My friend Marcus and I entered the building and caught the elevator to the basement floor, and when the doors opened we looked at each other warily. The hallway was extremely dim from what we could see, and for a moment I considered letting him go in by himself.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" I asked.
"Of course. 69 Appleton Street. Apartment B-5, in the basement."
"Well, you go first," I said, nudging him on his shoulder.
"Chickenshit," he said, exasperated. "Let's go."
He left the elevator and as I followed close behind, the door began to shut, nearly pinning me between it and the metal frame. It caught my shirt, which I managed to yank without tearing, and suddenly it was just us, alone in the long, dark concrete corridor.
"I think it's down this way," Marcus blurted, slowly beginning to make his way down the hall. I didn't budge at first, and when Marcus got a few feet away from me he noticed I was missing. "Are you coming, or are you gonna stay out here the whole time?"
"I don't know about this."
"Look, Core, this bag's getting a little heavy, and I'm not exactly in the debating mood if you know what I'm saying."
"Alright!" I snapped, moving to catch up to him. As we walked, sounds varying from people arguing to loud music blaring emanated from behind orange-painted apartment doors. In my mind I counted, 'B-1, B-2, B-3...,' hoping that we'd make it to B-5 before some unknown assailant came out of nowhere to shank us and steal our wallets.
"Here it is," Marcus said when we reached B-5, giving the door a hearty rap with his knuckles. It flew open almost immediately, and I was a little more than pleasantly surprised at what greeted us on the other side.
"Yeah?" the guy who answered the door said. He was clearly bothered by us being there, and didn't pretend otherwise, but what he obviously lacked in people skills was more than made up for in his visage. He was a bit over six feet, strapping yet not overly-muscular, and was unclothed, save a tiny pair of black boxer-briefs that barely covered his well-toned thighs. He ran a hand impatiently through his mane of longish, brown curls and took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke directly at us.
"Uhh...my name is Marcus. I'm here to install tile in your bathroom," Marcus said. I could tell he was just as awestruck by this gorgeous male physical specimen as I was.
"Now?" the guy blurted. "I thought you were supposed to come tomorrow afternoon."
"No, we agreed on today at 4 o'clock," Marcus said.
"Fuck, today is Thursday, isn't it?"
Marcus nodded, all the while trying to stifle a cough from the smoke. I wanted to laugh but somehow managed to hold it back.
He took another drag and looked at Marcus, then at me (his gaze stayed on me a bit longer), stepped aside and said, "Come in." We entered a very small, carpeted entrance way and the guy shut the door behind us. "You'll have to excuse the mess. If I had remembered you were coming I would've straightened up a little." He went ahead, leading the two of us down the tiny hall into a larger, well-lit space that was furnished with not much more than a couple of sofas, a coffee table and a floor-model TV. The place was lived-in to say the least. A few beer cans littered the coffee table, magazines and clothes were casually strewn about and the faint smell of marijuana lingered in the air. The noise from a box fan in the corner drowned out the faint sound coming from the TV.
"So, is this the way to your bathroom?" Marcus asked.
"Oh...right...no, it's back here down the hall." The guy walked to the other side of the room and it was then that I noticed how tight his ass was, encased in those tiny black underwear. Marcus followed him and looked back at me, mouthing the words "Oh my God," and I smiled and nodded in agreement. As I took a seat on the tweed loveseat, I was suddenly glad that I had decided to accompany Marcus on this particular job. I'd been promising to go with him ever since he'd started up his own floor tiling business, and that day seemed as good a time as any to do it. Besides, I figured if half the people he installed tiled for looked anything like this guy, it couldn't be all bad.
I sank back into the couch (which was quite comfortable, considering), and gazed around at the place. The apartment was in dire need of some interior decorating, to say the least. Drab, pale-green walls, a tacky day-glo clock hanging just above the floor model TV, a stereo and a few potted plants that needed much attention completed the décor, and I suddenly found myself wondering how someone so hot could live in such a dump. 'What if this guy's a serial killer?' I thought to myself. 'Or a cannibal, or some kind of weird hermit?' No. He was too good looking to be evil. Sure, he was a little spacey, and maybe just a bit rude, but spacey and rude don't necessarily equal maniacal killer. Or do they? I chuckled at my wild imagination, and was about to join Marcus and our host when I realized I wasn't alone. Mr. Hot 'N Spacey himself was staring at me in the doorway that led to the living room, running a hand over his slightly furry chest and abdomen. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I momentarily contemplated making a run for the door.
"You got a green thumb?" he asked.
"What?" I responded.
Wild thoughts of Marcus laying on the bathroom floor, dead by the hands of our scantily clad host, began to rush into my head. I moved to get off of the sofa, but paused when he left the doorway and crossed the living room to one of the potted plants.
"This one...the fern...it's kind of grody, don't you think?"
"No. It's actually kind of...nice." The plant looked like shit, but at this point I wasn't about to start spouting truths.
"Really? I've been giving it water and plant food...I even put it in the kitchen window where the sunlight comes through and--nothing."
I kept my eyes on him and, while leery of his presence, I couldn't help but be turned on by his magnificent body. From where he was standing I could really get a good look. He had broad, football player shoulders that sat atop a perfectly v-shaped back. His long, toned legs resembled that of a runner, and his feet were large and well-kempt (a surprise, considering the fact that he didn't seem like a guy who cared how groomed his feet were). My eyes wandered back up and lingered on his ass for a moment. I was in awe of the way the underwear hugged his firm, muscular glutes, denoting every flex and squeeze as he stood fiddling with the near-dead plant. I was also pleasantly surprised that he hadn't bothered to slip on a pair of pants.
"Maybe you should pick off the dead leaves and sit it back in the sunlight," I blurted.
"Maybe," he shrugged, leaving the plants and moving to scoop up a tiny ottoman on the other side of the room. He planted the small piece of furniture square in front of me and squatted down on it, which caused his underwear to rise and tighten on his muscular thighs and bunch in the crotch area. I inadvertently moved a hand to my own crotch area in an effort to conceal my growing arousal. "You always come along with your boyfriend when he does a job?"
I was instantly taken aback by his comment. Not only were Marcus and I anything but boyfriends, but the fact that he'd assumed that we were gay at all completely took me by surprise. Although we both were gay, neither of us played into the stereotypical "gay male" persona, which was one of the reasons we could relate so well to each other.
