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.
***If male bisexuality offends you, please hit the 'Backspace' key now.
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Nash pulled into the crumbling parking lot of the Winley Building. The five story apartment building had once been the very picture of elegance but was now a sad shadow among other sad shadows and shells.
Many of the cars in the parking lot reflected this; they were battered, rusted, older automobiles. Nash smiled; there was even an old VW van with a peace symbol painted on its sides.
Normally, there would have been a doorman to greet Nash, to inquire his business in the Winley Building. But Wade was feeling the effects of his years and was once again in the small bathroom just to the left of the lobby. Nash walked to the elevator and pressed the button.
The elevator smelled strongly of cleaning solution; Housekeeping cleaned the elevator every morning, even on a Sunday morning like this one. Nash pushed the button for the third floor and waited. With an anemic 'whoosh' the doors slid closed.
The layout of each floor was eccentric to a fault. Horace Winley had designed the layout so that the even numbered apartments were on the northern flank of the building and the odd numbered apartments occupied the southern wall. Nash wandered along the northern flank until he made the deduction that Apartment 313 would be on the opposite side of the building. He shifted the half-gallon bottle of Artigas Tequila to his left arm and found himself in front of Apartment 305.
"And...three oh nine, three eleven, three fif...huh?" Nash said, walking east along the hallway, his feet making little sound on the faded shag carpet.
Nash walked back and again saw Apartment 311, then Apartment 315. He looked across the hall and saw Apartments 302 and 304.
Nash walked down the hallway, head swiveling back and forth. As he walked west, the even numbered apartments climbed higher and the odd numbered apartments went down in numbers.
Arriving in front of Apartment 311 after walking east again, Nash heard music bleeding from the apartment. It did not sound like a Football Party, but Nash took a chance and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, an attractive red head swung the door open and smiled widely. She was tall for a woman, five eight in her bare feet. Her curly red hair reached just below her shoulders, her face was round and her brown eyes were deep pools of chocolate. Her smile revealed a 'chipmunk' style overbite.
She was dressed in a short silk robe tied loosely and her round breasts threatened to spill out. Nash could see her legs were a pasty white and were slightly tick.
"Hi I uh, I hate to bother you," Nash started.
"Then why are you?" the woman said, smile widening.
"I, I'm looking for Apartment three thirteen?" Nash asked.
"Three...there's no three thirteen," A handsome young man said, appearing next to the attractive red head, putting his arm loosely around the hip of the red head. "Horace Winley? The guy that designed this building? Suffered from Triskaidekaphobia. That's why it goes from three eleven to three fifteen."
"Oh," Nash said, noticing that the young man had a terrycloth wrap slung around his waist. "Tris...what?"
"Who are you looking for?" the red head asked, still smiling her friendly smile.
"Fear of the number thirteen," the young man smiled.
"I, I'm looking for Paige? Paige Walker?" Nash asked, brushing his thick brown hair back nervously.
Even though the young man's wrap was slung low, Nash could see the head of the man's cock dangling below the hem of the terrycloth wrap. He could also see that the man's legs and arms and chest were bare of any hair even though the man sported a thick head of brown hair.
"Paige...Paige, Lay, you know any Paige Walker?" the red head asked.
"Nope; you sure she said the Winley Apartments?" Leighton Snelling asked Nash.
"I, yeah," Nash said, stomach plummeting.
He felt pretty foolish; Paige Walker and he shared a class together at Benhurst Community College, their Post-Industrial Revolution Economics class. He'd finally screwed up the courage to ask the well-developed eighteen year old blonde for a date and with a sweet smile, she'd agreed.
"Oh, but Nash? Why don't you come over on Sunday; you like the Broncos? They're playing the Chiefs; oh I'm sure the Chiefs will make dog meat out of them, but bring some tequila and we'll get too drunk to care, okay?" she'd cooed, thrusting her large chest toward him.
Using his older brother's ID, Nash managed to buy a half-gallon bottle of Artigas Tequila and checked and double-checked the time for kickoff. With threats of grievous bodily harm, Nash's older brother let Nash borrow his John Elway football jersey. But, obviously, Paige Walker did not live in the Winley Building. Apparently, Paige Walker had given Nash a brush-off.
"What's in the bag?" the red head asked as Nash turned to leave.
"I uh, I got some tequila," Nash mumbled.
"Ooh!" the red head cooed. "Tequila?"
"Tequila? I hey, we, we can watch the Broncos game here, Dude," Leighton offered, opening the apartment door wide.
"Yeah," the red head enthused.
"Take me five seconds to make some snacks," Leighton offered.
"One, two, three," the red head started to count.
"Shush you," Leighton smiled. "Come on in, Dude, but don't pay any attention to Charlie; she's a smart ass."
"Rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass," Charlie smiled, stepping aside. "Come on in. Bring your tequila too."
"I, you, you sure?" Nash asked, stepping just past the door frame.
"Yeah," Charlie said, turning and walking toward a leather couch.
When she turned, Nash was looking at her full buttocks before the hem of the silk robe fluttered down again. He guessed the young woman was possibly ten, fifteen pounds over what most people considered normal. But she wore the extra weight well.
"Hey, look, if I'm interrupting anything," Nash asked as Charlie fumbled with the remote control for the wall-mounted flat screen television.
"Close the door," Charlie smiled, pulling up the pre-game analysis. "Hey, Lay? The Saints lost to the Panthers."
"What? You're kidding!" Leighton called out from another room.
"Oh, by the way, I'm Charlie Singleton," the red head smiled. "And my butt head boyfriend's name is Leighton Snelling but everyone just calls him 'Lay.'"
"Hmm? Oh! I'm Nash Thornton," Nash said, looking as Charlie flopped down on the couch, robe fluttering open to show her tight coils of carrot orange red hair.
"SO, what else you got?" Lay entered the room, wrap still slung low on his hips.
"Just the tequila," Nash said, holding out the bottle.
"What? What were you going to mix with it?" Lay asked, accepting the offered bottle.
"I don't know," Nash said. "Paige just said get some tequila and..."
"Go on, have a seat. Like I said, take me about five seconds..." Lay said, turning again.
"One, two, three," Charlie started to count. "Come on, have a seat."
Charlie pulled Nash to sit next to her. If she noticed that her robe had parted, exposing her left breast and tightly crinkled areole and hard nipple and her thatch of pubic hair, she gave no indication.
