It was a brand new apartment building when my wife and I had moved in. It was modern, laundry in the basement, dishwashers in the units, and a trash chute on every floor. Basically, it's everything you want when you move to Queens. Having spent most of our time in buildings with 4 or 6 units, this one seemed huge at 20 apartments.
The move in process was smooth. We had a small amount of storage in a room next to the laundry, there was even a little common room to use on the ground floor. It was pretty much perfect for us, until Tammy yelled at the Super.
Tammy is a little bit fiery. She is conventionally attractive, maybe a little plain. Her family were kind of broke white collar people with very rich friends, so she could be a bit...sharp sometimes. We'd been married only about two years, and there was a lot of arguing, mostly one way. I just don't see the point of fighting with my wife. She took full advantage of that. It was a Sunday and we'd had a huge fight. I can't remember the reason, and of course it doesn't matter now. But she'd gone down to the basement to do some laundry. We were in that period after a fight of just not talking but still being pissed, so I was glad for the space.
After a while, I began to wonder where she was; she seemed to be down there for a little too long. I decided to head down and make sure everything was okay. I took the elevator from the third floor and heard the screaming before it even stopped. When the doors of the elevator opened, there was my wife yelling at the Super. Something along the lines of, "Fuck you, don't accuse me of that!" and him replying, "Shut up, bitch." He was calm but she was angry, and that was a very isolated basement. So I yelled.
"Get in the fucking elevator, I will handle this!" I'm not real prone to macho displays so I figured that would break the tension a bit and it did. She screamed "fuck you!" and left in the elevator.
"Now why the fuck are you yelling at my wife?!"
"She's throwing all kinds of diapers down the chute."
"Hector! We don't have a kid! It's not us!"
"Well she's a bitch." And he got into the elevator.
I finished the laundry and went upstairs. Tammy and I didn't talk about it, we just kept up our cold war with one another. But she'd talk shit about Hector for the next couple of months whenever he wasn't around, and ignore him when he was.
Our Super, Hector, was a really big guy. He was tall and thick and he had a pretty pronounced belly. We wasn't super well kept, but the building was always spotless so I don't think any of us cared about that; a spotless building in Queens is a unicorn. He wore a sleeveless shirt with a Puerto Rican flag on it pretty much year round, cutoffs, and old Reebok's he never tied. I don't think this description is very flattering, but I didn't like him. We weren't at war, but I didn't like him. And on top of that I was still pissed at the way he'd talked to my wife even though it was probably her fault.
One afternoon, Tammy was out with friends and I was home alone. I sat on the couch and pulled down my pants a bit and started to stroke my cock, pretty much the same way I am now as I write this; slowly, not thinking too intently, sort of out of pleasurable habit. My mind sort of meandered, the sag of the chest of an older woman at work, the memory of the cashier at the grocery store outside smoking with her eyes closed and licking her lips, the feel of an ex-girlfriend slipping my cock into her mouth, a real mix tape of erotic memories. But all of a sudden a picture flashed into my mind of me arriving at the basement with Tammy and Hector screaming at each other, but she was pushed up against the wall and he was fucking her from behind, grinding her against the wall with his huge cock inside of her. I went limp immediately. I was jealous and ashamed and disgusted. I pulled up my pants and watched television in embarrassment.
