*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.
*.*
Venice Apartments had a sign out front, with the name 'Venice Apartments' in black against a background of the Italian flag of green, white, and red. Encircling the name was the silhouette of a gondola and gondolier.
The complex was comprised of four separate buildings arranged in a square. Each building faced inward, faced the pool and small courtyard. The first building, the northeast building was three floors, with five apartments on each floor. Apartments 101, 105, 201, 205, 301 and 305 were two bedroom units. The three units in between each two bedroom unit were one bedroom units. The southeastern building had apartments 106 and 107 on the ground floor, each a two bedroom unit. The second and third floors had four single room efficiencies on each. The southwestern building was a duplicate of the northeastern building, each floor with a two bedroom unit on the corners, separated by three one bedroom units. And the northwestern building was a duplicate of the southeastern building, a ground floor of two units, each with two bedrooms, then eight one room efficiencies atop. Behind the northwestern building was a large laundry room and an exercise room.
Across the parking lot in front of the northeastern building was the rental office. And on top of the rental office was the apartment building's clubhouse. Each tenant had the right to reserve the clubhouse for parties, but they must notify the apartment manager of the desired time that they planned to use the clubhouse.
#202
On a warm September day, Ryan Welton padded up the stairs from checking his mailbox. There had been the usual sales fliers, one letter addressed to Tommy Campbell, his former roommate, and the St. Elizabeth's Public Utilities bill.
The handsome eighteen year old had no idea why he and Tommy had moved in together. In retrospect, the only reason they'd ever been friends had been because Tommy had lived right next door to Ryan's dad, and had been the same age as him. Both he and Tommy had thought that Andy, Ryan's oldest brother was a butt head and Christopher, Ryan's older brother was a dork.
But Tommy was passive aggressive, would sit and pout until he got his way. Tommy would never be the one to acquiesce; he would just pout until Ryan gave in. If Ryan didn't give in, Tommy would then explode in a fit of rage and break Ryan's possessions.
At three twenty five a month, Ryan could easily afford the rent on the unit. He could have afforded a one bedroom apartment, at four seventy five a month. Together, he and Tommy could have swung a two bedroom unit at six twenty five. That would have actually been better; those units had two bathrooms, instead of the one tiny bathroom. More than once, Tommy had decided that Ryan's shampoo bottle had been too close to his own, crowding his shampoo. In retaliation, Tommy would then pour Ryan's shampoo down the shower drain. If they'd each had a bathroom, Ryan would have had use of his own shampoo, his own soap, instead of having to use the shampoo formulated for oily hair that Tommy used.
As Ryan passed apartment 202, the door suddenly opened. A handsome older man stepped out. Ryan smelled the distinct aroma of pipe tobacco and froze.
Andrew Welton, Ryan's father had once had a friend, Mr. Simon. Mr. Simon was a pipe smoker and always smelled of rich tobacco.
Mr. Simon had a black pipe with a curved stem and large bowl. The man would carefully, meticulously pack the tobacco into the pipe, tamping it down with his thumb. Then he would use a long, thin lighter to light the pipe. He even knew how to blow smoke rings.
His hugs always had that lingering smell of tobacco. To Ryan, it was a warm, welcome smell. The man had been totally blind, but had always had a big smile and a welcoming hug when Ryan, Christopher, and Andy came to visit their dad.
When he was older, Ryan found out that Mr. Simon had been married and had a son. Then his wife had left him, and had taken their son to live in Benhurst, Colorado. The ex-wife had lied, told the judge that Mr. Simon's blindness endangered their son's safety and the judge agreed. So, whenever they were there, Mr. Simon treated Andy, Christopher and Ryan as surrogate sons.
Then, one day, he wasn't there anymore. Ryan asked their father where Mr. Simon was. Andrew bluntly told them that Mr. Simon had moved and he didn't know where he had moved to. Apparently, Andrew didn't care to find out, either.
And when the door of apartment 202 had opened, Ryan smelled that distinct aroma of rich tobacco. The handsome tenant of 202 smiled and nodded to the handsome young man.
"You uh, you smoke? A pipe?" Ryan asked, throat dry.
"Yeah. It's an aged blend," the man said, his deep voice sending shivers down Ryan's spine.
"I uh, when I was a kid, my dad had a friend that smoked a pipe. Smelled just like that," Ryan said.
"Oh yeah?" the man smiled, his eyes crinkling up.
"He could blow smoke rings," Ryan smiled.
"Mm hmm," the man agreed, turning to walk down the steps.
"Oh, I'm Ryan, live in two oh nine, right there," Ryan said, sticking out his hand.
"Hmm? Oh, I'm Brian Turner," the man said, shaking Ryan's hand.
The man's hand was large, firm. Ryan felt another shiver go up his spine from the contact.
"See you later," Ryan said.
"Mm hmm, need to get some groceries," Brian smiled and went down the stairs.
Inside of 209, Ryan stretched out on the futon portion of the bunk bed he'd bought when he and Tommy had moved into the apartment. That had been another bone of contention. Ryan had been the one to purchase the furniture. Tommy had insisted that he get the bottom bunk, the larger of the two bunks. The bottom bunk was a futon, could turn into a couch on the chance that they'd ever have a visitor.
"Should have told him get the fuck out right then and there," Ryan said aloud.
Brian Turner was tall; Ryan would guess at least six feet one, six feet two inches. His hair was brown with a few strands of gray woven in, and his eyes had been a deep brown, with those distinctive crow's feet at the corners.
His mustache also had a few sprigs of gray among the brown bristles. Ryan wondered if the bristles would tickle if he kissed him.
"Shut up; that's faggot shit," Ryan said out loud.
A few days later, Ryan was coming up the stairs from the pool. He had his towel draped across his bare shoulders.
"Hi, Mr. Turner," Ryan smiled, seeing his neighbor unlocking his apartment door.
"Mm? Oh! Hello Ryan, how are you?" Brian turned, smiling. "And, uh, please, just call me Brian, all right?"
"Oh. Sure. How's it going?" Ryan asked, admiring the man's light gray suit and bright blue tie.
"Glad to be home. Going have a cup of coffee, smoke my pipe, forget that I have to bust my butt from eight to five," Brian said, pushing his door open. "Well, until tomorrow that is."
"Yeah, well, I'm off until tomorrow; then its four until midnight," Ryan said.
"Oh? Where do you work?" Brian asked.
"Joy Four," Ryan said.
"But you're off today?" Brian asked.
"Uh huh," Ryan agreed, brushing his thick blonde hair back nervously.
This handsome man made Ryan slightly nervous, slightly agitated. His throat was dry again as he stood, smelling the man's scent of cologne, sweat, smelling the man's apartment, the rich smell of pipe tobacco.
"Care for a cup of coffee?" Brian asked.
