I take this shortcut from my place to Jeff’s house that cuts my walking time considerably and at the end of it stands a house we call the Fuck Shop like that one 2 Live Crew song because through the usually open bedroom window what is most likely two people fucking can almost always be seen, honestly almost constantly, at all hours of day or night, an exposed lightbulb burning bright when it’s dark outside, as if they never stop. It’s anyhow what I imagine sex looks and sounds and smells like, the slapping, mottled flesh, the wet popping squirting sounds like moist flatulence, the gasps and moans and choking, the phlegmy wheezes, the noxious, assaulting admixture of burnt rubber smells and burnt shit smells and briny, acrid sweat, but it could also be some sort of disgusting giant alien squid snacking on sloppy koe sandwiches or even its own feces (or possibly even both in some bizarre coprophagist loop) while keeping constant vigil at the window, awaiting the return of the squid mothership. It’s a vibrating, jiggling flab mass with a dangling pink knob resembling a raw pork knuckle swinging like a pendulum at the center and ripples and waves of pink and grey sheets of unwell, waggling skin covered in sweat-soaked, matted hair and if those vertical slits are the ass cracks I presume the wide, deep, and richly brown streaks overlaying them are shit stains.

Summers, there’s a box fan in the open window, whirling at max speed. Today I’m walking by it and the pounding, slapping, moaning blob or blobs, drinking a still mostly full 64-ounce pop I just got from SuperAmerica and without any kind of forethought just fucking hurl it into the fan. The fan sprays it all over the slopping, writhing fuck mess like a blast of hurricane rain, and the blob divides or uncouples, and one half stands up and rushes to the window, and I can see it is not an alien squid, it is after all two people fucking, and there’s a guy standing there panting, what looks like clotted cream dripping from a stiff, gleaming erection, and as he stares at me I wave while still ambling casually by.

“Did you jus’ fuckin’ throw that?” he asks, incredibly with a lit cigarette in his mouth that must’ve already been there during the fucking and bobs up and down like a conductor’s baton between his lips as he yells.

I just start laughing after looking around and seeing that I’m the only one there, that no one else could possibly have done it.

He ripped the top sheet from the bed and wrapped himself in it to burst through the mostly already destroyed front door, shattering the remains into small shards covered in thick bits of peeling paint like the rest of the disintegrating house, still with the lit cigarette in his mouth, before I’d even made it ten feet past the bedroom window. He bore down on me like some huffy security guard, his penis still thickly erect and through a part in the sheet bouncing up and down in cadence with the bobbing cigarette, flinging gobs of the clotted cream wildly against the sidewalk and his own chest, two large orbs of hairy, fleshy tit meat. I turned about sharply and bolted up the middle of the street toward a busier cross street, knowing the literal tons of loose asphalt covering all the decayed streets in this town would put a quick stop to a barefoot runner, and if it didn’t, he wouldn’t have the nerve to chase me into traffic. But they did, the little black, oily pebbles, about 30 seconds into the chase. He burned in pretty hard, the cigarette exploding in a shower of sparks into his face as he smashed into the street, the sheet stained with fetid sweat and other darker materials billowing upward in the light wind as it departed his waist, and it dawned on me I may not be able to take that route anymore.