The Guy in the Redwood Water Tank

I once fucked a guy in a redwood water tank. The kind that once held water caught from rain, maybe filled by the county every couple of months. The kind that now looks like a dorm room, a single bed pushed against rounded walls, a small fridge next to a tiny table and chair, the toilet, in a separate little building, the shower, outdoors, in a tiled oasis of monstera and palms.

After I fucked the guy in the redwood water tank, his spent body sprawled across his tiny bed with no room for me, I took a shower under the stars, using what hot water he had in his heater, cleaning the lukewarm sex, the alcohol sweat, the questionable choices from my skin, the night air caressing me, more a lover than whoever it was I had just spent the last couple of hours with.

The guy I had just fucked in the redwood water tank didn’t wake up as I searched his fridge for something to drink, the water beading off my naked body onto his redwood floor. A cold beer in my hand, I sat at his tiny table, my legs akimbo, running the can across my skin, still warm from the shower, before opening it, and I waited for him to wake up and take me home, long cold pulls slaking my parched throat.