lit a blunt—adrenaline still slamming through my veins.

That’s when I saw her.

Leaning against a wall near the side of the venue. Blunt in hand. Legs crossed. Watching the crowd like a queen who didn’t need a throne.

Let’s call her Cherry Pie. Not her real name—but that’s what we’re gonna call her.

She looked maybe 24, 26 tops. Tattooed arms and thighs. Curves for days. Full lips in dark gloss. Eyes that sliced through bullshit. A black tank top soaked in Faygo clung to her tits just right. White lace panties—now light brown from root beer spray—peeked from beneath a twisted little miniskirt.

And that walk?

Straight sin.

I was still wiping Faygo off my forehead when she grinned.

“You went hard up there.”

“That obvious?” I laughed.

“You were helping pass bottles like a pro. Then suddenly you’re center stage with your own box like you were born in the circus.”

“I kinda was,” I said, taking a drag. “You want tips?”

She stepped closer. Bold. “Yeah. I wanna spray like that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Come back to my ride and I’ll crack you open like a 2-liter.”

She licked her lips. “You always flirt like that?”

“Only when it works.”

She bumped her hip against mine. “Lead the way.”

We walked. Didn’t talk much. Just passed the blunt, fingers brushing like invitations.

Juggalos were posted up all around—lawn chairs, trunks, bumpin’ music. A few recognized me—not from the stage, just from years of this shit. One homie shouted:

“Jesus is watching, fam!”

Cherry Pie didn’t miss a beat. Flipped him off with a smile, tongue out, ass bouncing like punctuation.

We all laughed.

Everyone knew what was about to go down.

My ride sat in a dead-end alley. Same spot I’d parked every year. Same place I once fingered Karla after a too-long hug turned into a bite on the neck. I swore I’d never take another girl here—until Nikki texted, “You up?” in 2016. Same place Madison ghosted me, but I still caught her perfume days later in the backseat.

But tonight? This wasn’t any of them.

Or maybe it was all of them.

Because when Cherry leaned in, pressed close, licked my ear and whispered, “You better fuck me like I’m the only one who ever mattered." I swear to God—I saw all their faces flash behind her eyes.

We kissed like we’d done it before. Like we were remembering it. Her lips were soft, hungry. Her hands slid under my waistband without hesitation.

I opened the back. We climbed in.

She straddled me before the door even shut. Grinding, kissing, touching. Her voice whispering in my ear made my heart feel like a fist.

Her hair was down, still damp with Faygo. Strands clung to her neck. I smelled her before I tasted her—perfume, sweat, and root beer soaked into lace she didn’t bother hiding.

I reached under her shirt. Found pierced nipples, light areolas—perfect for memorizing with fingertips.

“Take your time,” she said.

“But don’t waste it.”

I didn’t.

She pulled my cock out like it belonged to her. No teasing. No buildup. Just dropped down and started sucking like she’d waited all week.

Slow. Wet. Deep.

I leaned back, lit another blunt, and groaned. She looked up as she sucked—eyes locked, cheeks hollowing, her hand twisting around the base while her tongue teased the head.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “You’re insane.”

She popped off just to say:

“You haven’t even seen crazy yet.”

And then she swallowed me deeper. Her spit coated me. Her hand stroked while her mouth worked my balls.

I moved her hair aside, just to watch her work.

“Get up,” I said, voice thick.

She looked up, lips glistening. I lifted her chin and kissed her—tasting smoke, soda, and myself.

She reached down to slip off her soaked panties—white lace, now tinged brown from Faygo—but I stopped her.

“Nah. Gimme those.”

She smirked. Handed them over.

I pressed them to my face. Took a deep breath. Root beer hit first, then the warm, wet tang of pussy and sweat.

I hung them around my neck.

She didn’t say a word. Just climbed on, positioned me, and lowered herself inch by inch.

We groaned together—hers high and breathy, mine deep and raw.

Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her legs locked behind me. We started slow. Grinding. No rush. Eye to eye.

Then she bit my lip.

“I want it harder,” she growled. “Deeper. Fuck fuck fuck.”

She bounced harder. Tits jiggling. Hair flying. Like she was trying to leave a scar on my soul.

I grabbed her ass. Lifted. Slammed her down. The SUV rocked. Windows fogged.

She started screaming—real screams. My name. Profanities. Raw energy.

“Yes… deeper… fuck me. Make me your filthy little whore.”

Then she spun around, on all fours.

“From behind. Facedown. Ass up.”

I slammed into her. Flesh on flesh. Tits smacking the window. Nails clawing glass.

“You like that, bitch?”

“Yes! Fuck! Harder—stick a finger in my dirty little ass too!”

I did.

She screamed into the seat, half-gargled, while I held her throat with my other hand.

I was gone. Didn’t care.

I don’t know how long we fucked. I only knew her skin, the slap of bodies, her moans getting rawer and louder.

She had her hands on the window. Tits bouncing. Ass arched. Thighs trembling. Loving it.

“You hear that?” she panted.

“That’s the sound of my pussy swallowing your cock.”

I slapped her ass hard. She threw it back, smirking.

“That all you got, Faygo King?”

I grabbed her hair. Pulled her back to face me. Sweat dripping. Eyeliner smeared. Perfect.

“Say my name,” I whispered.

“Say yours?” she hissed, grinning.

“I’ll scream it. Just keep fucking me like that.”

The SUV shook. Shocks squeaking. Windows creaking. My hands gripped her hips like she’d float away otherwise.

She said wild shit.

“Stretch me open… Fill me till I feel it in my stomach…”

“You feel that? That’s you inside me. I want more…”

“Fuck me like I’m the bitch who blocked you and still thinks about your dick.”

That broke me.

I bit her neck. Fucked her like I was chasing every ex that left me. Like I could fuck the ghosts out of myself.

“You want all of me?” I growled.

“I want to be all of them,” she moaned.

“So you’ll never forget.”

She pushed me back, climbed on top—completely naked, panties still around my neck. Started grinding slow, locking eyes.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

“Tell me you’re mine. Just for tonight.”

I nodded. Couldn’t speak.

She licked my ear. “I’m gonna milk this cock dry. You better cum like it’s your last time.”

She was clenching tighter. Gasping. Grinding harder.

“I’m gonna cum,” I warned.

She didn’t stop. “On my stomach,” she said. “Mark me.”

I pulled out, panting, stroking fast. She arched, tits hanging, hair wild.

The first jet hit the condom, the rest splashed her stomach and tits. She moaned, smiling.

“Fuck yes,” she whispered. “That’s how I wanna remember you.”

She grabbed a wipe, touched the mess between her thighs, and smirked.

“Messy,” she said. “Perfect.”

I cleaned her with the towel I kept stashed. Cracked a water bottle. She wiped me down.

No awkwardness. Just quiet.

We slid under an old blanket. Her head on my chest. Leg over mine. Warm. Still. Fucked out.

We laid there for two hours. No names. No lies. Just skin, sweat, silence.

Around 4:15 a.m., she pulled her skirt on, stuffed her bra in her bag, and picked up the knotted condom.

“I’m keeping this,” she said, giggling. “So I never forget.”

She shoved it in her pocket.

Didn’t ask for my number. Didn’t offer hers.

When I offered, she just smiled.

“I don’t do the whole texting-after-a-hookup thing. I like moments to stay moments.”

She kissed me once—slow, soft, real—and stepped into the haze like a phantom in lace.

And weirdly, it made sense.

Cherry Pie was the kind of girl who vanished before reality could catch her. A walking secret you don’t solve.

I figured I’d see her again. But I didn’t.

Months later, some stranger DM-ed me.

“Yo… wasn’t that you with Cherry Pie after the clown show?”

“Yeah. Why?”

The reply hit like a brick: “She died in a wreck on her way to another show. Hit black ice. Car flipped on the freeway. They say she died instantly.”

No obituary. Just a candlelight vigil photo. Different name tagged.

But I knew.

The tattoos. The smirk. That same wild look—like she knew her ride here was temporary.

And I never got to say goodbye.

Just a memory.

One night.

One body pressed into mine.

One voice, still echoing when the world goes quiet.

She was all of them.

And none of them.

A ghost I fucked in the backseat of my SUV—

and never stopped thinking about.