Rob Rosen
It was sad when Mrs. Green died. Well, sad for me at any rate. After all, it was an old apartment building, the walls paper thin, and, apart from her tea kettle boiling, I barely ever heard a peep out of her. Heck, she even baked me cookies from time to time. Even knitted me a sweater for Christmas once. Now she was gone. No more cookies. No more new sweaters. Just a new neighbor to break in. Sad, so sad.
Which is why, when the moving company showed up, it was with both fear and trepidation that I watched and waited for her replacement to arrive. Maybe, I figured (hoped, prayed), this one would be even quieter—and enjoyed coffee instead of tea and baked with real chocolate instead of that nasty sugarless kind. But it wasn’t like I could tell any of that from the slew of cardboard boxes that flowed by, no indication of who he or she was, how old they were, or if they sewed instead of knitted, or if they even knew how to bake.
As to the neighbor, he or she wasn’t to be seen in between the constant cardboard and furniture onslaught. In fact, long after the last box got dumped inside, the apartment next door remained silent and empty. And I, fearful of who would eventually arrive, drifted off to sleep, nightmares of banging punk rock drummers and chiseling stone carvers swirling around inside my much-addled head.
• • •
I awoke to a warm beam of sunshine filtering through my blinds. My back went vertical as I sat up in bed, listening intently for the inevitable drumming or chiseling. Because, yes, I was a firm believer in that ever-so-frightful Murphy’s Law. I had years of quiet, blissful yin, and now it was time for some ear-shattering yang—or, as it turned, some eye-catching one.
I yawned and stretched and came to life, helped, of course, by my Saturday morning ritual cup of piping hot java. My apartment was silent, but, more importantly, so was the one next door. I walked to the wall that separated our units and placed my ear against the plaster. “Nothing,” I said, with a grateful sigh. “Maybe someone’s just using it for storage.” I sipped my coffee and tried to think happy and completely unlikely thoughts. Storage. Please let it be for storage.
Though my reverie was entirely short-lived.
Because while I didn’t hear any sounds coming from the room a mere few inches from the other side of my wall, I did, in fact, hear a noise: the balcony door sliding open and closed. And, since I was busy ear-spying and not opening and closing my own balcony door, the sound must’ve been coming from the balcony next to my own, namely my new neighbor’s.
I gulped, walked to the kitchen, filled my cup to the brim for an added boost of strength, and, with butterflies taking wing inside my belly, opened my balcony door and stepped outside.
I turned just as he turned. He raised his cup and grinned. “Morning.” His voice sounded like a harp being plucked. Plucked by an angel, that is. And an angel in nothing more than a towel—and a rather short towel at that.
My coffee sloshed in my suddenly shaking hands, a warm flush of red working its way up my neck. “Um, yeah, morning … neighbor.”
I said a silent prayer to Mister Murphy, thanking him for taking it easy on me for a change.
“Bob,” informed my angelic and towel-clad balcony-mate, his cup again raised my way.
“Pete,” I replied, my own cup raised in greeting. I then pointed to the ten stories of air in front of us. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He chuckled, the sound turning from plucked harp to pebbles tossed at the shoreline. “Thanks. Got in late last night.” He stared absentmindedly down at his near-nakedness—which was exactly, of course, where I’d been staring—and added, “Sorry, I didn’t have a clue which box my pajamas were in.”
“No worries,” I managed, voice fairly cracking as I continued to stare. Because Adonis had nothing on Bob. Adonis, in fact, was a sand-kicked-in the-face nerd compared to Bob.
And then there was an awkward silence as I stared at him and he stared out at the view. Bob was hairless above the towel and hairy below. As to the in between, what lay bulging beneath, I could only imagine that it, too, would’ve put the aforementioned ancient god to shame.
I took another sip of coffee, my throat suddenly parched, and was about to break the silence when my world came crashing in. Because out she then walked, dressed in a bathrobe, a cup of coffee in one hand, her other hand quick to find his lower back. She smiled. He smiled. I, suffice it say, frowned. Miserably.
Bob, apparently, was straight. As an arrow. Through my heart.
Fuck you very much, Mister Murphy. Fuck you very much indeed.
In any case, she jumped once she realized they had company. I jumped when she jumped. And Bob, suffice it to say, made it unanimous.
“Linda,” said Bob. “This is Pete, our new neighbor.”
I nodded, politely, and did the now-standard coffee cup raise. “Welcome to the building.”
Her grin brightened across her pretty (no shock there) face. “Hi, Pete. A pleasure.”
For her, yes. She, after all, had Bob. Me, all I had was a tepid cup of coffee and a now-softening boner. And knowing my luck, he was probably a punk rock drummer and she a chiseling stone carver who made ice sculptures using chainsaws. “Same here,” I replied just the same, forcing (seriously forcing) a smile on my face. “And, um, let me know if you need anything.” Like someone to iron that towel of Bob’s.
• • •
I left right after that, but not before she kissed him good morning on the cheek. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. Then I went back inside, back to bed, and revived that boner of mine, remembering every inch of stunningly exposed flesh as I furiously beat my meat. The cum welled up a brief few minutes later, shooting up and out before missing me completely and dousing my newly cleaned sheets.
I frowned as I imagined kicking Mister Murphy in the ribs, over and over and over again.
Then I took a shower, got dressed, and started to call a friend for a lunch date when I heard my doorbell ring. Bob, I silently prayed, running to the door. Please let it be Bob. And without the towel this time.
Sadly, it was neither.
“Linda,” I said, ever so graciously. “Good to see you again.” And so fucking soon. “Chainsaw blade break?” She tilted her head, confused, but her smile remained. “Never mind. What can I do for you?”
She handed me a tin of cookies. “Store-bought, sorry.”
I took the tin. “But I’m supposed to bring you the housewarming gift.”
She shrugged and reached inside the tin, a cookie quickly removed. “In that case, thanks for the cookie.”
I laughed. She was pretty and friendly, and damn if I didn’t take an instant liking to her. “Want some milk to wash it down with?”
She again reached inside the tin and removed yet another cookie. “Yes, please. And a box cutter, if you have one.” She followed me inside. “Seems we packed better than we thought we did.”
I poured her the milk and rummaged around for the box cutter. Once I found it, she was already snuggled on my couch, another cookie in hand. Thankfully, she also had one waiting for me. “Guess you’re not diabetic like Mrs. Green was,” I said, joining her on the couch.
“Who?” she managed between hearty chomps.
“The woman who lived in your apartment before you.” I bowed my head. “Lived—past tense.”
Linda stopped chomping, her face instantly blanching. “She died … in our apartment?”
“Ironically, at the doctor’s office. Guess he lost a star on Yelp for that one.”
She chuckled, a spray of cookie crumbs flinging this way and that. There was the briefest of pauses before she again picked up the conversation. “So, you’re, uh, gay, huh?”
Talk about your odd segues. In any case, a spray of my own crumbs joined hers on the couch. “Um, what?”
“Gay,” she repeated. “As in you like Barbra Streisand. And boys.”
“Everyone likes Barbra Streisand,” I retorted.
She pointed down the hallway. “Yeah, but not enough to frame her and hang her up on the wall.”
I nodded. “That’s what gave it away?”
She shook her head and started in on yet another cookie, the tin now devoid of food. “Nope,” she replied. “The way you were staring at my boyfriend gave it away.”
The remainder of my cookie sprayed from between my lips. Thankfully, I wasn’t also drinking milk. Better still, Bob was nowhere in sight to hear her say it. “Did he … say something to you?”
Again she laughed. “Bob only notices when women stare at him. Which happens regularly enough.” She finished her milk and sighed. “I should’ve dated for money instead of looks, huh?”
My sigh echoed hers as I remembered her towel-clad boyfriend. “Trust me, you did just fine.” Which was about as gross an understatement as ever I’d heard one. “Unless he plays drums in a punk rock band. Then we have some issues.”
• • •
After that, we three became fairly inseparable. Linda and I both worked from home, so we saw each other countless times throughout the day, or we Skyped or Facebooked. Bob would stick to the latter two, but would join the party as soon as he got home from work, the three of us frequently going to dinner together or drinking, or a happy combination of the two.
And, no, neither of them was a drummer or a chiseling sculptor. They were, in fact, quiet and considerate. As to their sex life, I couldn’t hear that either. Well, not unless I put a glass up to the wall, my ear up against that. Turns out Bob was the loud one, his moans amping up to their inevitable crescendo, the wall and my crotch vibrating as he came and came and came again—my cum spewing at just the same instant, dousing the carpet below as my legs quaked and my own groan remained stifled.
Romantic, no, but it was the next best thing I had when it came to Bob. After all, we were both neighbors and fast friends, and the leering, at least outwardly, had to be eliminated for all our sakes. Inwardly, of course, was another matter entirely. Then my imagination, aided by his moans and groans and loud sighs, ran rampant.
And that was enough. Or at least it should’ve been. Until it wasn’t. And wouldn’t you know it, it was neither of our doing—mine nor Bob’s. Nope, it was Linda who plucked the apple from the forbidden tree and passed it our way for tasty inspection.
See, she was the curious one. Curious as to my love life: How I did it, who stuck what where, the whole top/bottom thing. The whole sloppy, sexy, sweaty, brutish (her term) man-on-man act of sex. She’d bring it up when we were alone and, much to my chagrin, sometimes when Bob was present. Though if he noticed, or even cared, it was impossible to tell.
Still, it wasn’t like she was subtle. Especially when several drinks found their way inside of her, which was often enough.
“I think it’s hot,” she said one night, all three of us on my balcony, a warm breeze flowing over us as the lights of the city below twinkled like the stars high up above. “Two men kissing, making out, none of that gentleness needed or called for.”
I raised my hand in protest. “Um, but a little tenderness is nice, too.”
She shrugged. “But not as mandatory. You can be—I don’t know—more raw.” I wasn’t sure if she thought I was a barbarian or a butcher, but I let it go. It was her fantasy, after all. Still, she saw the somewhat derisive look on my face and added, “What do you think, Bob?”
Bob had been checking his phone messages and finishing his third drink. He looked up and blinked once he realized that an answer was due from him. “Medium rare,” he coughed out.
Linda laughed, while I prayed that the conversation would turn to anything else but the track that it was on. “Not how you like your steak, Bob. I was talking about how you like your men.”
He coughed as a bit of his drink sloshed out of the glass. “My what …?”
“Well, not your men, per se. Just men in particular. Do they kiss each other softly and gently, like you kiss me, or more, well, animalistic?”
Bob turned, looked at me, and grinned. “Is she kidding?”
I finished my drink and chewed on an ice cube. “I’m afraid not,” I replied, a slight blush making its way up my neck. “Your girlfriend seems to think that she’s living next to a caveman.”
He nodded. “Or living with.”
“Yes to both,” the girlfriend in question tossed in. “In any case, humor me, please. Do gay men kiss like straight men?”
Bob sighed. He was clearly accustomed to his girlfriend’s odd bit of questioning and probably knew she wasn’t going to stop until she got an answer. Still, what he did next wasn’t at all what I was expecting. Though, to be fair, I didn’t protest it too much either—or, well, not at all—because gift horse had suddenly met mouth. That is to say, Bob’s mouth quickly met mine.
One minute he was standing there, seemingly pondering her question, and the next, WHAM!—his lips were on mine. Which was about as close to landing on a cloud as a guy could get. And, yes, she was indeed right about it being hot, but apart from that we certainly weren’t two rutting animals. Mostly.
Once he was finished, he backed an inch away from me, wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, smiled broadly, and turned to her. “He kisses like Pete.” Which I took to mean that her question in and of itself was a bit unfair and unanswerable. Still, I was willing to go a second round if it provided a more detailed response.
In any case, when I looked her way, she was, at the very least, smiling. “Point taken,” she allowed, with a bow our way.
“Thank God,” said Bob, his eyes still locked onto mine, sending an eddy of adrenaline sloshing through my belly.
Thank God, indeed, I thought. And amen.
• • •
That, however, wasn’t the end of the conversation.
At least Linda’s end of it.
Because a few nights later there was a knock on my door. And though it was usually Linda on the other side, this time it was Bob, a smile on his face, a six-pack in his hand. “Linda is at a conference tonight.”
I pointed to the beer. “Liquid dinner?”
He shrugged, the smile notching up a couple more inches. “Or whatever you’re cooking.”
I opened the door further and let him in. “Hamburgers OK with you?”
He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing my shoulder, a cascade of goose bumps forming where we’d made contact. “Perfect with beer.”
I stared at his ass as he sauntered on by. Emphasis on the perfect, I thought as I closed the door behind him, the click of the door lock causing me to jump in place. Because, no, we’d rarely been alone together since they’d moved in, and certainly not since he so adeptly kissed me. Again, emphasis on the perfect. In fact, the mere memory of it made my cock go rigid inside my shorts, my heart madly pounding from within my tank top.
Bob put the beer in the fridge, minus one for each of us, while I started in on our dinner. “How’s work?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“And the apartment?”
“Fine.”
“World politics?”
He grinned. “Fine and dandy, Pete.”
I grinned. “And the elephant in the room that’s threatening to charge at any moment?”
His grin remained and was joined by a nod of his head. “The kiss?”
My nod echoed his. “The kiss.”
“It did end the conversation, though, didn’t it?”
I stopped my preparations and turned his way. “My straight neighbor kissed me in front of his girlfriend, so that conversation ended, but …”
His nodding went into overdrive. “But you enjoyed it.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “My ever so handsome and ever so straight neighbor kissed me on my balcony, Bob—what do you think?”
He took a healthy swig of his beer, clearly thinking this one over. “She thought it was hot, you clearly thought it was hot—so, um, no harm, no foul.”
My grin remained, though my heartbeat had suddenly doubled its tempo. “And what did you think?”
He took another sip of his beer. “What do you mean, what did I think?”
I moved a half a foot closer to him. “I mean …” Six more inches closer. “Did you think it was hot?” And six more inches again, until we were barely a couple of feet apart.
He pointed at his chest, which, if I wasn’t mistaken, was expanding and contracting just a bit faster all of a sudden. “Straight, remember?”
How could I forget? “You’re not answering the question, Bob. And your girlfriend is suddenly out for the evening and you’re suddenly here.” I pointed to yet another elephant in the room that had decided to join the party. “Plus, there’s that.”
He stared from me to the obvious tenting in his jeans. When he looked up, his face was a bit redder, but at least his grin had remained in place. “Fine, so the kiss was … interesting.”
And now, at last, so was the conversation. In other words, that gap between us was further closed, him now standing directly before me and me before him, my hand instinctively reaching up his shirt, across his taught belly and smooth chest, fingers landing on a thick nipple. He moaned as I tugged. “How interesting exactly?”
When his eyelids fluttered back open, he replied, “I think it might be possible to find a person attractive apart from their sex.”
I nodded, thoughtfully, and continued tweaking his nipple, my free hand now cupping his burgeoning denim-encased prick. “So you’re saying that you find me attractive, but not men in general? Do I have that, for lack of a better word, straight?”
He chuckled and leaned his face in, his lips brushing mine as a white-hot spark shot down my spine before bursting from within my crotch. “Just shut up and kiss me, please.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. In other words, I eagerly kissed him back, our lips mashing and thrashing as we swapped some heavy spit. Ironically, it felt both brutish and animalistic. Go figure.
My hand was still clutching his swollen crotch when I growled, “Show it to me.”
“My dick?”
I nodded, eagerly, fervently. “Your dick, your chest, you ass, your hole. Everything. Show me now.”
He kissed me again, then backed a foot away. “Weird.”
I watched as his T-shirt lifted up and was tossed to the ground. Granted, I’d seen him shirtless before, but this was certainly under very different circumstances. “What’s weird?”
His fingers paused atop the buttons to his jeans. “Getting naked in front of my neighbor and my friend.” He pulled the waistband out and peeked inside. “While I’m rock-solid stiff.”
I moaned at the imagery, then also peeked inside my own shorts. “Well, at least it has a playmate.”
The buttons to his jeans popped open. “Really? Let’s see.”
With one hand I pulled my shorts down. The other released the beast within. I stared at it as it hung in mid-air. He also stared. “Well?” I asked.
His pushed his jeans down and off, kicking them to the side, leaving him in sweat socks and those still tenting briefs of his, the cotton stretched so wide that it was a wonder they didn’t rip in two. “Weird,” he repeated.
I moved my hips, sending my prick swinging from side to side. “Best not to call another man’s dick weird, Bob.”
He laughed, nervously. “No, it’s weird that that’s the first erection I’ve ever seen in person, outside my own.”
I shrugged as I slipped out of my shorts and boxers and tank top, said erection standing at rapt attention. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re the first neighbor I’ve almost seen naked.”
Again he laughed as he slowly slid his briefs down before kicking them off, his cock finally revealed, shorter than mine but noticeably thicker, balls so low that they could’ve been in a separate zip-code. “There,” he said. “Not so almost now.” Then he stared from his dick to mine and back again. “But I’m sticking with weird here, Pete.”
I nodded and pointed downward. “Fine, but can you stick with it here instead?”
His smile widened as he moved toward me, cock swaying before it came to a standstill as it pressed firmly together with mine. His hands wrapped around my waist, mine around his, soft lips again mashing together, tongues snaking and coiling around one another.
“Still weird?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yep.”
My hand moved further south, stretching his cheeks apart as my index finger traced his satiny hole. “And this?”
Again he nodded. “Yep. Very.” To which he thankfully added, “Nice, but weird.”
“Show me your asshole, Bob.”
The nervous laughter returned. “I don’t even show Linda my asshole.”
“So, in keeping with our theme, it would be weird?”
He kissed me and then kissed me again. “I suppose it’s best to keep with the theme then, correct?”
I backed a few inches away. “That would be correct, Bob.”
He walked to the living room while I followed, eyes glued to the prize, namely his stellar ass, at his cheeks that looked like they could’ve been carved by Michelangelo himself. Then he stopped, sunk to his knees, and got on all fours, legs wide, balls dangling, cock hovering. “Like this?”
Yes, I most certainly like that. “Well, in case nobody ever gets the chance to tell you, you have one beautiful asshole.”
He reached behind and caressed it. “Really?”
I sat behind him, praying at his altar. “Really, Bob, Really and truly.” And then I gave him my tithing, my head leaning in as my tongue swirled around and around and around, my hand reaching between his legs to stroke on that thick club of a cock of his.
He moaned, the vibration running down the length of him and then out through me, all while he rocked his ass into my face. “Nice,” he exhaled, long and low and deep.
I momentarily parted my face from his ass. “Not weird?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, no, weird for sure, but, again, nice.”
“Care to up the ante then?” I offered.
He paused, but then nodded. “I’m in.”
And then so was I. In as in sliding in beneath him, his cock above my face, mine pointing toward his. I pulled his dick down and glided it inside my mouth, while he encased my cock between his surprisingly talented lips—and, yes, three cheers for beginner’s luck. In any case, he face-fucked me with abandon all while he sucked and slurped and licked my swollen prick, going at it like a kid with a new toy, which, all in all, was an apt analogy.
“Close,” he rasped, many minutes into our foray.
“Wait,” I mumbled in between hungry sucks. “I want to watch.”
He rolled off of me and I slid out from under him. Both of us got on our knees, his cock in my hand, mine in his, our foreheads pressed together as we stared at the fist-action down below.
“How was I, by the way?” he panted.
I chuckled as I picked up my pace on his cock. “You suck like a Hoover, Bob.”
“Weird.”
My chuckle repeated. “Seems to be the word of the day.”
He leaned in and kissed me. “But nice.”
And then our fists sped up, our cocks mere blurs as we pumped steadily away. He moaned while I groaned, both of us huffing and puffing as our balls steadily rose and the sweat trickled down our torsos.
“Fuuuck,” he soon exhaled, his cock so thick in my hand that it was hard to keep a firm grasp on it. Thankfully, though, he shot a split second later, thick gobs of aromatic cum that shot and shot and shot, splattering the carpet below.
“Fuuuck,” I echoed, my own cock exploding, a thick band of sap erupting forth, followed by several smaller ones, each adeptly drawn out.
Then he leaned in and again kissed me, softly, tenderly. “You know we can’t do this again though, right?” he told me. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
I nodded, not because I knew we wouldn’t repeat this, but because I knew we would. I mean, Linda sort of had it right from the start: Men are animals, brutes. Even when those men are straight as an arrow, albeit an arrow with a rather weird kink in it.
“I know, Bob,” I placated, a knowing grin spreading wide across my face. “I know.” And thank you, Mister Murphy, wherever you are.