You flee but run into someone you'd rather you hadn't

Horrified at what you are about to do you somehow manage to wrench your fingers away from your genitals and flee their derisive words.

God, what were you thinking? You've never touched yourself, never! Only the trashiest, easiest girls pleasure themselves.

But still...

"God I need to get laid," you groan just as you smack into a broad chest.

"Laid, huh?" a male voice says, and your eyes focus as you pull away.

In front of you stands a man you've seen but never deigned to acknowledge before, but in your darkest times of lust you've noticed him. He's large, being both tall and fat, with long greasy hair and a bulbous face with a couple of warts and several days worth of stubble on it over large cherry-red lips.

The grey overalls he wears have three tags on them. One is the name of the university, the next is his name, 'Len'. The third is his occupation, 'Janitor'

"Looks like you hurt yourself," he says, reaching out. You start to pull away but he proves to be surprisingly quick, and his thumb and index finger snag the lip you'd bitten, dragging you toward him.

"You cut yourself," he comments, breathing onion and garlic into your face as his long ragged nails pinch your lip, milking blood from the slight cut.

His odor makes you gag as you smell him, reeking of his job. Every time you've seen him he's been going in or out of a restroom or porta-potty to clean up one mess or clog, and you almost walked right into him on one of those occasions.

Seeing his nostrils quiver you realize that he's smelling you back. Maybe he's smelling the lilac scent of the expensive shampoo that makes your hair so shiny and silky. Maybe he's smelling the subtle scent of the exclusive perfume you daub yourself with daily. Maybe it's the rare body lotion you rub all over yourself morning and night to keep your tender skin glowing, supple and sensitive. Or maybe he smells your arousal.

"There might be a medical kit in the supply closet," he says, tugging your lip to make you move, then letting you go as stumble forward. "Right over here," he says, daring to put his hand on your lower back.

You lick your lips, feeling a slight tang of blood and feel the beginning of a swollen lip. Opening your mouth to object, to unleash the full fury of your high-class vocabulary you hear the voices of your ex-boyfriend and his gang around the corner from the closet the janitor is nudging you towards.

"Wanna see some pictures?" Brandon says, and your eyes widen at the revelation, knowing that you need to hear more. Yet you know that the cost would be to either confront your ex and his undesirable friends, or to spend time with the janitor.

The hand of the gangrenous growth of a man beside you slips to your pert buttock, squeezing the globe roughly as he ushers you toward the closet door.