Shit, deadline... This is all I've got
I was down in the basement, in the tunnels they have between all the buildings where there are some lockers and pipes running along the ceiling only a foot or two above your head. Some of them hiss and you catch a draft in certain places, or other times there are weird lights flashing on electrical boxes that buzz sometimes if there are enough lights flashing. There are ladders everywhere, most of them chained to a wall or a railing on some odd staircase that goes down a few steps to a locked door whose only handle must be on the inside because this side is just metal, flush, sometimes with a tag like “I see the fnords” or “fuckin’ right.” Sometimes there’s a cock or some tits, and sometimes even a cock and balls, but these disappear the quickest and then there’s only a cock and balls that’s gray instead of white or black, but not the same gray as the door.
Every once in a while (and only once) I’m down there zonked on whatever’s around and I always flash the same way: always see steam. Always steam, not smoke, and never from any one source I can find, but coming from all sides of my vision, filling the hall and heating it up until I’m sweating and steam is condensing on my skin to really soak me good. Sometimes people walk by like everything’s cool and all I can think to do is choke back some sweat and wipe my face off. If it’s a chick. Otherwise I don’t give a fuck.
Someone told me you had to walk with your dick. It was a lesbian who dressed up like a man to write some book. She walked around wearing some sore of strap-on dildo, or maybe had a banana hanging out of her cooter, but whatever she did she said it made her feel like she was walking with her dick. She decided this was what made men men. So, being a man, or at least being what would be a man, assuming average life-span (I hoped, in both cases), I walked with my dick. What the hell that means, I don’t know, but I did it somehow. I was zonked on whatever was around, and I was walking with my dick, I mean with my dick hard, or at least stuck out a little more, my pelvis pushed forward, my legs swinging wide to make room for this massive thing down there that determined how I walked. It’s like I took some of the blood from my brain and threw it down there where it belonged. I was a man.
So there were chicks and I was sweating from the steam. What’s worse is that the steam was all over the hall so I couldn’t see anyone until they were real close. I had to guess what they looked like by the sound of their footsteps. Light-footed meant girl (there were exceptions) and a heavy stomp meant a guy (there were exceptions). The faster the pace, the more feminine the walker. This was true every time. So every-time I heard a faint, fast beat, I wiped my forehead and pushed my hair back, pushed my dick out and let it carry a little more weight, and the girls, who couldn’t see the steam, would see me do this and get as close as they could to the far wall.
I decided to walk right down the center of the hall. It was easier than not being zonked on whatever was around.
But the steam had me running into tough guys, dancing around with pussies who did whatever they could to avoid me. When I hit a tough guy, I apologized. When I missed a pussy, I looked back pissed off unless he said he was sorry. If he said “my bad,” I sometimes said “damn straight.”
So I walked, somehow not finding any girls by this strategy so I went back to the right hand side, back to guessing by the noise and wiping my face and changing my balance every couple of minutes.
Where the hell was I going?
The library.
I could get from Ford hall to the library by going down into the tunnels, across the mall and then down one side, all the way to the sign marked ‘Wilson Library’ where I would climb some steps and be there, out of the steam, looking for a desk or a table, walking through the silent building with my dick.
And everyone was doing absolutely nothing. There were people at the computers, half the guys looking at porn, the other half looking at the guys looking at porn. Most of the girls were shopping, not really buying anything, but looking at stuff. Some of them clothes, most of them books. Almost nobody looked up books that were actually in the library. So I could go in there knowing how Dewey’s nut-job system worked, knowing that the Library of Congress was bull-shit, but had this place whipped, and head on down to PS or PG, find a table with my dick, that is to say find a table in a room where all the tables had someone at them and sit down across from some girl who was alone. Then I could take out “Moscow Circles” or “A Scanner Darkly” and wonder where the hell all the chicks who gave a fuck about this stuff were hiding.
I never found them in the library, and always went back to the tunnels to cross campus without getting cold until I popped out and walked a few blocks to the Nomad or Hard Times. There was steam, but plenty of booze so I could warm up really good before taking off at night. Then I’d slip back into the tunnels, back into the steam, bouncing from wall to wall and walking with my ass more than my dick; bent over and stumbling, bumping in to half a dozen girls until one called me a creep and I saw another through the steam standing by a locker, chuckling.
“You were in Hard Times,” she told me after I stood there, ready to put her down for laughing.
“Sure baby, yeah. I remember you.” I didn’t, but she told me I was there, so I probably was and she must have been to know it.
“Yeah, we talked. You’re fucked up.”
“We’re all crazy.”
“I mean drunk. But that answer ain’t bad. Ain’t original, but ain’t bad. And you are crazy.”
“Sure, baby,” I said and kissed her, grabbed her tit right there in the steam and tried to cram us both in the locker.
“Shit, baby,” she said and pushed me back. “Crazy... This ain’t the place.”
She shut the locker and took my arm as we went down some stairs into the steam. It was dark. The source of the steam, I guessed as the stairs kept going past where any door should have been. I couldn’t see anything, but she led me by the arm and it was pitch black, but she could see me when I stumbled past the last step and she caught me, caught me by the belt and pulled it off. I was standing there with my dick out and she had it, had my pants down and wasn’t touching me anywhere but the dick, and she wasn’t moving, just sitting there with it in what I figured was her mouth as I tried to move it myself. It went a little, but then she started bobbing her head in rhythm, so I changed it up, but she kept following. Kept following and pretty soon I couldn’t feel my dick at all. I just stood there and waited for her to stop and get up and lead me out of the dark. I could feel the steam, see nothing, and not feel anything else but my dick slowly going limp.
Have a good weekend, but don't drink yourselves dead
