Not a lot of sex. A love story really, with a weird twist.
I was wound up in my thoughts, going in circles, this day about the same as every other.
Walking to the bus stop.
Skeletons under the bank building - in the cement - three, hands bound behind backs, heads back in death-agony. Look away, hard to see, though I've seen it a hundred times.
Safe deposit boxes filled with guns, cash, fake jewelry.
Butt-plugs everywhere. Does every secretary wear them every day? Must help with the tedium.
Engine valves fluttering on that truck - will need a valve job soon.
Tall skinny guy - should get that tapeworm dealt with.
Breast cancer always tragic. Hand out a flyer, she gives a brief fake smile, stuffs it in her purse.
Three High School seniors waiting at the bus stop - all three pregnant. Is it a club? A dare? Do they even know? Very happy girls anyway. And what harm? They're having a fine life so far.
Old man, artificial heart valve plugging away. Good morning Mr. Gabriel! Good morning! We've talked many times. Happiest guy out here, knows he's not got long, still takes daily visit to wife in sanitarium, hoping for some flicker of recognition. I love people like him.
Young stockbroker with a gun. A courier? What does he think is gonna happen?
Maybe that guy in the alley, with the knife. Won't he be surprised if he tries it on the stockbroker.
Hard to figure sometimes, foreign object inside someone. She looks like a fashion model, but has a penlight up her large intestine. Turned on? Kinky.
Bus driver with hip problem, gonna need a new one by the time he retires. Gives me a tired smile as I get on board, familiar face, I ride several times a week.
The bus a parade of medical issues, bad teeth, bad feet, bad posture. Tragic remodeled multiple defense fractures, abuse victim most likely. Incipient strokes from insufficiency in arteries in neck.
Get off the bus down by the pier. Dredging built up the shore, 100's of feet out from original - back under here a scuttled sailing schooner, looks 18th century, a body in the hold, barrels of lead. Silverware on the galley table!
Two cannon balls embedded in the mud, the trail of their brief glorious trajectory traced in the earth where they came to rest on the old bank. Some skirmish, have to look it up some day.
Guns, guns everywhere, thrown in the bay then covered by time. Will be the mystery to archaeologists of the future - was there a battle here? No, just a long sad history.
Under it all, stone hearths of original aboriginal tribes. Pottery sherds by the millions, a blizzard of oyster shells. A favorite food! Smart people, and good for your heart.
Look deep under it all, see the long slow beat of a planet's molten heart. A billion years of slow heat and long passion.
Getting melancholy. Hard to see so much and not be able to do anything - one-eyed man in the land of the blind and all that.
Spend a slow day watching the seals with guts full of plastic, seeing through the waves to the barren seafloor, the stubs of old reefs dead and shriveled. The human litter embedded everywhere like a rash.
Brilliant colored patterned seashells, buried in the mud, generations of mollusks.
Hot bright turbine engines of jetliners taking off over the bay, people in racks like cattle, enduring.
Tankers making their ponderous way down the coast, bored seamen in hot boiler rooms, shirts off. A pair of gay guys madly thrashing in their bunk, working off the stress and boredom with sex.
Lunchtime - young couples stealing some time, walking among the shrubs away back of the beach, kissing and groping, hands under shirts and in pants. In the changing booths, behind the lifeguard tower, under the pier.
One bold couple at it under a blanket on the sand, not fooling anyone, she's scratching his back, his hips thumping out a steady beat as old as time. Cums in her, gets it right in there, the enthusiasm of youth!
Her spasms are beautiful, thrumming along her vagina to her womb, a greedy response to sudden insemination. Here! Here! beautiful living sperm, my egg is here! Always makes me smile.
Cool of evening coming on. Pay for admission to a club on the strip with cash I found stuffed in a drainpipe. I don't work; there's easy pickings if you can just see it.
This club always amazed me. The thumping of the band matched by pulses in every cock, every vagina, one glorious synchronized dance beneath the dance.
IUDs, cervical cap here and there. Not as many fake boobs as the young fellows at the bar think there are. Just two, and one's a waitress.
Every young man with a condom in their wallet, their shirt pocket. Most of the young ladies with one in their bra, if they wear a bra.
Hen party, bride-to-be already pregnant but just barely, two of her bridesmaids further along. Even the bride carrying condoms, so she must not know.
Bartender has a shotgun under the counter, taser, Billy club. Response proportional to the threat I guess. Nods at me, flicker of a smile. I'm a regular, have warned him of trouble more than once, somebody comes in all hot and armed.
Like a flare to me, obvious instantly. He's glad to see me, doesn't know how I do it but glad for the assist.
No trouble tonight, everybody sex-hot and happy, music is good, drinks are watered down so nobody drunk yet, behaving so far.
The take is good, cashbox stuffed. A lean middle-aged guy shut up in the office behind the bar, bent over books. Genitals scarred by dozens of STI's; only one testicle. Probably in the business, the club business, the sex business because of feelings of insufficiency in that department.
No I can't see in people's heads, not their thoughts anyway. Just so often one thing is correlated with another, STIs with behaviors, postures with looks on faces, you get a sense.
Turn to the crowd, the stage. Two performers getting ready in the hallway behind the stage, he's sitting on a trunk, she's in his lap, panties by ankles, hips rising and falling, fucking before their number, trying to get centered, humping to the beat of the recorded music.
Number comes to a peak, and so does he, clenching balls, really long cock! strains up to meet her hips, she responds by mashing down, accepting his jism as it jets into her, pussy tight, young body pulsing with pleasure.
A beautiful dance-behind-the-dance, a little number just their own.
She pulls up her panties, trapping his cum inside, peck on the cheek, picks up her microphone and they're on, his still-warm cock stuffed down his pantleg so as to be obvious.
Crowd roars approval even though they probably don't know who these guys are. He breaks into a guitar riff, she's waiting for it, turns to the backup band, smiles, bows to them so the audience can see her wet panties, see she's sexy and young and just-fucked and hot and ready.
They're eating it up, and when she belts out her intro they roar again!
A get the bartender's eye, give a thumbs-up, he relaxes. I make my way to the side, a door to a hall, bathrooms, street door to the alley. Alarmed but long ago defeated.
I make my escape to the cool dark, it's like a humid summer day in there, all sweat and sex and body heat. Out here the chill is welcome, a fugitive salt smell from the water some blocks away.
Beach bum sleeping behind a dumpster, not injured, just drunk. Leave him to it.
Down to the beach deserted at this time of day, all the mayflies attracted to the light and noise of the strip. Walk in the cool before retiring to my beach condo.
Not deserted! One lone figure standing, looking back at the city, close to the water, feet wet. Hot in the cool night.
Not good. Folks in a good place are looking at the water, the lights of ships and planes, the channel markers flashing.
Folks in a bad place come to the beach, look back at what's hurt them, reliving their pain. I've talked to enough, I have some idea.
I approach at an angle, not intercepting, don't want to spook them.
