Derelict - Sex Stories

Derelict

... offer was entirely too far-gone to rescind. He was in my loft, in my space. I had to commit and see this crazed altruistic attempt through. Really, what (in the name of everything that is right and decent) was I doing inviting in some homeless stranger? The aroma of doom, besides his funk, wafted in the air. I pondered calling my mother or Vivie fearing that I was about to die. Then it started. As if he were reading my mind, he began striking matches repeatedly. I heard a rip, a strike, an igniting, and then a breath. Hot breath extinguished the orange flickers; wisps of slate smoke followed. He struck a match, another, and then another, throwing the remnants wherever. That was the pattern. A damn pyromaniac, is that who I’d invited into my house? Is this what I get for extending kindness? Really, did I deserve to have my home torched now? Rightfully so, righteous indignation settled, because I was not about to allow this stranger to burn me out of my own home. I eyed the fire extinguisher and calculated how much time it would take me to pull the pin, squeeze the trigger, and sweep the hose across the impending flames. Fast forward to the mess this would make: the foam, the smoke, and the homeless man covered in double yuck. I could smell the hot garbage truck juice stink as I fought back a gag. I took a sniff. Magically, a new aromatic helped my fight. The strong odor of sulfur dioxide seemed to push down the current funk and my freshly imagined diffuser from Bed, Bath, ...

... and Beyond: Hot Garbage by Aromatherapy . Then it dawned on me. This man was aware of his raging odor, and he was lighting matches to cover it. He thought the sulfur would alleviate his stench. Empathetic, I picked up every one of his discarded matches, rinsed them, and threw them away. I snatched the matchbook out of his hand, walked over to the fireplace, and lit three wicks in the center of a large white tea and linen candle to help him out some. I sat the weighty chunk of wax on the counter between us and looked him square in the eye: light brown to blue-brown. “We’ve put a bandage over this thing; we provided a temporal takeover. The root must abdicate the throne. You need a bath, a shower, and then another bath, you know,” I explained with the intention of receiving verbal confirmation; however, a tap, a nod, or a thumb up would have been sufficient. Although the question was clearly not rhetorical, the derelict, whose name I would later find out was Adam, remained mute. Without breaking my gaze, I folded my arms across my boobs, tilted my head to the side, pursed my lips, and shifted my weight to one leg. We had a stare off. He lost. Adam lost his way, his will to remain expressionless. The cross-stitch in the top of his pilled olive knit cap became visible and then invisible, as his blue-brown eyes scanned my Coke bottle figure. Mesmerized by the roundness of my breasts and protruding nipples, Adam’s eyes rested there long enough to cause his dimples to come out of ...