Happiness

I could feel the fluttering in my chest as I walked around campus. Too much beer last night? Maybe, maybe. What was too much? Anything that interfered with my current drug schedule. Ha. I met up with my teacher. We talked about writing, about independent studies, about the women around campus. I was very happy to be back on campus. The girls, the women were everywhere, each time you looked up, each time you blinked. He agreed with me on some points.

"The way you're talking, you're going to get me fired," he said, only mildly joking. I hadn't been feeling this good in a long time. The women around campus definitely made my spirits rise, along with other, things. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to fuck each one of them, make them mine, and forget their names in a single sentence. The good-looking ones, of course.

A fat woman, a big woman can have a pretty face. And that's okay with me. Once, I used to rally my own feelings up against such nonsense. "A fat woman with a pretty face is like God laughing at you," I'd say to friends. Now things were different - I didn't care. My boss' daughter was a large woman - just like him - but had a pretty face, the kind you couldn't argue with. Good Christ she was huge. Maybe God was laughing at me, somewhere...

My teacher friend took off to meet up with his family, another family meal, another family outing. I couldn't get it. Now, at least. Before, a long term relationship, plans for a wedding, for children, for a so-called future. I loved that girl. I'd still think about her every day, a corrosive clockwork to the beating of my heart. But now...I wouldn't trade my life back for that. There were too many smiling faces I wanted to kiss, there were too many pussies I wanted to explore.

My married friends were beginning to pile up into the dozens. I wondered about them but not as much as you might think. I knew what was happening, what was going to happen: I would be left with a few of them as friends and the rest as acquaintances (if I was lucky). The ones I was going to stop being friends with at some point were the ones who were trying to force me to date their friends. This never ended well. They all wanted he same thing: a commitment I was unwilling to give, and somebody to have a child with. "I don't want kids...not now, not ever," I'd tell them, and for the most part , they'd let me be. I didn't even know if it were true. But the girls my age were all looking for the same, the be-all, end-all relationship, the person to have and to hold, and all I wanted was a blowjob and a healthy nights' rest.

The sun was out and I started making my way across campus again, and it was an off day. Not too many girls but enough for me to pay attention, enough for me to stop and look. I never bothered to whistle. That always seemed like the cheap refuge of the young, or, those who were unable to engage in meaningful conversation. I could talk to anybody about anything. I could make anybody laugh. I was a talented orator.

I was also ten years older than most of them, or close to it, a former drug dealer, abuser of drugs and women and trust and life. I was looking at school like a second chance for me and my dick. with my dick first in line.

The library usually held some kind of excitement. I sat at one of the terminals and let time pass, listened to the girls across from me talk. "Look at the picture - I used to date this guy. Do you think he's ugly?" The girl who was talking looked cute but under the pancake makeup and hair there was some kind of ugliness. I decided I'd look at her tits if I got the chance at a later juncture. Her friend was ugly and I could've care less.

My stomach started bothering me again. Loud, loud noises. "Too much beer," it told me. An appointment in the afternoon for a new job and my stomach was not going to calm down. I needed to shit. Beer shits in school. I signed off the computer and started walking around.

The lower level of the school has multiple bathrooms, but certain ones attract human shit in their overpriced designer clothing on a higher level. You can always tell when they've been there: they use they stalls and piss all over the floor, the seat, behind the seat. It's like walking into a truck stop, a busy rest area that hasn't been cleaned in days. There's no real division between men except in bathroom etiquette. Either you aim correctly or clean up after yourself, or you don't give a shit about anybody else and let it fly. I've been in enough bars and rest stops to know there's no true difference between the bathrooms, minus that at the stops not everybody is drunk.

I searched for the mythic clean bathroom and it took walking up the stairs and then down, and on my third try I found the one. The rumbling in my stomach was audible. I knew relief was on its' way. I picked out the cleanest of the clean stalls (Ten in all! Glory!) and sat myself down. I was ready for the storm. There was nobody else in the bathroom. It was mine.
I held my book and slowly read as I shat out the previous nights' adventures, sweat forming on my forehead and beginning to drip. I couldn't smell it - thank God, somebody - at least there was that. And, an empty bathroom. I could stay
in there all day if I wanted to.

Now and then I would hear the door open, listen to the footfalls of somebody walking to the other side, listen to them urinate, maybe hum to themselves. One guy came in and pissed and I could hear him singing a Gregory Isaacs song as he washed his hands. Apparently he was in love with his cock. Not a bad thing to be.

He left and I had five minutes to myself. Automated bathroom flushers suck because you have to get up to make them work, so I'd wipe my ass between shits, hold off the best I could, rise and wait for the flush, sit back down and continue. A minor annoyance. My book was good, some nameless writer recommended by a friend. I sat and shat and read.

The door opened, two guys this time. They talked about what I don't know I couldn't understand them where I was. One of them went to wash his hands, said goodbye to the other and left; the other guy, from the sound of it, was still pissing. I admired him in that moment: to have a such a giant bladder.

I heard the toilet flush and he walked over to my side. I paused my reading and wondered if he was looking at my stall, if he knew he wasn't alone. I listened. Heard his fly unzip.

He was beating off. Looking at the mirror, I'd guess. "Yeah, YEAH!" He screamed. I wondered if he knew I was there. He just kept moaning and tugging at his dick and I just waited, waited to hear what happened, if he was going to wait outside of the stall for me to exit. He moaned more, louder, louder again and it was over. I heard the fly zip and the water turn on, a minute later he was out the door. I went back to my book.

Ten minutes later I gave my ass a thorough wiping, got up and covered my half-naked self with my pants again. I grabbed my book and stuck it in my armpit, got some soap and washed my hands, dried them on my shirt. Instinctively my eyes went to the floor.

And there it was, sloppy white, a spray of cum on the floor. I looked at it for a second and walked out the door.