The hum from the washing machines was a chorus of white noise drowning out the street sounds, the wail of sirens in the distance, the crazy-looking homeless man shouting profanities two doors up the sidewalk and the god-awful street rapper free-styling just outside the door of the 50 Cent Washeteria.
It's not that John didn't like some hip-hop, but this guy just sucked. And he was spitting rhymes in front of the "50 Cent Washeteria" of all places.
"A little on the nose isn't it?" John had mumbled to himself as he passed the guy on his way into the self-serve Laundromat for his weekly ritual.
John was tired from a long day of sifting through the muck of the city cops beat, a job he had landed two years ago. Of course, "landed" might be the wrong word. He fell into with all the grace of a drunken frat boy after his first keg party, not that he would know what that was like.
John had always thought of himself as too independent to join a fraternity during his college days. God, what would he give to go back and make some more contacts so he could get out of his shit hole of a newspaper. Say what you will, but the guys who debased themselves in Gonna Kappa Squat, or whatever they were called, had the connections to jump ahead in their respective fields.
But John was trying to shove all of that into the darkness of the back of his mind as he listened to the gush of the washing machines and the ka-plump, ka-plump, ka-plump of the dryers rolling clothes over and over again.
He had brought along a book to avoid being board, but the selection might have been a mistake. "Vox" was not necessarily public reading material. The book, chronicling a man and woman's shall we say "private" telephone conversation, from curious start to moaning, writhing finish, had distressed the front of his pants so much that he had had to readjust himself twice already. And as the book's female voice articulated one of her latest fantasies to her phone buddy, John thought he was going to have to either put the book down or go find a quite spot to relieve some of the tension in his boxers.
Of course, that was a measure of last resort. He had always found the idea of people who masturbated in public places off-putting to say the least.
"Bunch 'a fucking perverts," Rob Davison, a patrol officer from the Fifth Precinct had remarked as he had told John a story of a businessman he had to drag out of a stall in the bus station a couple of nights ago. "I mean, who can't hold out 'til you get home? Am I right?"
"Well I guess he's who," John had joked back.
And now, here he was, with his manhood making a sizable bulge in his jeans, thinking he might be "who" too.
Of course, even if he wanted to, there were complications. Carla was there.
Carla, who he had dated briefly a few months ago after they met at the Laundromat. Carla, who knew all too well what John's slightly embarrassed glances in her direction meant. Carla, who had turned him onto "Vox" in the first place.
He and Carla had run their course, but John always had a way of keeping women as friends after the inevitable "where is this going" conversation. Hell, even when he didn't want them around, they were still around.
But just as Carla caught him checking out her butt for the second time, John started thinking it might be nice to have Carla around right now.
She smiled and said, "take a picture, it will last longer."
"I did, but you told me those were 'not for public consumption,' didn't you?" John retorted, giving her his best wolfish grin.
"You better believe it buddy boy," she said with a laugh and hopped on a dryer in front of him. "And it looks like you are thinking about that photo session right now. No wrinkles in those jeans."
"Well, I wasn't thinking about it until now," he said. "But now I will have that to contend with too. I don't think this boner is going away anytime soon. Damn you for lending me this book."
"I'd ask if you like it, but the evidence is apparent," she said. God did she look hot in her Capri shorts and "rock star" baby-t, with her wavy red hair flowing down over her left shoulder and her bright blue bedroom eyes.
"So how far are you into the book?" she asked.
"I am to the point where the woman is telling him about her painter fantasy," he said. "God I love the thought of a woman filled up."
And as soon as he said it, he regretted it. What kind of pervert was she going to take him for? They had had sex, taken a few pictures, had a few laughs. But multiple partners had never come up, and he just knew she was going to give him one of those disgusted glances most women did when you brought up such things. But ...
"Mmmmmm, me too," she said and made an almost imperceptible shift on top of the dryer, which John just realized she was running.
"I had no idea you were into that," John said, thinking about the vibrations the dryer was making on her tight little ass. He figured she must have picked out her spot from prior experience. No planning needed. "Well, Johnny-boy, there is a lot you don't know about me," she said and there was a mischievous look in her eyes. It was the same one she had when she first spotted the digital camera loaned from work. "Like, did you know I've always wanted to fuck in public?"
That got John's attention.
"I suppose I could have," she continued. "Lord knows all I would have to do is ask a guy and he would drop his pants for me on the street, right? Never have though. Too bad, huh?"
That was a challenge and John knew it. But he didn't want to screw this chance up by misreading it. "Yep, I guess it is," he said, mock-casually. "So, if you wanted to do that, say, I don't know, here, how would you go about that?"
Her grin was widening.
"Well, I would want to find someplace a little more secluded, like, um, that closet over there," she said, pointing to a big wooden door near the back. "I bet that has room to maneuver and we, I mean this hypothetical guy and I, would be close enough to the world outside to feel naughty and just out of the public eye, so no one called the cops."
John wondered how she knew it was a closet in the corner, but put that thought out of his mind pretty quickly when she started biting her lower lip in the sly, flirty way all horny women think is subtle, but is an obvious tell. The spin cycle on that dryer was making her feel pretty good, John guessed.
"Really," John said, nodding his head. "Well, it sounds like you and your hypothetical man could have some fun."
