I slammed each of the drawers shut, and opened the closet. Damp socks, damp underwear, damp lycra, everything in there was damp and reeking. Holding my nose shut, I crept toward his dresser, and began to ruffle through his belongings. This is what I was expecting, and I was surely right. The room was covered in dirty laundry, used condoms, half rolled blunts, and lines of coke on nearly every surface. Interesting, he swung that way, huh? Opening the door, a wafting stink hit me in the face. Ensuring that no noise would come from my steps, I snuck quietly down the hall, covered in paintings of scantily clad men toward the bedroom. I had a sneaking suspicion that he, like many of us, kept his extra money somewhere in the bedroom.
#TUMBLR GAY CUM ANS SWEAT TV#
However, I wasn’t there for the TV or the oversized sectional. Brand new leather couches, a coffee table made completely of glass, a massive stereo system next to his 60 inch TV… An absolute manchild lived here. In the same state of disrepair as mine, but furnished with some of the most expensive, gaudy things I’ve ever seen. Looking around the apartment, it was a three bedroom for sure. I landed on the ratty old carpet and quickly shut the window. It slid open quite easily, and I heaved myself over the ledge and into Marco’s dark apartment. I made a run for it, bolting to his open window on the balcony. I waited about five minutes before creeping out of my apartment, careful to watch for other prying eyes. I watched him loudly slam his door, lock his several locks, and saunter out down the stairs. In that fleeting moment of curiosity, a plan built up in my head. It just so happened that on that particular evening, he did just that.
#TUMBLR GAY CUM ANS SWEAT CRACKED#
I knew he locked his door, a few locks actually, but I also knew that the moron left his window cracked nearly every night. It was this desperation that made me remember every deal that thug made, every 8-ball, every eighth, every pill… Would he really notice a hundred missing from his pile? I knew for a fact that every Wednesday night, precisely at 10, Marco would leave for the hookah club and not return until 4 or 5 at the earliest. Short only by a hundred dollars for rent, but I had already gotten a notice on my door. I was short that month, for the first time mind you. So it was one day where I’ll fully admit that my jealousy overwhelmed me. Yet there he was: no trade, no job, no future really but living like a king. It’s not fair! Four years of college and what did I have to show for it? Student loans and no job prospects.
Always surrounded by other guys who’d slip him a hundred. Always out in the courtyard, laying by the pool with his shirt off.
He’d bring by a pizza he said he couldn’t finish, or his old speakers he’d upgraded. He’d only ever been kind to me, I’ll admit. And yet, here I was, working two jobs at McDonalds & Popeyes just trying to afford my garbage studio apartment. Two weeks ago he’d bought a Ducati a week prior it was a 60 inch TV! God knows it wasn’t from dutiful employment, but I knew damn well just what it was that afforded him these luxuries: whatever could be inhaled, snorted, or smoked. He always seemed to afford the good things in life with his dark money. Weed, Acid, Ecstasy, Shrooms, Coke… take out the hard ones and you have his menu. I knew, of course, that Marco sold whatever the degenerates in the neighborhood needed. Okay: Bad Boy Musky Transformation it is.