Stinks like Shit

I’m homeless so shower at the free pool. Scrub scum and cum. I swim then shower. Often just the latter. I’m not the only one. The pool is a magnet for people like me. It’s a spring fed encasement with an open air changing room. Trails abut so it’s heavily trafficked. Stroller moms flit through but bums and weirdos populate the place. One is old as hell but has a massive hog. I call him Mr. Missile due to his Reagan-era extremity. I come three or four times a week to shave and shower. Wipe winter’s grease. Swim the pool, hike the trail, make myself clean. Attempt normalcy or at least some semblance of it.

There’s those you’d never suspect to be homeless. I only know because I’m one of them. Because I see them here so often. In the shower and by the cars they live in. Our commonality stays unspoken. A head nod but nothing more. We’re just here so our assholes won’t itch. There’s no need for chatter when you’re naked. To be unseen is the aim.

I melt into the regular world as a nobody. Have a car to sleep in and money to feed me. Show no signs of distress. Only the lifeguards know what lies beneath. That I’m a cockroach. That’s how I like it. Then there’s those with outward markers. They embody the usual signs and stereotypes: Ratty clothes, multiple bags, chatting with themselves, etc.

I keep a catalog of characters but they’re boring. We stay to ourselves. Scrub teeth and squeeze cysts. Shower and leave. In and out. A clean routine. But one man broke the unspoken code of silence. Someone who couldn’t slip unseen to the civilian world.

One night I caught wind of words coming from the shower. An ever escalating rant. I sat on a bench, freshly showered, transcribing what was said. Taking in tangents. They started calm then boiled to anger. I couldn’t see the man behind the curtain. Still, his voice boomed out to the open like Oz.

“This water stinks like shit.”

To me it seemed fine though people piss on the floor. A thousand strangers emptying their dicks. I’m ever thankful it’s not the other substance that pours from that appendage. His next complaint landed more in line with my own experience.

“Gonna freeze my balls off trying to get clean.” He didn’t jump out but rather carried on. “Now I gotta break into someone’s house just to take a shower.” It seemed a reasonable conclusion.

He recalled some moment, real or imagined, by imitating a woman’s voice. “Oh there’s body wash in there.” He switched back to the angry tenor and screamed “No there’s not you stupid fucking bitch!” I wondered who’d win the argument.

Myself, the bums, and some seniors sat in silence listening to his diatribes. They stretched on and on. Winding down then up again. I was bone dry and dressed. Had no reason to be here. But I wanted to know where it’d go. What this man looked like.

In time the schizo dude stepped from the shower. He was young, maybe my age, but with a much better figure. I admired his abs, even his cock. It didn’t shrink and shrivel from cold. If only I could install my brain in this body. Take control of that cock.

To the old men, to no one, he strayed from cold water to a question of sex. “Girls like the body more than the dick. Wanna know why?”


“It’s all about getting off for them.” He laughed at this then carried on. “I’m gonna get some Mexican ass. Purebred Mexican.” The seniors sat silent. We all knew the man was disturbed. That to engage could only spell trouble.

Most folks scattered but a few remained. I stared at my phone but there was no need to act inconspicuous. He carried on despite no external stimuli or response to statements. After ranting about a gas station and imaginary girlfriend he returned to sex. To another address for the room.

“Alright y’all I’m gonna pull as much pussy into this city as I can tonight. Better get your dicks ready.” My dick sat limp. Washed but not ready for women accrued by a schizophrenic hobo with a fat hog. In case we worried there wasn’t enough to go around he stated that “There are over a million pussies in the world.” It seemed an adequate amount for those that remained: Bums, seniors, and a schizo dude.

Everyone left except the two of us. With no audience he more or less canned it. Groomed himself and packed belongings. Perhaps the monologue turned internal. To me this was novel. To him a carbon copy. I’m sure his sickness put him on the streets. For me it was a conscious choice. That difference was clear. So stark and striking.

With him piped down there was nothing left to do. I’d been here for at least an hour. It was time to go. I could linger no longer. Had to return to my own life. The one where I too was homeless. Where I felt thankful my mind kept me tethered. At least I had that.

I wished the man a good night. He bade the same as if all were normal. Perhaps to him it was. I couldn’t know his inner workings. The way his world slipped through reality. An intersecting universe. I struck out into the night, my dick on the sniff for its promised pussy. I didn’t see a single woman, much less a million. They were nowhere to be found. Just cold air and a car to sleep in.

40 thoughts on “Stinks like Shit

      1. I guess if I read further I’ll learn how you got there, how you connect to your blog and what you intend to do with the rest of your life. Sounds like a compelling premise. πŸ™‚

        Liked by 2 people

    1. It was a slow process over many years. I make my living traveling around the country having drugs tested on me so I’m often on the move. I’ve also taken dozens of cross country road trips. My fav thing in the world is just taking a month and spending it skipping from national park to national park.

      From all that I started sleeping in my car to save costs. First just at rest stops then in cities. I slowly built up from there to months at a time of living in the car. Over time I realized that it was no big deal to me to live like that. It was all a very gradual thing over the course of years. It allows me to travel very inexpensively and be more mobile. Plus I just hate paying rent haha. It’s like lighting my money on fire.

      There’s good and bad to it. I still rent a few months a year and stay with family when I’m working. The constant rambling makes it hard to live a normal life. That’s a balance I’m always working on. I kind of want to settle down and live a more normal life but that’s a scary step.

      Long answer short: To have financial independence and the ability to be mobile.

      Liked by 2 people

  1. I usually skip over blog entries on WordPress, because the internet is so distracting, I can’t focus on one blog at a time. My mind wants to wander around.

    I don’t have this issue with actual books, because the story is…there. I can’t flit from story to story. The story is written and it demands my attention. The internet is more like a lawless playground, so it takes effort for me to read an entire blog entry.

    Although, I must admit, your blog entry captured my attention from start to end. Kinda reminds me of O. Henry. He had a knack for the short story. I think you do, too.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. I love the way you put it. With a book or long form journalism or whatever you trust the story is there. That the pieces will come together as it unfolds. With blogs it’s usually just some recounting of one’s day or whatever. Not much thought in how it’s constructed. That’s fine but can be pretty boring.

      I think of my site as a place to publish creative nonfiction, not blog style rants about how my kid took a shit in the dishwasher without my knowing and now my husband has a taste for feces and eats my ass 24/7 and gets pissed when I can’t do a #2 so he goes to construction sites and ladles porta-potty water into his waiting gullet or whatever. The word blog kind of repulses me haha. Anyways, I’m glad it grabbed your attention. Thanks for reading.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. I used the pool showers for a while this last fall. Most of those who did lived off the grid. Or mostly off grid. Thankfully, the pool facilities had hot water and free WiFi.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Wow I feel super honoured that you liked one of my dishwasher posts, now that I’ve come here to read your writing. It really is brilliant. By the way I’ve read a lot of books and blogs and the number of comments here expressing the same sentiment on such seriously truthful writing is telling.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. That is impressive! I may try to do so. :)) Have got so many projects going on at the moment. May I ask, have you ever made a book out of some of them, and/or are you considering it, and or why or why not? I ask as a fellow writer muddling through my own book-writing process. :))

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I’ve never been interested in a book. I think it’s kind of a dying form that many don’t have the attention or time for. I know for a fact that I reach way more readers through here than I ever could with a book. Plus I just don’t have a good idea for one.

        That being said, I read books all the time haha. I fuggin love them. I hope yours turns out wonderful πŸ™‚ πŸ‘πŸ‘

        Liked by 1 person

  4. Great stuff. I really can sympathize. I was professionally homeless for about 4 years, driving uber/lyft, and essentially living out of my car. I parlayed that into traveling around the world sleeping in cars. If you are going it by choice, it is a frugal way to stay safe in a city. If it isn’t a choice, then I wish you luck on your visio. For a better place.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, dude! I am doing this by choice, mostly to be financially independent and have the freedom to travel. Sounds similar to you. I’m also thinking about getting into the Lyft/Uber game to have a more stable source of income/meet some drunk dorks.


      1. It was a good game for a minute. Now it’s much less profitable now. I never made a single friend over 4 years, a cool business contacts, but there was always a perception that I was their bitch; a feeling of superiority that never led to a real friendship

        Liked by 1 person

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