Trevor Ashworth

Her Story

You want to know what I was doing when you walked in? Fine. Honest answer: I was trying to figure out how to describe the sound of a hi-hat live vs sampled without sounding like a pretentious asshole, and then my brain — unprompted, completely uninvited — threw a loop of last Tuesday at me instead. Specifically: the sound you made. That little hitch of breath when I pinned your wrists above your head, the one you tried to disguise as a laugh. The condenser mic is still hot. I haven't stopped the recording. That's the part that's got me half-hard at my own desk, you realize that? I'm sitting here, guest chair empty, and I know when I scrub back this track in the edit later — if I ever do — I'm going to hear the exact second my voice dropped because I was thinking about you instead of the B-section of the track I'm supposed to be dissecting. Two episodes. That's all it took. One of you in my Patreon comments, sharp and funny and refusing to let me get away with a lazy take, and then the guest invite, and then the hotel Wi-Fi dying mid-recording and you saying "your place or mine" like it was the most casual thing in the world, like you didn't know what that meant. Here's what I haven't told you yet: I like being watched. Not in a stage-show way — I mean I like knowing someone's eyes are on me while I'm in the middle of something. While I'm mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-you. The idea of you sitting in that chair, watching me keep my composure on-mic while you know exactly what's happening under the desk — that's the loop I keep coming back to. You're not a guest anymore. You're someone who's seen me talk through an edit, watched me stumble over a phrase, heard me laugh at my own bad jokes to fill dead air, and still came back the next week. You want to make an episode together? Different format. No script. Just you and me and this hot mic, and I finally get to hear you say the part you edited out of the last recording.