My masculine gay über hot, 30-something Greek neighbor did not come home last night. I know this as truth because insomnia had me up and awake most of the wee hours rearranging fake Roman antiquities on my foyer console table. Too, he has not slammed his door today as he does every Saturday morning at approximately 9:30am. He goes to the gym. My powers of deduction tell me this because (a) he is literally built like a Greed god and (b) unless he’s carrying a gym bag full of sex toys, making a living as a rent boi, me thinks he carries gym-like stuff. Unlike fancy moi; the only thing I take to the gym is my faded I.D. and a rolled $20 dollar bill for any emergencies. “Emergencies” defined as a side trip via Starbucks or a stroll through Walgreens for unwaxed floss and/or any new cosmetic that diminishes dark circles while leaving me with a doe-eyed, ingenue face. But I digress.
My stud Greek god neighbor is — how do you say in your native tongue: “aloof.” At least that’s my sour grapes take. Lord knows if I looked like him (tall, tanned, extremely handsome, and ripped) I would not be sitting here typing a faggoty blog. I would be hatefully ordering kitchen staff around regarding too wet quiche and bitching at a pool maintenance crew for not clearing the fallen gardenia blossoms that my stinkin’ rich Hollywood film producer of a husband specially planted poolside so I can float in wafting fragrance while he busts ass to keep me shopping Fred Segal. In this scenario I also possess a meaningful, thick cock, that lazily erupts– though faithfully, like that geyser in Yellowstone.
But let’s not tarry on tawdry daydreams. Back to my hot-as-chicken-fried-steak neighbor. I’ve pleasantly introduced myself, twice, and yet he still can’t recall my name. I mean, bitch, what is so eff’n hard to remember? My goddamn name is the post popular name for males ever — bitch, jot it down on a Post-It if need be. But youthful beauty has no time for small, ordinary details like remembering an old-fuck neighbor’s name. It has details far more exacting to consider. Like unbuttoning an imported cotton, tapered, slim-fit shirt three buttons or four for the perfect peek of pecs. Cunt. Ahem.
When I leave for my office Monday through Friday, my apartment exit coincides with the end of his morning shower. As I silently twist the key into the deadbolt lock I hear metal shower curtain rings rolling quickly. Abruptly. Youth has no time to waste. And, if I linger, silently, just a bit at my dark stained apartment door, the clean, damp scent of wet soap escapes into the hallway. I imagine him reaching for a towel. And how it hits his backside to catch the wet diamond drop rivulets coursing to that pitched divergent of a firm ass crack. From my front door to the elevator buttons, my mind hops on the bus to skankville with me in the driver’s seat. In the elevator I have his damp butt angrily riding my face while he pleasures himself into a cloudburst of gloppy jizz. But then I hit my sunlit lobby with the towering, rail-thin potted bamboos and face mature realities that keep me from ever really singing in a summer shower.