And I’m happy for it.
I turn on the bathroom light and gaze at the face before me. My bloodshot eyes are a fright, and my black hair looks like someone took a weedwacker to it. I scrub my hands over my tan face before turning on the cold water to brush my teeth.
Someone once asked if I was Mediterranean, another if I was Native American.
I’m an orphan, so fuck if I know. I guess I could do one of those genealogy tests, but I really don’t give a shit. My parents either died or dumped me. Neither makes me feel particularly pleasant, so the desire to find out more never really appealed to me.
The bathroom tile is an odd shade of pink—interesting choice for a car repair shop, but I don’t really hate it. The only downside to the bathroom is the lack of a shower. I have a bathtub, which is even more bizarre than the pink tile, but it’s kind of relaxing on days when I have a hangover.
Which is most days.
I finish brushing my teeth and make my way to the tub. My hand reaches for the hot-water nozzle.
No cold water for me—I prefer to bathe in lava, thank you.
I pull down my boxers, kick them aside, then grip the tub’s edge as I step in. I fell yesterday and still have the bump on my head to prove it. I already mentioned the soup-for-brains issue, right?
My body sinks into the scalding water.Goddamn, this feels good.
I reach for the bubbles and pour a generous amount in. I sink and let the water envelop my head as it fills the tub. Thesound of the running water beneath the surface soothes the pounding headache I have. I try to hold my breath for as long as possible, something I do every morning. I don’t know why, but the lack of oxygen makes me feel more alive than normal breathing. When I can’t take it anymore, I sit upright once again and gasp for air.
It’s a reminder of how little I spend in the present moment. I’m either angry at the past or worried about the future. The sixty seconds or so I spend depriving myself of oxygen in the tub are the closest I’ll get to nirvana for the rest of the day. It also helps to soften the hangover.
With my mind fully present and the pressure behind my eyes slowly dissipating, I relax my body against the ledge of the tub and reach down to tug on my cock. This is also a ritual of mine. Jerking off in the morning helps me keep the edge off throughout the day. I’m bisexual, which doubles the chances that I’ll meet someone who gives me a raging hard-on. I don’t even know if bisexual is an appropriate label. What’s the label for, “I’ll fuck anyone who tickles my fancy?” Slut? Maybe slut is my sexual orientation.
Whatever.
The point I’m trying to make is that it’s either tame the beast in the morning or risk knocking glasses off a table.
My eyes close, the vision of a man’s nice, subtle ass with a few of my glowing red handprints serving as the fantasy du jour. I like spanking men. It’s not really the same for women—I prefer they spank me.Thank you, ma’am. May I have another?
I finish up, careful not to get a drop of cum in the water, and clean it with nearby tissues.
Despite being a mess and having a fairly dirty profession,I’m pretty fastidious about the bathroom. There’s nothing worse than a gross bathroom.
I use my foot to release the drain and carefully exit the bathtub. The light above the mirror flickers as I pat myself dry with a towel. The landlord of this dump doesn’t do a fucking thing to keep this place in order.
Spoiler. It’s me. I’m the landlord.
I keep the shop in order because it’s vital to my survival, but a flickering bathroom light? Couldn’t care less. There’s an example of my OCD gone awry. If the bathroom is dirty, I’ll lose my shit. A flickering light?Meh.
Once I’m dry, I don a black t-shirt and black jeans.
I only wear black. I look good in it, and car grease doesn’t show on black clothing. The shirt is tight, which accentuates my chest, but the pants are baggy and don’t do a thing to show off my amazing ass.
This isn’t ego talking—every hookup I’ve ever had said I have a nice ass. A nice assanda fat dick to be precise. The two do wonders for my sex life until my personality and kinks rear their ugly heads. Then it’s back to beating off alone in a bathtub.
Just living the good life.
Fully dressed, I descend the metal spiral staircase to the shop. Gabriel, my right-hand man, is already here, setting things up for the day. Gabriel doesn’t talk much. And by “doesn’t talk much,” I mean he almost never speaks. He prefers to write things down. Other times, he grunts, and, if you know him long enough, you start to understand what his grunts mean. He’s not mute; I’ve definitely heard him speak. He just doesn’t want to.
That’s probably why I like himso much.
We grew up together in the Patch. He lived in the trailer park near the outskirts of the city, and I lived nearby in the hellhole that was the Kays’ house.
One day, I let him bum a cigarette, and we’ve been buds ever since.
“What’s up, baby Gabe?” I call him ‘baby’ because he has a young face and brown eyes so dark that they’re almost black. Everyone around town thinks he’s spooky, so I do my best to make him feel lovable. What’s more lovable than a baby?
