Copyright, Chi Bear, 2024.
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Unless you want to talk about ghosts. It needs to be clear that I do not believe in ghosts. I do not believe in them, nor am I afraid of them. In fact, I had barely thought of anything ghostly in years until I drove past the house by accident and the memory reared up, like a jump scare in a movie or a Halloween inflatable thrashing in the wind.
I didn't really know him. He was a friend of a friend. We met in a group at a bar one night. We drank; we flirted; we ended up back at my place. We may have sucked each other off. I'm fairly certain we didn't fuck, but my memory of that first night was slippery even before what happened. The next morning we traded numbers as I dropped him off at his car, still half drunk. I expected never to hear from him again. He was way out of my league.
You can imagine my surprise when he messaged a few days later. He had a new place to himself before his roommate moved in and did I want to come hang out. Did I indeed. Which is how I found myself pulling up in front of an old bungalow in a quiet street, just west of campus, on a late summer evening.
He was sitting on the front steps as I got out of my car. He waved when he saw me. Something about his pose reminded me of a child after school, waiting to be picked up by an adult.
He stood up and came down the steps. He was taller than I remembered, more solid. Built like a baseball player. He was wearing cargo shorts and a slightly-too-small ringer tee. He'd mentioned that he worked for a landscape company over the summer, and it showed - he had the kind of muscles that came from hard work, not a gym. Especially the kind of hard work that clearly involved his shoulders and pecs.
"Hey," he said, smiling nervously. His dark hair was wet - from the shower, I guessed - and he had dark circles under his eyes and a few days' stubble on his jaw. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping. We locked eyes briefly, intently, then he glanced around. He seemed uncomfortable.
"Nice place," I said, cocking my head up towards the house. Which wasn't entirely untrue. Small and compact, with dark siding and peeling front windows, it cowered between its larger neighbors like a mistreated pet.
"Yeah," he said. "We lucked out. It was really cheap and the owner seems cool." He scratched the back of his neck, his tee shirt riding up. I willed myself not to look at the crescent of skin between his shirt and his waistband. "And it's really close for classes too."
I remembered that he was still in grad school, a few years younger than me. He'd told me the other night what he was studying. Engineering. Accounting? Something dull, but it seemed impolite to admit that I'd already forgotten. He glanced around nervously again. I wasn't sure if it was the neighborhood, the neighbors, or the fact that he was talking to a probable hookup in public. And then it struck me that I might have misread the situation, that we might, in fact, just be hanging out.
It struck me that I knew nothing about him. His friends, if he was single, if he was even gay.
Everything I knew about him was an assumption.
God, he was gorgeous.
"Nice front porch, too," I said. I imagined there would be a secondhand couch there before long. "Looks like the living room is a nice size, too."
"Yeah," he said, not moving.
"Can I get a tour?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah, sorry," he said. "Uh..." He trailed off, turned, and took the front steps two at a time. His legs were meaty as his shorts rode up against them. A faint tanline, mid-thigh. "Yeah, it's nice," he said over his shoulder. "It would be cool to put some chairs out here, maybe a couch." I smiled.
He leaned against the front door and pushed. The door stuck in its frame, then jerked open with a rasping squeal of swollen wood on wood. I walked past him into the living room. He shouldered the door shut behind me, turning the deadbolt.
Something felt...off. The room was empty. Smell of fresh paint, scarred hardwood floors, flattened cardboard boxes in a pile in the corner. Through an arch, a small square dining room with the remains of what might have been a built-in buffet on the back wall. It was hot inside the house - most of the windows were painted shut, he apologized, as he tugged on a lower frame to demonstrate and his bicep bulged beneath his shirt sleeve. The air felt heavy, close, despite a ceiling fan. Oppressive, I thought to myself, then wondered where that word had come from. It was probably the emptiness that was making me feel uneasy.
And it was so quiet. There was no sound from the street, no one around. I'd lived in the same apartment building for a few years now, and I hadn't realized until just then that there were always other people nearby, upstairs, in the hallway, outside. Unseen, passing by my own existence. Even if I never interacted with any of them, I had a sense they were there, and that was comforting in a way. Here, in this empty living room, there was...nothing. That must be what's off, I thought to myself.
"My roommate has a bunch of furniture," he said, shrugging slightly as he came up beside me. "Coming next week." I had a vague memory of this from the other night. Aaron, I think he said the roommate was. Possibly also in grad school studying something that I didn't bother to remember.
"Please tell me you at least have a place to sleep until then," I said with mock concern. He laughed, an easy, open sound. I turned to face him.
"Why?" he asked, lowering his voice. "You don't wanna hang out on the floor?" He bit the corner of his lip. His eyes were the color of chestnuts. He leaned in and kissed me. Tentatively at first, then pressing harder. I could feel the heat from his body. My hand found the small of his back; I let it rest there. Apparently I hadn't misread the situation. I leaned in, kissed back. He tasted fresh, faintly minty, and underneath, the barest trace of cigarette smoke. I found this unaccountably hot and felt my cock stir.
He pulled away slowly, our faces still inches apart, and smiled shyly. "An air mattress, at least?" I whispered. He laughed again and I felt the muscles in his back move.
"Come on. There's something I wanna show you," he said, turning away. He led the way across the empty dining room, through a door propped open in the corner, and paused in a claustrophobic space lined with doors. "Bedrooms, bathroom" - he angled his head toward the center door - "and kitchen," he said, continuing through.
Everything in the room was a drab non-color. An empty glass in the sink. A few flattened boxes in the center of the floor. Two windows at the back looked out over a postage stamp of dead grass ringed with overgrown weeds. The late summer Midwestern sun was low and intense, making it even warmer here than at the front of the house. And that same oppressive stillness.
"Sorry," he said again, leaning down to pick up the flattened cardboard. "I should have taken these out." An awkward pause. "You want anything to drink?" He moved uncertainly towards another open door in another corner.
"No, I'm good," I said. "Thanks." The fridge had caught my eye. It had signs of life. Unlike the rest of this house.
A pizza takeout menu was clamped into a green plastic chip clip reading SCHNEIDER LANDSCAPES. Magnetic poetry tiles were scattered across the fridge door, a few pulled out into phrases: summer meat ing. miss you. On the freezer door, a photo was held in place by delirious. I leaned in to look. It was him, with mountains in the distance. He was grinning at the camera, caught mid-laugh. Next to him, a handsome redhead had an arm draped around his shoulders, their bodies touching, the redhead's fingers brushing his chest. It was plain that they had just, or were just about to, sleep together. A cigarette dangled from the redhead's other hand.
I followed him through the door in the corner and down two steps to a landing for the back door. He propped the empty cardboard boxes against the door, then continued down a flight of low-ceilinged stairs. I ducked my head instinctively. It struck me that I was following a stranger into a basement in an empty house. It struck me again that I knew nothing about him, not even his last name.
I don't know what I expected at the bottom of the stairs - flickering light and filthy walls; piles of oozing garbage bags; a workbench littered with dirty gouges and saws; a rancid smell rising from a dirt floor - but this was not it. We were standing in a perfectly ordinary basement with a worn linoleum floor and painted cinder block walls. A washer and dryer sat obediently in a corner next to a utility sink. I felt briefly disappointed.
He walked to the center of the room, where a tree trunk held up an overhead beam. It was the size of a regular basement post, and the bark was stripped away, but it was unmistakably a tree. Knots and all. There was another one further down. One of those old house quirks, I supposed.
"Those are really cool, right?" he asked. It was interesting, I had to admit. "And there's so much room down here. We could put a pool table down here, get some gym stuff..." He trailed off as someone walked across the living room above us. The floor squeaked halfway. He glanced up at the sound and frowned. He had turned very pale.
"Oh, I thought your roommate wasn't here yet," I said.
"No, not yet. I'm here alone for a couple days," he said, still looking upwards. "It's weird, right? I heard it before, too." He looked back at me with a strange confident expression, then back up at the ceiling. "Old houses make weird noises. Pretty sure it's settling or something."
I was not an architect, but I knew old houses did not sound like a person walking across a hardwood floor. I didn't know if he was lying for my sake or his own.
"Weird," I said. I felt a tingle of unease. I didn't like the idea of someone else being here without knowing who they were.
"Yeah, but we could get a bench, some weights," he continued. His eyes trailed down and met mine. I was reminded again of a child waiting for a grownup to take charge of a situation. I wondered if he was trying to impress me.
He reached both hands up, pressing his fingertips against the beam overhead and leaning forward to stretch. His pits were damp. The hem of his shirt rode up. Surprisingly pale skin. Hard abs. Dark treasure trail. OK, now he was just showing off. And it was working. I looked back up. He knew I was staring. He smiled shyly, flexed both arms, and a blush crept up his cheeks.
"I don't think a pool table would fit down those stairs," I said. "But yeah, some workout stuff would be awesome. I mean, whatever you're doing...you look great..." I trailed off. His shorts were tented now. He knew what I was staring at.
"Wanna hang out in my room?" he asked.
We went back upstairs. The kitchen was empty. I didn't notice anyone in the dining room. Maybe it had just been a weird old house noise. Besides, I was distracted by something else.
He did have furniture in his bedroom, after all. It was tidier than I expected, and the window was propped open with a chunk of 2x4. A few concert posters tacked to the wall. IKEA comforter on the bed. Hand-me-down dresser with a TV and DVD player; stacked milk crates with shoes; baseball mitt and CD binder tossed on the floor. He closed the door behind us.
"Uh, so this...," he said. He laughed nervously. "Can I suck your dick?"
Before I could answer, he dropped to his knees and started unzipping my jeans. He fumbled with my underwear and then my cock was in his mouth. It felt good, warm, but there was something frantic about his movements. He sucked and pursed his lips, his stubble grazing my still-soft shaft. This was not how I imagined things unfolding. I reached down and cradled the back of his head with one hand. He slowed his pace.
"Hey," I said. I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt and pulled; he took the hint and stood up. "Hey. Come here." I leaned my head up to kiss him. He exhaled softly and pressed back, tentative at first, then with more insistence. He slid a hand up under my shirt, grazing my pubes before letting it rest against my stomach. Tilting my head to make out more deeply, I wrapped both arms around him, pulling him into me. I felt the muscles in his back relax. I think he purred softly. His body felt so warm against me, so hard. I slipped my right hand down into the waistband of his shorts. No underwear.
He broke the kiss. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"For what?" I asked, resting my forehead against his.
"I don't know," he said. And then I saw something change in his eyes, and we fucking attacked each other. He slammed his mouth against mine. His hands were all over me, pulling my shirt up and clawing at my stomach and chest. I groped at his ass, pulling meaty handfuls towards me as I ground my cock into his shorts. I freed one hand to undo them; they dropped to the floor and the heat of his cock hit mine. He tugged insistently on my shirt. I pulled away from making out to raise both arms and let him pull it off. He stripped his off with surprising grace, wrapped his arms around me, and dove back into my mouth.
We were chest to chest. His uncertainty was gone now, I could feel. Heat and desire rolled off him in waves. I reached down and found his cock. Almost the exact same size as mine, it felt like. Only straight as an arrow, unlike my slight curve. I ran a finger over his slit. It was slippery. I wrapped my hand around his shaft. It was so hot. This was so hot. I gave it a few jerks.
"Mmm. Mmm," he hummed into my mouth, shaking his head no. He pulled away. "No. I..." I dropped his cock and grazed my lips down the side of his face to his neck. He smelled so good. So familiar. Musky. I nuzzled my face into the side of his neck. He moaned softly. His hands were on my ass again. I wrapped mine around his and pulled, spreading his cheeks as we ground into each other and I tongued his neck, his meaty shoulder, his clavicle, the hollow at his throat as his moans grew more rhythmic and he pawed my ass.
I pulled away and took a step back, letting my hands linger on his hips. The look that he gave me in that split second still comes to me sometimes, a heady mix of lust, wild hunger, and that childlike confusion, pleading for something I couldn't identify. So disconsonant with his man's body. The broad planes of his chest, dusted with dark hair. Tiny nipples. The solid shoulders and arms, the perfect taper to his waist. The start of a V bracketing his abs. Untrimmed pubes that spread in a dark mat onto his legs. That cock. Those balls. He felt so solid. I was struck by his solidity, by the mass of him standing there with a perfect college jock body, the body of a man, yet unable to articulate what his eyes were trying so desperately to tell me.
I grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, shoved him facedown over the edge of the bed, dropped to my knees, and dove into his ass. He yelped, then gave a guttural grunt as he pushed back onto my mouth. He tasted musky - familiar, like his neck - and faintly of body wash. I pictured him for a split second in the shower earlier, digging a soapy finger into his hole, and realized my own cock was throbbing. I reached down and began to jerk myself. He was moaning softly again as I traced around his hole with my tongue. Kissed it. Bit softly. Spreading him open with my free hand and scraping my beard along his inner cheek. He was jerking himself now too. We were in a rhythm. Hands, cocks, tongue, moans.
And maybe because we were in a rhythm, I realized that it felt like we were being watched. It wasn't quite the disembodied feeling that sometimes happens during sex, when you're intensely aware of being involved in the physical activity but also simultaneously seeing the two of you from a distance, like two actors in porn scene on a TV at a bar. It wasn't that feeling, not quite. It was more the sense that there was...well, someone there. Which was ridiculous. In between licks and slurps and swipes of my beard, I glanced over at the half-open closet door. Ridiculous, I told myself again, and drove my tongue into his pucker.
"Oh fuck," he exhaled. "Oh. Fuck. Fuck. OHFUCK. OHFUCK." I was straining my tongue as far as I could go, swirling, stretching, matching his grunts. His hand on his cock was frenzied. The smell in the room was intoxicating. Him, me. Our sweat. Our musk.
He stopped jerking and half-twisted around. "Let me..." he said, tugging on my arm. "I wanna suck you."
I gave his perfect left ass cheek a playful bite, then stood up. He straightened up, too, and as we changed positions, our cocks swung and hit each other, jutting obscenely. I flopped down onto the bed on my back. His chest was flushed with excitement. He squatted down between my spread legs. He grabbed the base of my dick with one hand and resumed his frantic jerking with the other. He slid his mouth onto the head of my cock, then pushed further down. "Oh uhh," he mumbled. "Ohuhhh, ohuhh." He bobbed his head, gagging slightly. I reached down and dug my fingers into his scalp. I could feel myself getting close.
"OH FUHH," he said, opening his mouth. He convulsed several times and I knew that he had cum. I started jacking myself off. I was close. He closed his lips around my cockhead again with greedy focus.
"I'm going to cum," I said. He reached up and gripped my thigh. He gagged as I shot into his mouth. He pulled away, panting. A second spurt grazed his cheek; a few dribbles ran down through my fingers.
And then it was over.
He felt around on the floor and grabbed something. He wiped his jaw with his tee shirt. He stood up, focused on wiping his stomach, glancing down as he wiped again, giving his still-hard cock a few tugs. It bounced as he climbed onto the bed, pulling me up with him so we were lying side by side on our backs.
"Here," he said, handing me the balled up shirt. I reached down and wiped off as best as I could. I tossed the shirt onto the floor. He rolled onto his side, facing me, and scooted in to press against me. He wrapped an arm over my chest, squeezing my upper arm. His dick pressed into the side of my leg. His body was so warm. I let my hand rest on his leg, and he buried his face in my neck.
"I wish you could stay here all night," he mumbled into my shoulder. I squeezed his thigh with my hand, and he sighed gently.
I realized I had nodded off. The setting sun made a long streak of pinkish orange on the wall. It was nearly dark outside but I couldn't see a clock. He was asleep, curled against my side, arm still over my chest. I really had to pee.
I slid out from under his arm. He murmured something; I bent and kissed his shoulder. "I'll be right back," I whispered. He was so beautiful lying there. So unguarded, so peaceful. As if he hadn't slept for days. I pictured waking up next to him on a crisp fall morning; walking to get coffee; him smiling in the sun, unshowered, wearing one of my sweatshirts. I had just stood up when I heard footsteps outside. Someone was crossing the living room. The squeak of hardwood. The steps slowed to a shuffle in the hallway outside the bedroom door.
Which was ajar.
Fuck. I knew he had closed it. I remembered him closing it. The roommate must have been here the whole time. Aaron. Fuck. How much had he heard? A hot wave of embarrassment swept over me, followed by a shiver of unease. Had he been watching us?
Was he watching right now.
I couldn't see anything in the darkness beyond the half-opened door. Why else would he be standing there?
I swallowed, held my breath. Trying to listen for anything, for a clue what he was doing in the hallway just outside the room. Shifting weight, breathing, the rustle of clothing. Nothing. I couldn't even sense another person. Sometimes, in my own apartment, a neighbor stood in the hall and flipped through their mail before unlocking their door. Unseen, and silent, but I could feel another human being there. Here, nothing. Just the peculiar quality of the silence that had struck me when I first arrived.
The steps shuffled on into the kitchen.
I exhaled. I felt rattled, but I really had to pee. We obviously weren't alone, so I couldn't just stroll across the hall naked. I grabbed my jeans from the floor and pulled them on. I couldn't see my shirt. Well, you know what, Aaron, I thought to myself, considering how hot your roommate is, you better get used to seeing half naked guys coming out of his room. I tiptoed to the door, peered into the dark. No sign of the roommate. And if I couldn't see him, he couldn't see me. Hopefully. It wasn't until after I had crossed to the bathroom and closed the door that I realized my heart was pounding.
As I was washing my hands after, it struck me that the kitchen had been dark just now. Wouldn't he have turned on a light if he was getting something? A tingle of uneasiness crept up my spine again. I willed myself not to think of this stranger, in the dark, in the empty other room the whole time, waiting there, listening to us. And I had let myself doze off! I swallowed back a wave of panic. Had I been set up? Were they going to jump me when I opened the door? What if my car was gone when I walked outside? I felt my pockets - keys, wallet, phone.
I took a breath. I was being ridiculous.
Gay men went to strangers' apartments all the time and lived to tell about it. I was scrappy. I could fight dirty, I told myself. I took another breath. And he seemed too...well, nice...to be involved with someone sketchy.
I turned on the cold water, leaned down, and splashed my face. I rubbed my hand over my beard and realized that I still smelled like him. I inhaled from my palm and tasted his ass again. Fuck. I chuckled to myself. Next time I'd just have to invite him over to my place and not bother with weirdo Aaron. I looked around for a towel that wasn't there, wiped my face on my arm as best I could, took another breath, and opened the bathroom door.
The kitchen was dark. The front rooms were dark. The other bedroom was dark inside its half-opened door. The roommate must have left while I was freaking out. I rolled my eyes, feeling slightly annoyed with myself, and went back into his room, making sure the door latched behind me.
He was sitting up in bed. He had pulled on a pair of grey boxer briefs. I glanced at the bulge between his legs and felt my own cock stir again. I looked up; he didn't make eye contact. Something felt different. Off. Uneasiness turned to annoyance as realization hit me.
It wasn't a roommate. He was moving in with his boyfriend. Aaron.
The surprise footsteps, the redhead on the fridge, the awkward energy right now. I was a...what, a last fling?
The annoyance within me rose several degrees. I almost gave myself a panic attack in the bathroom, and now I had to deal with some kind of relationship guilt? Oh my god. Seriously.
"I should probably go," I said, trying not to sound too irritated. He looked at me without saying anything. I couldn't read the expression on his face. Sad, maybe, but like he wanted to ask me something, too. Or maybe I was just projecting because, fuck, he was so beautiful sitting there with his messy hair and unshaven face and the perfect curves and slabs of his shoulders and chest. Beautiful and helpless. And obviously seeing someone, which meant that I wouldn't be seeing him again. Something inside me softened.
"I can't find my shirt," I said. He leaned over the edge of the bed, and I caught a brief glimpse of the dark patch of hair under his arm as he felt around on the floor. He sat up, raised my shirt above his head like a trophy, flashed a smile, and slid off the bed to come stand facing me.
"Found it," he said, still smiling. "Do I get a prize?" You get a prize if you tell me why the hell you lied about your `roommate,' I thought to myself. Instead, I leaned in and kissed him.
"If you find my underwear, you can keep them. But I want them back next time," I said, still touching my nose to his. He growled appreciatively, reached both hands around to grab my ass, and ground his crotch into mine.
"I should go," I said again. I reached for my shirt. He jerked it away.
"You sure?" he asked. "Round two?" He had that strained confident expression from the basement again. Now he just looked like a douchey jock who was used to getting whoever he wanted. I couldn't believe I had fallen for that scared-kid look earlier.
"Tempting," I said. I took my shirt. He looked crestfallen as I pulled it on.
I opened the bedroom door. He hesitated. Despite my better judgment, something made me reach out and awkwardly touch his shoulder. He exhaled and I realized he'd been holding his breath.
We walked into the dining room. He felt around, flipped a switch. The harsh overhead light somehow cast more shadows than it dispelled. The room was empty. The house was empty, I knew. The roommate - no, the boyfriend must have gone. We walked across the living room. The floor squeaked halfway.
The odd thing was that I hadn't heard the floor squeak before. When the boyfriend left. I hadn't heard anything. I brushed away that thought.
We stood in the living room. It was still hot, airless. He was completely unselfconscious wearing only his underwear. I tried not to look at his tiny nipples, his stomach, the dark line of hair disappearing into his waistband, the grey bulge just beneath.
"You wanna order a pizza? I can order a pizza for us," he said. "If you want. We can just hang out. Watch a movie or something." He looked away, bit his lower lip. I didn't understand why he wanted me to stay. There was obviously someone waiting for him. Waiting for me to leave.
The other odd thing was that I hadn't heard the front door open. Which meant that the roommate hadn't left.
Or come in.
But there was no one here now. The house was completely empty, from basement to front porch. I was sure of it, though I could not tell why. It had something to do with the oppressive silence. Something didn't add up. The sense of unease was creeping in again, just outside my field of vision. I willed myself to keep my eyes on him; not to look at the corners of the room. I could tell he was waiting for me to say something.
"I'm sorry about almost running into your roommate before. I just really had to pee," I said. He gave me an odd look. "I wasn't sure if you... I didn't want to make things awkward with him."
"Her," he said, still looking at me oddly.
Her. Oh.
Her. Erin, not Aaron.
I glanced back at her bedroom door; the room beyond large, dark, empty. I knew, even without seeing, that the cardboard was still stacked against the back door, that no one had left that way. And the front door had not screeched open.
But the squeak in the middle of the floor. The shuffling footsteps. I felt the hairs on my arms begin to rise. Sometimes I think I should have stayed. Sometimes I wonder what happened to him, what happened after I left that night. What happened the next night, and the next, until Erin came.
"She's doing an internship," he said. "So. If you. Want to stay," he said, his eyes desperate. "She's still in Portland until next week."