Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

back to the counter and reaches up to a cabinet.

      “Sorry.” I plop down on a barstool by the counter. Damn! It is so soft and so comfy. Must be made of some sort of memory foam or something like that. I think I sighed out loud ’cause he turns around like something is wrong.

      “You okay?” he asks.

      “Yeah. Sorry. I like this chair.”

      He turns back around and scans my face. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He leaves the kitchen and pauses, waiting for me. “Come on. Grab your bag.”

      I walk back to the front door, grab my bag, and follow him down a short hall. He opens a door. I follow him into a small bedroom that has a huge window overlooking the small yard, and just on the other side is the wide beach that stretches about a hundred yards to the ocean. As I continue to follow him, he enters the attached bathroom and flips the light on. It is the biggest bathroom I have ever seen. I mean, it doesn’t have dual sinks and a built-in kitchen or anything, but the shower is huge and there is enough room to dance, if dancing in the bathroom is a thing. He opens a closet door and pulls out a huge, fluffy towel and puts it into a trashcan that’s on one of the counters. He touches a button on the trashcan and a dim red light starts glowing. He looks at me and notices my puzzled expression. Yes, I am wondering why he is throwing away a perfectly good towel. Shit, I’d use that thing as a blanket.

      “It’s a towel warmer,” he explains.

      “A what?”

      “A towel warmer.” He must see that I’m still not getting it. “You’ll see when you get out of the shower.” He opens the glass door to the shower and turns on the water. There is like this huge showerhead built into the ceiling and the water comes down in this huge, wide wall of water. It looks like a waterfall. My mouth feels really dry. Maybe watching that water twinkle in the little overhead lights is making me thirsty. Oh wait, I’m not thirsty—my mouth is hanging open. As I stand there, mesmerized by the shower, he walks behind me, pulls a few things out of cabinets, and puts them up on the counter.

      “I’m going to make us some food.” And now he’s gone, leaving me alone in this gigantic bathroom watching the water rain down in this enormous shower. As steam starts slowly filling the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I am thin. And dirty. Disgusting, actually. I kick off my Chucks and pull off my sweatshirt and T-shirt as I unbutton my second-hand Levi’s. I hear them crinkling even over the roar of the water. They are as disgusting as the rest of me. I run my fingers over my ribs that are clearly outlined beneath the skin of my chest and abdomen. I look like a skeleton. I guess that’s appropriate, since I feel like a skeleton. I disappeared a long time ago and all that’s left is this skin-and-bone version of me. This makes me realize how hungry I am, and I turn, strip off my boxers and socks, and step into the most magnificent shower of my life. Oh my God this feels good!

      I lean my head back and let the water droplets drench my face and my hair, and I arch my back so it hits my chest and stomach. I want to lie down on my back and just let the water wash away all my pain, but that would be weird, right? But holy shit, this feels amazing. I’m not sure how long I stand there just letting the water wash over me, but eventually, I reach for this bottle of soap and I rub it in my hands and it’s so silky and smooth. I sniff at it and it smells like coconuts and something else sweet and I inhale deeply before slathering it around in my hair. And now I have a dilemma—I want to lather up my hair and my body, but I don’t want to leave the water—what to do? What to do? I decide to step aside and run my hands through my hair, working the gel into my hair, which hasn’t seen shampoo in . . . I don’t remember how long. And there’s a washcloth hanging from a little hook and I take it, pour more gel into it, and begin washing my body. My skin is actually tingling, like it is so fucking happy to be getting clean that it’s celebrating the fresh air and clean water. Yay! My body is having a party! I step back under the ecstasy of the shower/waterfall and keep rubbing the washcloth over my skin and through my hair, and I actually start to get a woody. I smile as I think about how good it would feel to rub one out right here, under this amazing shower and with this amazing coconut gel stuff in this amazing bathroom in this amazing house and then my stomach growls. Shit. Now what? Rub one out or eat? Fate is a cruel bitch and sometimes it has a fun time fucking with me. A little while ago, I was trying to decide how to eat around a big ol’ piece of snot-covered pizza, and now I have to decide whether to jackoff in this amazing shower or go eat a real meal. Slightly disappointed, I choose eggs. Call me a pragmatist.

      So I turn off the shower, feeling cleaner than I have ever felt in my life and look around for a fucking towel. Then I remember that Michelangelo had put it in that trashcan thing on the counter. I reach in and my hand is swallowed by this fluffy, soft, warm mass of material. I pull it out and start to towel off my hair and, oh shit . . . I can feel my erection rising as this warmth envelops my head and shoulders. It’s this warmth that’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I can feel the warmth across my scalp as my fingers press the warm towel through my hair and against my fingers and the warmth drags across my shoulders as the rest of the towel drags from side to side. I wipe down across my face and rub first one shoulder and then the other and then I’m rubbing it down my chest and down my abdomen and the ends are dragging against my penis and I rub it dry and get that space under my balls and oh shit! I can barely keep the stupid grin from my face as I rub my legs dry and then flip the towel over my head and start whisking it across my back. I know how ridiculous this all sounds to you, but you can’t possibly understand what it feels like after a year living on the streets. It’s just a fucking shower, I know. And a fucking towel—big whoop, right? But to me, right now, I’m not thinking about all the discarded pizzas and hot dogs and half-eaten candy bars and fights and sleeping in alleys and benches and getting cursed at and chased and ridiculed and looked down upon and . . . fuck you if you think I’m being ridiculous. I enjoyed the shit out of my shower, and I’m enjoying the shit out of this huge, warm towel and . . . shit. I’m dry.

      I look down on the floor at my disgusting clothes and my disgusting bag, and I don’t want to put that disgusting shit back on right now. I’m clean for the first time in whenever, and that shit will make me smelly and disgusting again. And, yeah, in case you’re wondering, when I’m walking around the beach or the streets I can smell myself—I know how bad I stink—but it’s something you get used to because there’s nothing you can do about it, so you learn to just kind of ignore it. Whatever. For the first time, I notice the stuff Michelangelo put out on the counter: A toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and a hairbrush. I’ll get to that stuff in a bit. Right now, I want another one of those towels. I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin my shower by putting on those stinking clothes. I’ll just wrap the towel around my waist and wear that. I open the closet door and pull down another towel, wrapping that around my waist. It’s not warm like the other one, but it’s soft as fuck and I brush my teeth, wipe on some deodorant, and run my fingers through my hair. I see my reflection in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize myself. I haven’t seen myself clean in over a year. My stomach growls again, and I know it’s time to go eat.

      As soon as I leave the bathroom, I see a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt lying neatly on the bed. Truth be told, they both look kind of big for me, but who would seriously give two shits about that? I drop the towel and slip on the sweats and the T-shirt, feeling the softness of clean material against my skin for the first time in a long time. And now I’m starting to get a little creeped out. Okay. Let’s review. This total stranger stands up for me by breaking some guy’s arm, then he offers to feed me, and he brings me to his house, sets me up with this fucking amazing shower and warm towel, and now clean clothes. Nobody does that. So what the hell does he want from me? My heart sinks. I get it now. How stupid do I have to be to have not seen it earlier? I stop walking and shake my head. I’ve sold my body before and it is not a big deal. I get it. Some guys are just hard up, or in the closet, or they like young guys. Fine. But even if he did stick up for me, if he thinks I’m going to give it up to him for a shower and some fucking eggs, he’s delusional. I’ll ask him for a hundred bucks. No, two hundred. Fuck that, if I play hard to get and act like a virgin, I could probably get five hundred. I’ll eat his fucking eggs and play the virgin and walk out with five bills. Then tomorrow,