Sunday is cleaning day in the apartment for me. I am very tidy for guy on the OCD spectrum, among other spectrums. While cleaning day is almost every day, I throw myself into it on Sunday. Having to take on an emergency roommate significantly increased my cleaning workload. Beth, my ex-roomy, was pretty neat for a goth-girl, but her replacement Bob was a slob, though I didn't call him Bob the Slob to his face.
I only accepted a cisgender guy because Beth left abruptly to live with her new girlfriend leaving me short of cash for the next month's rent. I had to scramble to get someone into her room and rent money into my hands before I got a late charge or worse. I really couldn't blame Beth too much; her new Stud gal was very hot.
After a month of Bob detritus, I was getting really tired of his slob lifestyle. I didn't mind his all-hours gaming addiction; I even played Fortnite with him if I could be Catalyst. I didn't even mind that he lived in his camo-boxers and Dream Theater metal-band Tee shirt unless he was going out or entertaining his thick girlfriend. It wasn't like I could complain about dress codes because I too had an at home clothing style some might find peculiar. I slept in a man's shiny blue nightshirt with golden dragons on it, and I would happily wear it around the apartment before I changed for work. I can't help if it the knee length garment looked a lot like a woman's nightgown, it said men's right on the label. When affecting a casual style after work I mostly wore shorts, thigh-huger stockings (for warmth of course) and some sort of loose (some might say blousy) top.
No, I didn't mind his dressed down attire; what I did mind was that he and his girl were often too lazy to go to his bedroom. Although I can empathize. If I were her I would not want to enter the disaster zone Bob called his bedroom. Rutting like two elk on the couch was sometimes a show I couldn't resist, but after such visits it would take me hours to scrub all the pecker and twat tracks off the sofa.
Bob was not an early riser at the best of times, but on Sunday, after his Saturday night rack of beer, Bob was like a ground hog terrified of his shadow. I put off vacuuming and turned my attention to laundry. I liked my clothes clean and sweet smelling, and the lacy foundations I didn't hand-wash I separated by colors. I know I was more concerned with my appearance than most fellas my age. It goes with the territory of a less masculine couture. Not that I was a serious cross-dresser obsessed with passing. I just liked a few things that might be considered androgynous at best and girly at worst. I didn't believe my clothing choices defined my gender or sexual attitude. I wore stuff that gave me pleasure and comfort, and that it included some not so manly things; too bad for judgmental people.
Today, I sported a white crop-top Tee, old cutoff frayed jeans, rather too short and thigh high cotton stockings in alternating white and peach bands. All my Ice Silk bikini briefs were in the wash, but who would care I was going commando around the apartment. I do admit I never wore my old holey shorts in public since wearing them might be considered a bit cheeky.
I had closed the lid on the washer, the sound of running water confirmed the cycle was under way. Suddenly a strong hand grabbed me by the back of the neck. I jumped and gave a startled cry. "Let go, stop fucking around," I demanded.
Bob laughed. He liked to sneak up and scare me into a high-pitched shriek. It was his juvenile sense of humor that unfortunately worked more often than not. "Haven't started fucking around," he said. His oddly serious tone was laden with foreboding.
"I mean it; let me up, I have work to do." I didn't struggle, not wanting to dignify his clownish antics by futilely trying to break free of his strong grip.
"We both do," he predicted, with a deep worrying rumble. He used his greater strength and weight to push me down further. I had to hold myself on my elbows and forearms to keep my face off the cold white enamel. "You're always prancing around in your shorts and stockings thinking you can cock tease me and I won't do nothing?"
"I don't complain that you are always in your silly camo-boxers flopping about like a trout in a sack," I answered, as if his question was not rhetorical.
"Don't see why I am the only guy who don't get to poke your tight fag ass."
That was offensive on several levels, and I felt it was also untrue. I was not technically gay. I consider giving head little more than kissing so I don't really have sex with men. I defined myself as potentially Bi but undecided. I know you are thinking that I deluding myself and was merely in the closet. I don't see it that way. I was not hiding my quirks since moving out on my own four months ago, just not sure how to define those quirks.
Part of the reason I moved out of my parent's place was so I could uncover the truth of what personal relationships actually meant to me. Not that I had personal relationships at the moment. What I had was work and home. Work where I could make almost enough money to have my own place. Home where I could retreat to a neutral corner in the battle of sexual ideology. I was taking my time to codify who I was before I tried to figure out who everyone else was. I might admit much of my life was theoretical rather than experimental, but that's all I was willing to admit.
True I didn't have a girlfriend. When not old enough to frequent bars the options for meeting interesting people (male or female) are limited. I was neither desperate enough nor committed enough to try random hookups at known cruising sites or online. Of course, it might also be due to the simple fact I was not very sexually aggressive; dating norms dictated an expectation of seduction through displays of masculine dominance, like Beth's new squeeze.
