Let me start by saying, I have nothing against Jason Lee but he’s not my David Seville. More of an American Cumberbatch than an Earl, in my humble opinion. Dave was a tortured pianist-composer dressed effortlessly in a button-down softened by the sweet moisture of struggling for the perfect note. He didn’t want kids but there he was with three chipmunk boys. I remember him as I wish to, bedroom eyes the color of hazel, or lavender, or brown, it sort of depends on what frame you pause on. In his perfectly fictional honor I present my Dave Seville fan fiction.
Oh my god, what I wouldn’t give to sprawl on a couch with a glass of red wine, fireplace casting light across a very 80’s deep pile white carpet, sheet music strewn about the room, with David Seville. I’d run my fingers through his thick dark waves, he’d be grateful for the respite from his overworked mind, and ready to spend time with an adult. The Chipmunks away on some misadventure. They’d call tomorrow morning from Morocco or whatever but tonight, he is all mine.
“You are my muse,” he says. A large yet nimble hand holds the back of my head leading me closer to his tired eyes filled with mischief. He kisses me gently in front of the crackling fire. Something is gnawing at him, I can feel it. “David, if you need to finish, I want to hear it.” He looks thankful for the permission, kisses me once more deeply, and pulls away in a mad dash to the piano. I listen lustfully as he tickles out the last few measures of a swooning ballad that no doubt will be the next Chipmunk hit. God, he’s a good I think stroking the strap of my red silk nightgown and taking another sip of Bordeaux. With that thirst quenched, he is ready for us.
Slowly, deliberately, he shuts the piano lid (the baby grand is in another room), slips down to the floor, and crawls back over the carpet to me, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his perfect chest. I watch him crawl, pouting through my Tutti Frutti Kissin Koolers, punishing him slightly for leaving me. He gets closer, I lean back on the mauve tufted velvet couch with those huge buttons. He crawls up my body kissing every inch of skin on the way up. His long fingers wrap around my chin. I am a small trembling forest animal as he brings me to his lips and activates every cell in my perfectly moisturized body. He licks my neck like he’s preparing to take a bite and I wonder for a second, did I put on too much Giorgio? “I am so glad you are here. I am so lucky.” He whispers into my ear as a hand finds its way to my thigh and plays a scale up towards…
The phone rings, “Leave it,” I plead through a moan. I fucking know it’s Alvin. He closes his eyes and sighs, “What if he’s in real trouble?” His broad shoulders swivel to pick up the landline receiver from the glass table behind the couch. “Hello?” he answers, concerned. A pregnant pause. To love David Seville is to tolerate the Chipmunks. “ALLLVIIIIIIIN!!!!!!!!”