Leave Your Mark In A Lonely Place
By Jack Alltrade © 2018
The building was ruined in the last hurricane. Both bathrooms up front, and two utility rooms in the back. Door gone from one, and the other door pried wide open. One room is filled with a wire-rack, the kind used in kitchens and cheap offices. Crushed boxes and old paper litter the floor, the shelf tilted at an angle by a filing cabinet rusted and forgotten. No real room in there to do anything.
The other room is empty except for an old shirt crammed into the corner. Some used it to wipe their ass. The end of it anyway. It's a black-grey synthetic shirt, the kind worn by employees without uniforms but who are supposed to look roughly the same. It's damp and reeks of piss and sweat. The shit smell is mostly gone and the shit has dried into a fibrous lump like old field manure.
It's been months since I enjoyed the stink of another man. The pungent-sweet smell of pits days without a shower. Somewhere between onion and skunk with a stale musk of faded sweat underneath. It's been too long since I reached under a man's balls to finger his hole and found the delight of greasy shit and sweat that makes a finger go in easy, no lube needed.
It's been years since I really got dirty with another man. Pushed my cock into his sweaty, hairy hole and met with that overwhelming heat that can only mean he's full. The first thrust is muddy and when I pull out, the earthy tang of shit fills the air around us. I miss being covered naturally as the night goes on, the paint of shit moving from ass to back to legs to arms and finally to face and lips. We look like army men ready for battle. We smell like the animals we are. The animals the rest have forgotten to be. Stench is a scent that is never too much; it's just enough. Stink is where I like to hover most days. A good stink is how I think of it. I've never trusted men I can't smell few feet away. The higher up the totem pole you get, the nastier people are by character, and the nastier they are by smell. Follow your nose; cologne will tell you where your enemies are.
So the small cement room is without smell. Wind blows in through the old vents and out the door. Humid air from the the bay around Miami wets my back, my pits, my crotch and feet. I want to add my scent to this room, to make it mine. To leave a mark in a lonely place. Maybe other men on the prowl will come here and smell that comforting human smell of dried piss. Maybe they'll lean down in it like I do to soak some into my the knees of my pants, the palms of my hands, to wipe on my neck and filthy bandana. I cannot resist the smells of other men, even if I have to get on my hands and knees to enjoy it.
I always hope another man will smell my reeking body as I pass and make the excuse of asking me the time, or directions to a place he already knows, or an invitation to get a drink somewhere. And we'll end up buying a bottle of beer between us because that way we can let the bottle do what lips do, and kiss us both as we swap it back and forth, swigging beer and each other's spit. And after the first one loses the bet, he goes to the bathroom and empties his bladder, flecks of headcheese seasoning the brew, right back into the bottle. No matter if it's a brown bottle or clear, piss has always looked like beer. Which might be why the Germans drink it warmÉ Just an observation. And when the loser returns, he hands the winner the warm bottle of piss to savor in full view. The savvy ones know exactly what's going on and envy us. We'll do a couple more times, best two out of three wins gets to pick just how dirty the night will be. And if the rest of the men want to join in, well they can smell us from wherever they're sitting. Yeah, its that stink, we're those kinds of guys, and this is that kind of place.
So when you travel, make sure to aim poorly at the urinal or toilet in the train station or airport or bus station or highway restroom. That way you'll add your scent to ours and we'll know you've been there, too, in the lean times. For us, leave a mark in a lonely place.