Wackhammer, Chapter Three (Suck one, I work too much to write on a Schedule)

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Chapter Three: Drying Off

All good things must come to an end, and the end of The Occupants brief bliss began when he begrudgingly pulled the plug from his bathtub. As he had showered, the water had accumulated to just slightly above the base of his dick. He has always marveled at how his dick had floated in the water, bobbing slightly as the streams of water from the shower rained down upon it. Now he lamented as the bathwater drained, his dick sinking with it. Rising tides raise all boats, and receding tides make all masts droop.

Once the water had fully drained, he turned the hot water spigot counter-clockwise, ending his short respite from contemplative existence.

For him, the hot shower was a replacement. A normal, well adjusted male of his own age would have the comfort of a woman at night, a warm body to share the bed with, a thriving, living organism he could sink into. Yet, like so many lonesome and despondent men of his own age, he could only approximate that feeling with the warm grip of water surrounding him.

Was is a facsilime of a lover's warm embrace? Or was it a regression back to the comfort of the womb?

Regardless of what it was, it was his only true comfort during the waking day.

Hoisting himself out of the shower, The Occupant, stood and grabbed the Duck Dynasty towel he had purchased from the Walmart several years prior.

Starting with his head, he began to dry himself. His hair was short, light-brown and neatly trimmed, with a few pleasant streaks of blonde in it. Although he showered everyday, he rarely shampooed it, as he found it caused an undesirable level of frizziness, which he found uncomely. But once a week was enough, as his hair rarely got oily,and truth be told, it was quite beautiful. No fewer than three female barbers had said that it was the best they had ever, and had the pleasure of working with. Two male barbers would’ve said the same, but that sounded that sounded really gay.

Immediately after drying his hair, he shoved the towel, unfolded, back into its’ rack, and looked towards the sink, to grab his comb. Other than the black plastic unbreakable comb with bifurcated coarse and fine teeth, there were relatively few items. His cheap toothbrush, a baking soda based toothpaste, and a mostly unused package of single-use plastic dental flossers. As much as The Occupant had attempted to make flossing a habit, it simply never seemed that important, and he had given up a few months ago, shortly after he purchased the pack. There was also an old rust-patched razor, which he occasionally used to edge him impressively thick brown beard, but shaving seemed like too much of a bother at the moment.

Reaching to his left, The Occupant grabbed an embroidered washcloth from its’ rack. It was a small white towel which his mother had customized for him when he was a child. She had stitched on a kittens face with thick purple thread. Large, sharp ears, gentle eyes with a slit down the middle, a small nose surrounded by mischievous whiskers, and a small mouth with a last tongue drooping out. At the bottom she had sewn his full name, along with his childhood nickname, so he would know that it was his, and nobody else’s. Ed “Knot” Hereto.

He used the lovingly made relic from his past to wipe the steamy condensation from his bathroom mirror, preparing to comb himself. The small droplets were partially absorbed into the cloth, but still, tiny streaks of water were left, slight obscuring The Occupants view of himself. He wiped and wiped again, until he decided his reflection was clear enough.

Seeing himself for the first time this day, he was pleasantly surprised by his appearance. The Occupant stood at a robust 6’5” tall, weighing in at a hearty 235 pounds. His had a strong and slightly rectangular forehead, a perfectly sized nordic nose surrounded by high and well defined cheek-bones, and strong, if slightly large, chin, though it was covered with a neatly groomed brown beard. The only fault he found was in his eyes.

Surrounded by light-purple flesh bags of flesh that resulted from his alcoholism and sleep-deprivation, they were orbs of pure white webbed with pink capillaries, punctuated with asymmetrically patterned hazel irises and large, black pupils that seemed as empty as abandoned wells, desiccated, with only the barest hint of life-giving water at the bottom.

As he gazed into the mirror, the eyes gazed back at him. Eyes that knew. Eyes that judged him constantly, looking at with him with disdain, contempt, and sadly enough, acceptance and remorse. Eyes that were his own, looking at himself.

Shuddering out of his tepid trance, he reached backwards to grab his towel, so he could begin to dry himself. Grabbing it from the center with his right hand, he clenched his fist, and began to dry off his left shoulder, and then proceeded to wipe off his chest and arms. Strong and muscular, his upper body had always been something he took quite a bit of pride in. Although he had always benefitted from a decent amount of natural muscularity, a few years ago he had managed to break free from a previous bout of depression by forcing himself to go to gym triweekly. He maintained this habit religiously, and for a brief period, he thought that he had a permanent solution to his existentially morbid mindset. But, eventually the depression came back.

That is the thing about depression. It doesn't care how much you change your lifestyle. It lives in the back of your mind, like a degenerate friend constantly crashing on your couch that you can't, or won't, kick out.

From his impressive upper torso he worked his way down towards his equally unimpressive midsection. Although he still kept up well with his gym habit, which included at least an hour of cardio at the end of each triweekly session, he nevertheless consumed nearly 900 calories of poorly produced mass-market pilsner almost every day, at a minimum. This caused what could have been a lean, Adonis-like abdomen to swell into a bloated, Dionysian gut. After thoroughly drying his midsection, he shoved the towel down between his legs, and began to vigorously work the grundel. Moving upwards, he gently cupped his scrotum with the towel, while holding his dick up with his left hand, and rotated the towel back and forth between 45 degree angles, ensuring that his testicles would be thoroughly and evenly dried. The Occupant then proceeded to pull back his foreskin, and wiped off the head of his penis. He briefly regretted that he had never been circumcised. Fucking Jewish girls...

Finally, we must acknowledge the last, and worst, of his shower habits.

He had to leave. The steamy shower had provided a comforting amniotic womb for him to dally in. No harsh realities could be dealt with in the bathroom.

No, he would have to step outside of the moistness to see the true madness.

Chapter Three: Drying Off All good things must come to an end, and the end of The Occupants brief bliss began when he begrudgingly pulled the plug from his bathtub. As he had showered, the water had accumulated to just slightly above the base of his dick. He has always marveled at how his dick had floated in the water, bobbing slightly as the streams of water from the shower rained down upon it. Now he lamented as the bathwater drained, his dick sinking with it. Rising tides raise all boats, and receding tides make all masts droop. Once the water had fully drained, he turned the hot water spigot counter-clockwise, ending his short respite from contemplative existence. For him, the hot shower was a replacement. A normal, well adjusted male of his own age would have the comfort of a woman at night, a warm body to share the bed with, a thriving, living organism he could sink into. Yet, like so many lonesome and despondent men of his own age, he could only approximate that feeling with the warm grip of water surrounding him. Was is a facsilime of a lover's warm embrace? Or was it a regression back to the comfort of the womb? Regardless of what it was, it was his only true comfort during the waking day. Hoisting himself out of the shower, The Occupant, stood and grabbed the Duck Dynasty towel he had purchased from the Walmart several years prior. Starting with his head, he began to dry himself. His hair was short, light-brown and neatly trimmed, with a few pleasant streaks of blonde in it. Although he showered everyday, he rarely shampooed it, as he found it caused an undesirable level of frizziness, which he found uncomely. But once a week was enough, as his hair rarely got oily,and truth be told, it was quite beautiful. No fewer than three female barbers had said that it was the best they had ever, and had the pleasure of working with. Two male barbers would’ve said the same, but that sounded that sounded really gay. Immediately after drying his hair, he shoved the towel, unfolded, back into its’ rack, and looked towards the sink, to grab his comb. Other than the black plastic unbreakable comb with bifurcated coarse and fine teeth, there were relatively few items. His cheap toothbrush, a baking soda based toothpaste, and a mostly unused package of single-use plastic dental flossers. As much as The Occupant had attempted to make flossing a habit, it simply never seemed that important, and he had given up a few months ago, shortly after he purchased the pack. There was also an old rust-patched razor, which he occasionally used to edge him impressively thick brown beard, but shaving seemed like too much of a bother at the moment. Reaching to his left, The Occupant grabbed an embroidered washcloth from its’ rack. It was a small white towel which his mother had customized for him when he was a child. She had stitched on a kittens face with thick purple thread. Large, sharp ears, gentle eyes with a slit down the middle, a small nose surrounded by mischievous whiskers, and a small mouth with a last tongue drooping out. At the bottom she had sewn his full name, along with his childhood nickname, so he would know that it was his, and nobody else’s. Ed “Knot” Hereto. He used the lovingly made relic from his past to wipe the steamy condensation from his bathroom mirror, preparing to comb himself. The small droplets were partially absorbed into the cloth, but still, tiny streaks of water were left, slight obscuring The Occupants view of himself. He wiped and wiped again, until he decided his reflection was clear enough. Seeing himself for the first time this day, he was pleasantly surprised by his appearance. The Occupant stood at a robust 6’5” tall, weighing in at a hearty 235 pounds. His had a strong and slightly rectangular forehead, a perfectly sized nordic nose surrounded by high and well defined cheek-bones, and strong, if slightly large, chin, though it was covered with a neatly groomed brown beard. The only fault he found was in his eyes. Surrounded by light-purple flesh bags of flesh that resulted from his alcoholism and sleep-deprivation, they were orbs of pure white webbed with pink capillaries, punctuated with asymmetrically patterned hazel irises and large, black pupils that seemed as empty as abandoned wells, desiccated, with only the barest hint of life-giving water at the bottom. As he gazed into the mirror, the eyes gazed back at him. Eyes that knew. Eyes that judged him constantly, looking at with him with disdain, contempt, and sadly enough, acceptance and remorse. Eyes that were his own, looking at himself. Shuddering out of his tepid trance, he reached backwards to grab his towel, so he could begin to dry himself. Grabbing it from the center with his right hand, he clenched his fist, and began to dry off his left shoulder, and then proceeded to wipe off his chest and arms. Strong and muscular, his upper body had always been something he took quite a bit of pride in. Although he had always benefitted from a decent amount of natural muscularity, a few years ago he had managed to break free from a previous bout of depression by forcing himself to go to gym triweekly. He maintained this habit religiously, and for a brief period, he thought that he had a permanent solution to his existentially morbid mindset. But, eventually the depression came back. That is the thing about depression. It doesn't care how much you change your lifestyle. It lives in the back of your mind, like a degenerate friend constantly crashing on your couch that you can't, or won't, kick out. From his impressive upper torso he worked his way down towards his equally unimpressive midsection. Although he still kept up well with his gym habit, which included at least an hour of cardio at the end of each triweekly session, he nevertheless consumed nearly 900 calories of poorly produced mass-market pilsner almost every day, at a minimum. This caused what could have been a lean, Adonis-like abdomen to swell into a bloated, Dionysian gut. After thoroughly drying his midsection, he shoved the towel down between his legs, and began to vigorously work the grundel. Moving upwards, he gently cupped his scrotum with the towel, while holding his dick up with his left hand, and rotated the towel back and forth between 45 degree angles, ensuring that his testicles would be thoroughly and evenly dried. The Occupant then proceeded to pull back his foreskin, and wiped off the head of his penis. He briefly regretted that he had never been circumcised. Fucking Jewish girls... Finally, we must acknowledge the last, and worst, of his shower habits. He had to leave. The steamy shower had provided a comforting amniotic womb for him to dally in. No harsh realities could be dealt with in the bathroom. No, he would have to step outside of the moistness to see the true madness.

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