#Exile in Guyville

[diedandcameback]

exile in guyville poster from 1993

[samgiddings]

[deathbecomesthem]

Gunshy - EIG Chapter 6 | 3.8K

Record shop Eddie Munson x AFAB Reader

Warnings: Period typical homophobia, sexism, yearning, smut. The Reader is being stalked, not by Eddie. Parental drug abuse.

A/N: A panic attack, comfort. Some very sweet sweetness between the reader and Eddie. A couple of paragraphs inside the mind of our stalker that may be disturbing for some folks.

A/N 2: I really thought this chapter had been uploaded to Tumblr already, but I can't find it. It's been on AO3 for some time. I'm working on a new chapter right now, so I decided to make sure we're up to date here also.

---

You shrink yourself down that first day. You walk on the balls of your feet. You slowly close doors. You shower quickly. You do every dish you see sitting on the counter when you pass through the kitchen, and sweep the floors while you’re at it. If there’s one thing that your mother impressed upon you in your youth, it was that going unnoticed is a virtue. You can’t be a bother if you do everything just right, and you don’t want Eddie to be bothered by you.

The toilet paper is low in the bathroom. There’s none in the spot under the sink where you keep your own. There’s none in the small closet next to the bathroom door. Eddie’s in the kitchen, you can hear a cabinet open and close. A small beep - probably the coffee pot - and shuffling steps. You bite your lip and consider asking him if he has more toilet paper squirreled away somewhere, and decide against it. You’ll run down the street and pick some up.

You know you can’t get past Eddie without him seeing you, but you stoop lower and put your head down. You have the day off, but you’ve been up for hours. Eddie’s just getting up now, and you wonder if he’ll head down to the shop soon. When you round the corner to pass by the kitchen, you see him sitting at the small table in the corner by the window. His face is focused on something he spies through the glass. His eyebrows are drawn together, and you can almost hear the gears turning in his head. His flannel shirt looks soft and well worn, and you fight the urge to walk up and feel the fabric between your fingers. Your skin prickles, a cold sweat breaks across your forehead - all you can do is stand there and look at him.

“Morning.” Eddie’s hoarse voice speaks out to you. You can feel your skin begin to heat up knowing that he could feel your gaze on him. “There’s coffee in the pot if you want any. I know you’ve been up for a while, though.”

He knows you’ve been up for a while. Dread. You were too loud sitting in your room. Maybe the light of the lamp at your bedside drifted down the hallway and creeped through the crack in his doorframe. Maybe it was the shower. You should have waited until you knew he was already out of bed. How could you be so stupid?

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” You can hear the wet quality to your voice, and you swallow back a lump of nothing stuck in your airway. “I should’ve been more quiet.”

Eddie turns to look at you now. Confusion is written over his features, he’s trying to work out what he’s said to set you on the verge of tears. You look like a cat, back pressed against the wall. No, not like a cat - like a kicked dog waiting for another. Eddie rises to his feet in a swift motion that makes you draw back even more. Your breath is coming too fast now, your chest is tightening up.

“Woah, woah,” he moves quickly to rest a hand on your shoulder. He’s bringing you back to earth, he’s trying to hold you in place for a moment. “You could run around this apartment like a bull in a china shop and I wouldn’t hear it. I just noticed you already made coffee this morning.”

His reassurances are muffled in your ears, the wall of panic closing you off from him despite him physically grasping your skin. He knows you’re too far gone when he sees your hand frozen in an unnatural way. You’re hyperventilating, so he does what he’s done before. He guides you to the ground, not trusting the steadiness of your feet to make it to the couch on the other side of the kitchen.

Eddie’s sitting on the tile floor next to you, an arm around your shoulders. He has a hand in the center of your chest attempting to focus your breathing to follow his own. His hand is firm, moving with the rise and fall of his own chest. It’s a guiding light pulling you out of the darkness. Even when you match his breath, your hands are still pulled tight, an invisible cord wrapped around them.

“You’re ok. Breathe with me. Focus on my voice.” Eddie’s voice is calm and sure, and it steadies you, even as your body starts to shake.

“I think I’m having a stroke.” You hear yourself say these words, but it feels like a voice separate from your own body. You’re holding your hands up to show him. It hurts, having them bound tightly this way.

“Not a stroke, no. Not that.” Eddie takes your wrists in his hands and begins to work a thumb in each palm. “You’re having a panic attack. You’ll be ok. Your breathing messes up the oxygen in your body, and your hands just need a minute to relax.”

It’s not what he’s saying that matters, but the way he says it. It’s reassuring, having him down on the floor with you, feeling his touch. You can feel the muscles begin to loosen, allowing the shaking to take control of your entire body. You’re freezing, teeth chattering, chin vibrating.

“I’m freezing.” This time your voice sounds like your own, and you’re glad for that.

“Alright, what kind of host would I be if I let you freeze on my kitchen floor. Couch or bed?” Eddie stands up and pulls you up by the armpits like a child. A pang of embarrassment runs through you, and hot tears begin to leak from your eyes. “You know what? Couch. I want you close for a while.”

You float to the couch, Eddie’s arm wrapped around your waist while your hand holds the wall. Your hip is stiff and aching. You let him lay you down and cover you with a blanket. You wish he would hold you tightly. Wrap himself around you and let you feel the warmth radiate from his chest. Feel his heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing. But you settle for an absentminded stroke of your head, and the warmth of his eyes searching your face. All at once, you remember something that seems very important.

“Eddie, I was gonna go get some toilet paper. You’re almost out.” You tell him, an earnest and concerned relay of important information. It doesn’t seem silly at all to you, but you’ll deeply regret it later when your mind is clearer.

“Oh, toilet paper? I’ve got a whole case down in the shop. Don’t worry, Sweetheart.” Eddie’s desire to comfort you is overwhelming, and he indulges himself with a kiss to your forehead, allowing himself to breathe in the scent of your skin before pulling away. “You can always just ask me. This is your home too, you belong here.”

—

Eddie had planned to talk to you about Steve and Nancy visiting in 2 days, but the panic attack in the kitchen gives him pause. He’s ready to call them both and tell them to fuck off, but he knows that’s a pointless idea. They’re coming, and any attempts to stop them will be met with a more intrusive experience for everyone.

He spends the midday on the phone calling area hotels for pricing while he keeps an eye on your sleeping form in his small living room. God, he wants to lay on that couch with you, and wrap you up in his arms. He can’t do that, not while you’re a walking and talking exposed nerve. You deserve a place to rest and heal, and he’s happy to give it to you. You’re already precious to him, a kind and tender soul whose skin has been toughened through years of pain and mistreatment. He swallows the thoughts that creep into his mind when he thinks too hard about you, when he lets himself imagine something that isn’t real - at least not yet.

He hears you stir under the blanket he spread over you. It’s a comfort to him every night, and he wants it to be a comfort for you now. He wants it to be the hug that he can’t bring himself to give you. He wants it to soothe your pain, and make you feel safe in his home. He wants it to hold you because he cannot. And it does hold you. You are surrounded by Eddie, covered in the blanket that he sleeps with every night. It smells of his skin, and you breathe it in. It’s an intimate thing, even with your bodies in separate rooms. You will leave a bit of yourself on the soft fabric, and Eddie will smell it when he rests his head tonight.

Eddie keeps his voice low when someone finally answers the phone at the motel half a block from the record shop. A little place that rents by day, week, or month depending on the needs of its clientele. It’s not bad, he’d taken a tour of a room before he secured his apartment above the shop. Clean and quiet, and he’ll even foot the bill if it gives him peace of mind. He hashes out the details with the old man on the other end of the line, and is pleasantly surprised to find out that the weekly cost on two rooms during the summer months is less than half of what it would be in the last place he lived. He’s giddy with relief, and chatting with the old man in the way Eddie does, forgetting completely that he’s supposed to be keeping quiet.

“Alright, man. I’ll be down in about an hour or so with - what? Cash, check, or money order?” Eddie pauses, waiting to hear the answer come through the telephone line. You’re leaning against the doorframe, watching the way he absentmindedly taps the pencil he’s holding against the small pad of paper sitting on the table in front him. “Yeah, for sure, cash is king. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wheeling and dealing, Edward?” You ask as Eddie hangs the receiver in its cradle. He jumps a little, unaccustomed to having someone else in his living space. You’re so quiet, and he was so fixed on the task at hand, he’d momentarily forgotten you were here with him.

“Mmm, yes.” Eddie recovers quickly, and a warm smile spreads across his face when he sees you looking sleepy but no worse for the wear. “Feeling better? Want some water? I can make you some food if you’re hungry.”

“I’m ok,” you’re already breezing past him to grab a glass cup from the drying rack next to the sink, “I’ll eat a banana or something. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m the worst house guest.”

Eddie closes his eyes, considering what he can say that wouldn’t push too hard one way or the other. It’s been so long since he’s been around someone so skittish. Like a cat afraid of its own shadow and all he wants is to hear your contented purr.

“I need you to try really hard to look at this place as yours too.” Eddie cuts off your scoff before you can bite back at him, “I’m serious. I owe you more than a room, all that work you’ve done downstairs. Please.”

The earnestness of his voice draws your gaze to him. He’s telling you the truth, it’s written on his face. He doesn’t just owe you, he wants you here. And it hits like a ton of bricks - he wants you. The thought has been existing in your mind since the first moment you heard his voice, that maybe this could be someone to you, but you never really allowed yourself to consider his thoughts might mirror your own.

“Ok, Eddie.” Your words come out quietly, not wanting to break the tension that’s building in the space between your bodies. You decide to shorten the distance. You decide to do something that isn’t wholly in your nature, but will convince him that you understand. You move into his space, and wrap an arm around his waist, and lay your head on his chest. His arms hang loosely around you, and you both sway.

—

“That purple house on the corner,” you point it out to Eddie. He’s strolling slowly beside you, conscientious about your slower gait, “is where Ms. Jamison lives. She’s totally fine with folks in the neighborhood digging around in her garden. She always ends up with way too many tomatoes and cucumbers, but she loves getting her fingers in the dirt.”

“I don’t know, I think I should probably meet the lady before I go swiping her veggies.” The back of Eddie’s hand brushes against the back of yours, and not for the first time. He’s willing to continue the ruse, that he isn’t asking without using words if he can hold your hand. It takes you back to a more innocent age, and your belly feels warm. “Maybe you can introduce me sometime? I can send some records her way in exchange for produce.”

“Mmm. Yeah. She’s going to like you, you’re just her type,” Eddie giggles low in his chest, but it stops immediately when you put your hand in his and squeeze. “You can laugh, Eddie, but her husband was in an MC all the way up til the day he died.”

Eddie stopped in his tracks. He looked out towards the purple house with dark purple trim contemplatively for a second before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Is she still single?”

Your giggles are music to his ears. His breath tickled your skin and made you shiver, but the thought of Eddie bringing flowers to the 70 year old woman that lives on the corner is too much for you. Your giggles turn into the kind of laughter that has you bent over, and makes your belly ache. And then Eddie’s giggles start, and the two of you are holding hands and laughing like children in the middle of Columbus Street.

Finally, you wipe the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand, and stand up straight. It hits you like a ton of bricks, a need that you don’t want to deprive yourself of. So you crook your finger to get Eddie to lean down and come face to face with you so you can impart whatever wisdom you have for him.

You let go of his hand so you can hold him with both palms, running a thumb lightly across the angry red mark on his left cheek before you go up on your toes. And you kiss him. Lips against lips, you give him a moment to decide how to react before you open your mouth a little in invitation. He doesn’t pull away, he snakes an arm around your waist, fingers gripping your side, and he kisses you back. Firm and soft, his tongue swipes at your lip and you open up. Deepen the kiss. By the time you finally pull your mouths apart, your knees are weak.

Instead of holding hands, Eddie keeps an arm around your waist for the duration of the walk to the deli for lunch. He thinks he may never let you go again.

—

Neither of you knew when you shared your first kiss that there were eyes on you. It’s no surprise that in the middle of a sunny summer day, someone would notice people kissing in the street. Most would smile at the sight, and go about their day. But not the person sitting inside the tattoo parlor across the street. A wave of sadness roiled through his guts. The sound of Danny’s voice was suddenly drowned out by a ringing in his ears.

That stupid slut.

He watched your forms move down the street and away from his view, Eddie’s arm holding you. Eddie Munson. He was supposed to be a friend. At least he knows where you are now. The big house has been empty. James spent a good part of last night in your bed. Your scent lingered on your pillow, and it eased his sadness to be amongst your things.

James smiles and nods at Danny, agreeing to god knows what, before hopping down from the stool behind the counter. He felt weightless as he moved into the back of the shop and into the small bathroom. It still smells like shit from Danny’s most recent visit, but James barely registers it. He runs cold water over his neck and then stands and looks in the mirror.

Don’t cry. Don’t.

He gives his face a hard slap, and then splashes water on his face to cool down. He needs to pull it together. It’s not his fault you’re such a slut. It’s not his fault you can’t see what’s right in front of your face.

—

“I gotta tell you something, and I don’t want you to freak out.” Eddie’s sitting across you in the corner booth of the deli, a soup spoon pointing at you. He has a serious look on his face, but it doesn’t ring true. You bite back your smile and run the toe of your sneaker against the back of his calf.

“I won’t freak out. What, do you have a wife in another state or something?” You ask, and then take a giant bite out of your roast beef sandwich, never taking your eyes off Eddie. God, he’s so pretty. You can’t wait to get him alone for a few minutes. The kiss you shared still lingers on your lips. You want more.

“No wife. No.” Eddie leans back, and you can see that he too can’t keep a smile off his face. You’re like teenagers on a first date. “A couple of my friends are coming into town in a few days.” Your face begins to fall, and Eddie’s quick to add, “I booked them at the University Inn for their stay. Don’t worry about that. I just wanted you to know they’ll be around, and they’re kind of a lot.”

You nod and consider the situation over another big bite of your sandwich. You run your toe against the back of his calf to reassure him that it’s ok while you mill it over in your head. How bad can it be? Meeting Eddie’s friends will be alright, and you can make yourself scarce. His place is comforting, and the little room you’re staying in is perfect. You’re safe with Eddie, you can be safe with his friends too.

“Ok. Just don’t be surprised if I hide. New people make me nervous. But, make sure they know they can come to the coffee shop anytime while they’re in town, on me. I want to make a good impression.” You take a final mouthful of sandwich and wipe away bits of mayonnaise and mustard from the corner of your mouth, and wash it down with a big gulp of water. Eddie can’t get over the way you eat. There’s no self consciousness there, and it makes him smile.

He doesn’t tell you that he’s already discussed you with Nancy. He thinks it will be alright. You’re amazing, and thoughtful. You’re an absolute delight. Steve and Nancy will love you. How could they not? He does.

—

The rest of the day is spent in the record shop, the two of you putting away as many boxes as possible. You’re newly motivated to get the work done knowing Eddie’s friends will be here soon, and one of them is his business partner. You feel a sudden need to make sure that you impress them. That you show your worth through the work of your hands. Plus, you want Eddie to be able to show off the place.

It’s dark out when you both decide to call it quits. Tomorrow is another day off from the coffee shop, so you know you can spend a lot of time in the record shop with Eddie. It should scare you, knowing that this man has somehow creeped into every inch of your life, but it doesn’t. You want more. And you’re letting yourself want it without listening to the voice in your head that tells you shouldn’t let someone in like this.

Walking up the stairs to Eddie’s apartment, following behind his tall and lean frame, butterflies erupt in your gut. Your fingers tingle. The short hair on your scalp stands on end. You hear and feel everything. You look at his back and imagine what the skin underneath the leather feels like. Warm, no doubt, and soft. He fumbles his keyring when he pulls them out of the front pocket of his jeans, and you think he feels it too. The nervous energy. The tension.

The door swings open, and he extends his arm out in an “after you gesture”. You walk over to the kitchen counter, and turn. You rest your hands on the counter behind you, and wait to see what’s next. If there’s anything next, or if you’re going to head to bed with dozens of butterflies flitting around your insides. Eddie stands at the door, his back to you, for a moment after he clicks the deadbolt and chain lock.

He turns, eyes cast to the floor and says, “So. Uh, do you want to watch a movie, or-” he finally meets your eyes and sighs, “-Jesus Christ, I don’t know how to handle this at all.” His eyes are wide, and he emphasizes his statement with a hand sweeping in front of him.

“This is new for me too. It’s not every day I’m put into this situation, believe it or not.” You push off the counter and head towards Eddie. You’re pulled to him, closing the distance feels natural and right. You’ve decided that, with Eddie, you’re going to do what’s right.

“Yeah. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing or anything. I’m cool with whatever you want, ya know?” Eddie’s voice is quiet, and he’s watching you move towards him, eyes focused on your lips. “I don’t want to fuck any of this up, and I know you’re dealing with a lot of shit. I don’t want to be one more thing to deal with.”

“I’m not dealing with you, Eddie.” You’re finally close enough to touch him, so you do. You reach your hand up to his hair to twist a curl that hangs at the side of his face. You watch it spring off your finger and sigh. “I really like you, and honestly - that is refreshing.”

“I really like you too,” Eddie says. And then you’re kissing again. You’re tasting. You’re open wide, and letting this man fill you up with something you didn’t think you could have. You’re happy to find that when your hand sneaks beneath the cotton of his black shirt, the skin between his shoulders is both very warm and very soft.

[doomedgrrrlblog]

purple albums from the 90s

[psychosomaticsister]

Liz Phair in the music video for her song Never Said

pt. 2

[lovelifestarlust]

baby, I'm tired of fighting I always wanted you

[orpheusdrinkinga40inadeathbasket]

Liz Phair, Exile in Guyville (1993)

[archivist-crow]

Liz Phair - Exile in Guyville (1993)

Thirty-one years ago today, on June 22, 1993, Liz Phair’s debut album, Exile in Guyville, was released. While it is interesting to note that this album and Joni Mitchell’s Blue share the same release day—June 22—twenty-two years apart, there probably isn’t anything in that, and it can simply be added as just another detail of the mythology surrounding Phair’s debut. From the story of its beginnings and creation—the stuff of indie rock dreams—to its purportedly being a song-by-song response to the Stones’ Exile on Main Street, the mythology around Guyville has always threatened to overshadow the work itself. Ultimately, however, the question as to whether or not it holds up to Main Street doesn’t really matter. Consistently named one of best albums of the 90s, if not one of the best indie rock albums of all-time, and inspiring scores of imitators, Phair’s Exile stands all on its own.

[rastronomicals]

1:19 AM EDT May 11, 2024:

Liz Phair - "Help Me Mary" From the album Exile in Guyville (June 22, 1993)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: Girls who say 'fuck'

--

[thoughtportal]

Emma Silvers May 23, 2018

Liz Phair is getting into character. She’s practicing her moves. She’s doing vocal exercises every night.

“You make these sounds for a really long time, like a monk, to try to get that lower register open,” she says, demonstrating a long, low hum. “Because my range has gotten way higher as I’ve gotten older.”

She’s calling from Los Angeles, a week after her 51st birthday. And the character for whom she’s in training is a 25-year-old version of Liz Phair, the one that released “Exile in Guyville” in 1993, the album that subsequently thrust her into the national spotlight — despite the fact that she had only played a handful of live shows.

“It was a disaster,” she recalls. “That’s not how you do it! I was already famous before I’d ever played live.”

But Phair needs to channel that person to properly perform that album, she says — which she plans to do for Bay Area fans Friday, June 1, at the Swedish American Hall in San Francisco, as she tours intimate venues in support of the 25th anniversary reissue of “Girly-Sound to Guyville” (Matador), a seven-LP or three-CD box set complete with essays, interviews and remastered rarities. (The first half of the title refers to early Phair demo tapes that were, before now, mostly message board fodder for die-hard fans. This tour marks the first time she’ll perform the tracks live.)

“Exile” was a revelation when it hit the radio in 1993: sensitive and blunt, angry and funny, honest about sex and the alienation of being a creative girl in a guy’s scene. Framed as a wry response to the Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Main Street,” it stood in stark contrast to the bro-dominated grunge acts of the era, and quickly landed on critics’ best-of-the-year lists. Meanwhile Phair, a Chicago native and recent Oberlin College grad who had written most of her songs in her bedroom at her parents’ house, became an indie darling overnight.

It was in that spotlight that Phair was taken to task for her lyrics, whose sexual frankness (“I want to be your blowjob queen,” from the sing-songy track “Flower,” was among the most-quoted) barely moves the needle by today’s pop music standards. But in the ’90s, says Phair, “You were still judged according to the Slut-O-Meter.”

“I wanted it to be so outrageous and over the top that you had to talk about whether I could say it or not,” says Phair, whose penchant for performance art comes across in early interviews. “I wanted men and I wanted to have sex. I had those feelings, and I had those thoughts, so it was really about what you were allowed to exhibit. What you’re given ownership over, even in the real estate of your own inner life.”

In the 25 years since “Exile,” Phair has released five full-length albums, some to acclaim, and some — like her 2003 self-titled foray into slicker, more radio-friendly pop — to critical derision and cries of “sellout.” She also dabbles in other art forms: after finishing a double album with Ryan Adams recently (release date still to be announced), she turned her attention to a different kind of writing, inking a two-book deal with Random House in 2017. A memoir called “Horror Stories” will be published first; the second, she says, is tentatively organized around the theme of fairy tales.

Regardless of her medium, Phair’s impact and influence have grown more obvious with each passing year, especially as younger generations of feminists discover her landmark debut.

“Dude, I was ahead of my time. What can I say?” she says with a laugh, when asked about how well “Exile” has aged.

It’s 2018, and Beyoncé, whose brand is seeped in sexuality, just gave the performance of her life at age 36 — the same age Phair was when a New York Times review of her self-titled record painted her as a desperate, over-the-hill soccer mom for daring to still be sexual. Does our cultural landscape have more room for women as three-dimensional beings than it did in 1993?

“I do think we’re much further along,” says Phair. “But especially in the last couple years, with the Trump administration, it’s also shocking and deeply disturbing to realize how much further there still is to go.”

Which has, in turn, lit a fire under Phair in other ways.

“I have felt a definite need to be present, vocal and accounted for, because I need to be as strong and loud as these voices that are so horrifying to me,” she says. “We all do. The America that I believe we live in just needs to turn up its volume.”

In the meantime, those who caught Phair live circa 1993 can expect a much more technically skilled performance of “Exile” songs than the last time around. That said, Phair’s biggest strength remains the same: “It’s a testament to people’s appreciation of songwriting,” that fans stuck with her 25 years ago, she says, as she learned to play shows in real time.

“But I think that’s what I do better than other people. I don’t sing better or play better, but I have a kind of authorship. A voice.”

Emma Silvers is a Bay Area freelance writer.

[saramencken]

Via @bowiesongs

[purplealbumoftheday]

today's purple album of the day is: Exile In Guyville by Liz Phair!

[psychosomaticsister]

Liz Phair’s music video for her song Never Said

pt. 1 as i hit the image limit :,(