217 Babel Street | Apartment 14
Damien masturbated for a while in the shower. Hot soapy suds slipped all over him, but it was a perfunctory wank and he came quickly. He jumped out, reached for a towel. As he dried himself, he checked – as he always did – his pecs and then his glutes. Shame there was nobody else to enjoy the view.
He could have anyone he wanted. People always said so. But who did he want? Sophie was a nag. Other girls seemed immature. At the back of his mind there was someone, but it was too embarrassing to consider. Imagine if he told anyone that he had some sort of thing about the caretaker who was, famously, an old bag. He didn't fancy her. She was hideous.
And yet.
He put his lenses in and cleaned his teeth.
Would he see her today? He had nothing to say to her even if he did. Yesterday's weirdness was better forgotten.
He dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. His bike was shiny and clean today, not a speck of dirt on the wheels. He found himself staring at the geranium on the window sill behind the bike. Why was it making him -? Of course. Did he dare -? Yes. He grabbed a fistful of damp soil from the pot, smeared it over the bike's tyres, rubbed it around to make it really muddy. Damien put on his shoes and grabbed his keys. Now let's see what happens, he thought, with a sting of anticipation.