A Towel or a Dirty Shirt Will Do Fine

It's 1:51 am and my roommates are listening to Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan in the living room at a level which is counter intuitive to sleep. The smell of gin is in the air, I have come back from a late jaunt at the gym. There was a guy in the locker room who had the most perfect body I had ever seen: lithe, smooth and not overly muscular, slightly pinkish skin, the occasional mole. I wanted to run my hands over his back and all I could do was pretend I wasn't looking.

I'm horny and my choices are slim. I think of talking to people I have nothing in common with on the internet and it makes me want to grab the computer and throw it through my window. I feel such intense feeling that the only way I can think to disarm it is to be, somehow, in a space that is outside of living existence, like an egg. I consider masturbating, I hold my dick in my hand and feel no response, and yet I go through the motions, rubbing it in the usual spaces... I'm hard, I'm hard, I'm going to cum. If I cum on my chest or face will I feel a sense of accomplishment even afterward? I'm struck by how pointless most things are, and yet I keep going because my imagination tells me that there is something more.

I walked through lower Fort Mason to get home, up a long flight of stairs. I was a quarter of the way up and realized that I was surrounded on all sides by teenage thugs. They were drinking and tagging, I could hear the slur of their slurs. I walked forward and was not afraid, when the bottle broke on the steps directly below me, I did not flinch.