Monday, April 01, 2013

Plastic Showerhead

Paul walked into the bathroom area and was nearly knocked on his ass from the pungent stench of piss, farts, and mildew. It was a long, white tiled room lined on one side with sinks and mirrors, the other with toilet stalls and urinals. Three other men meandered about - shaving, brushing teeth, pissing. All quiet and somber.
   There was an open door which led to the showers. Paul entered.
   In the large, white-tiled space, he placed his linens on a long, metal bench that ran along a wall. Paul undressed, he looked down at his blackened feet. Boils and bruised. Paul turned to the row of showers.
   Standing alone, there was a tall, young, black man lathering up his torso. He was handsome and had an athletic physique. He  softly whistled while he bathed. He also stood with a massive erection which pointed straight out, soap and water dripping off the long, dark shaft.
   Walking under a shower head, Paul turned on the water. It was tepid and sprayed out in all directions except onto him. As Paul vigorously scrubbed the two week accumulation of grime off his skin, he timidly glanced over to the sole person in the room. The man’s lithe, ebon body glistened in the water, cock jutting out.
   Paul was constantly amazed on how many closet homosexuals ran rampant in the homeless community. Is it the cause of mental health? Simply being an outcast running its course? He could not imagine - yet, the shelters of this fair land were infested with them.
   The showers in themselves were a virtual cruise fest. Always, there was either a grey-haired monster scoping out your cock or some exhibitionist washing himself with a huge boner and went about as if nothing was wrong.
   More times than he cared to count, at other shelters when Paul showered alone with only one other person – and, if he was slightly interested - it would turn into a jack off competition.
   The man dipped his head under the water and smiled without looking at Paul, “Ya like that? It’s big, huh?”
   Paul blushed and began to get excited.
   The man casually stroked his ebon shaft once, flinging soap off onto the tiled floor. Paul could feel the blood rushing into his own penis.
   At that moment, a squat, old white man shuffled in smelling of sweaty socks. The old man undressed - noticing both of their aroused state. The black man nonchalantly shut off the water. He toweled dry, dressed and left - leaving Paul with the paunchy, hunched-over monster two stalls down.
   As he attempted to wash himself under the sporadic glances of the ancient troll, Paul finally sneered, “Watchu lookin’ at?”
   The old coot showered in silence - his gaze never returning Paul’s way. Paul toweled off in sullen frustration, dressed, and left the man alone.

- HOBOSEXUAL, a work in progress

The novel is coming along nicely, thank you. Tweeking the final product, fleshing out prose and diction. I actually like the result on where it is going. I am attempting to pound out a first draft by the end of April. By May 3rd, I plan to be on my way to Florida. Then on to Puerto Rico. As usual and in the way it entertains me, I am completely winging this. Hope it works out. If not - San Francisco will always be there.

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