Fuck Me In the Dumpsters

by | Feb 13, 2024 | Fiction, Issue Thirty-Seven

and you know I don’t mean inside the dumpsters because holy fuck how gross would that be but in the cinder block enclosure that hides the dumpsters from the public with its blocks textured on the outside to mimic cut stone but not fooling anyone and stacked high enough the inside feels like my old squat in that storage unit but bigger and with the dumpsters crammed in and without the roll-up door and no uninsulated roof overhead just open sky and with those sheet metal gates their hinges fucked up enough to make life miserable for the trash truck drivers as if having to drive that stench around all day isn’t bad enough without having to wrestle those damn gates and their huge crooked gaps where someone might see us fucking even though the whole point of that structure is because the marketers say customers won’t buy as much if it’s not there because they don’t want to see the trash on their way in to the drive-through just like they don’t want to see my wispy facial hair with my eyeliner and nail polish or my waif-boy chest in a babydoll tee and they don’t want to know the young dude with the thick beard’s wearing a binder under his shirt and a packer in his pants and they call us freaks and perverts and groomers and even though they constantly fucking obsess about our goddamn junk they don’t want to think about us fucking at all let alone fucking in this filth half out of our work clothes while we’re on the clock for minimum wage and overhearing the new girl’s voice on the drive-thru speaker reading back their orders and the customers yelling to compete with the giant-ass vacuum that’s never not running loud as a fucking jet engine at the car wash next door that’s not the nicest of the six or seven car washes competing along just this one stretch of the old highway through town and it’s not the crappiest either but none of that matters to us because neither of us has a car to wash anyway we just walk here along the old rail-trail bike path that goes behind all the businesses because the sidewalks beside the road are dangerous as shit and maybe while we’re fucking we’ll hear the straight white vanilla families everyone calls wholesome even though the statistics know the daddy who calls us groomers is really the person most likely to rape the kids or murder his whole family but that happens at home or in some place special to the family like a favorite vacation spot for some unknown reason but not here at this unremarkable spot on the bike path behind the wall that mostly hides the dumpsters where we’ll fuck as they bicycle past or maybe we’ll get found by the guy who dumpster dives for food and never makes eye contact and cusses at his demons all day and all night and camps hidden back in the regrowth but when it’s rainy he sleeps under the construction trailer at the dead end of the street that has a name and a street sign for some reason even though it’s only half a block long and got no addresses on it but we don’t care about that shit and my girly dick will drip my excitement while your pack n play works my prostate and works your t-dick grown phallic enough to blow and as we cry out our lust my voice an open fourth higher than yours me bent leaning on the gritty slick steel of the grease dumpster and panting and sweating in the rancid garbage air and as we get our rocks off my semen landing pat pat pat on the coagulated concrete where we first met sneaking trash-duty cigarettes and you were surprised I hadn’t clocked you yet so you came leaping out of that closet and threw the overtures door wide open all in the course of one bummed cigarette and maybe we’ll also smoke after we’re done fucking this time even though we’ve already been out back too long because really to hell with this soul sucking place you pay minimum wage you get minimum goddamn effort and then we’ll go back in and the manager may gripe about how long we took but it’s slow today and she won’t fire us and she won’t cut our hours or clopen us because she needs us as much as we need the pittance that somehow keeps us scrambling and begging to get scheduled enough hours to live on even if we’re living without doctors or dentists or cars or bikes or any hope of paying for college or getting the state’s heartless bureaucracy to approve the food stamps we both easily qualify for but at least we both have roofs over our heads at least for right now and maybe after we’ve come back in from fucking and smoking and pissing behind the stacked empty pallets because we’re not safe in either bathroom one of us will rotate onto the prep line or the front counter and as we stare into the abyss of the customers’ soulless eyes knowing we just got paid a couple bucks each to go out back and fuck in the dumpsters maybe just for a few minutes this scrabbling to survive life will feel just a little bit less fucking bleak.

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