The young man had truly been blessed with everything a gay male could desire: unimaginable, good looks, great hair, adorable eyes and a fantastic body. Any guy, able to ignore him, would've been one gasp removed from cadaver status. I noticed him when he was still a block away. A big, handsome, young guy, he strutted , certain he was, indeed, the cock of the walk; and his cockiness was not without justification.
Most guys, on passing him, looked back, repeatedly, hoping to catch him looking. The closer he came, the more excited I became. It's so strange, I thought, that whenever we see a really attractive guy, the first thing we want to do is to get our knees dirty. I was struck dumbfounded when it seemed he was going to enter the apartment building, where I was sitting on the step.
"Yo, dog, you, kinda, like, live, here?" He asked, his wide smile displaying breathtakingly-beautiful, teeth.
"Uhh, Yes," I answered nervously, "Yeah, I live here...what up?"
"I Just, got in town, you know, like, about four hours ago."
"Okay." I said..."So, Uh, yeah, welcome to Montreal," I said, returning his smile.
"It's all kool, man, like, it's all good for ya, huh?" He asked, while giving the building a superficial appraisal. "Yep, like, it's super kool, man...oh, yeahhh, I like it mucho...Ya live alone here?" He asked, dropping his back-pack and sitting next to me. Without awaiting a reply, his smile widened as he added, "Uh, like, ya, kinda, married, er what, huh, dog?"
"Yeah, I live here, alone and I'm not married" I told him; I was extremely curious to know where we were going with this.
"Hey, hey, hey, kool, amigo," he sang, sounding like he was breaking into a Rap song. "Yeah, like real-mucho awesome!"
Had he not been so goddam gorgeous, I definitely would not have answered his prying questions.
I guessed we were close to the same age- early twenties. Maybe he was a little younger than me; Tousled, dark hair, reminding me of a sheep Dog, poked out from a New York Yankee's ball cap, worn backwards. "Hey, man, like, ya mind telling me why, like, you're layin' this third degree on me?" I laughed so he wouldn't think I was totally pissed-off with him, though, I undoubtedly would've been had it been almost anyone else. He continually used the words, like, kinda and sorta, liberally and haphazardly sprinkling them in most unlikely places. I attempted to mimic him, hoping it would ingratiate me with him, as well as make him feel I was on the leading edge.
"Mus' cost ya a bundle...I mean like, here, in Buckingham Palace?
"I manage," I said, modestly.
"Yeah, like, I been, kinda, lookin' fer a place, like, a place with mucho class, like this one. Ohh, man," he groaned, exaggeratedly, "My freakin' legs are fallin' off from all the goddam walking...So, like, how much ya pay, anyways?" He asked, then, acting like a Rockefeller, added, "Not that it matters...you're like, sorta gay, huh,-"
"Aw, c'mon, man, you're getting a bit personal, aren't ya?" I interrupted.
"Well, like...I sorta think a guy should sorta know if his roommate's gay, er not...don't you?"
"Sure, Like, and how about yourself, you're kinda gay, huh?" I asked, defensively.
"Okay, okay, no need to bother about details right now," he said, authoritatively, adding some sort of hand movement that looked like he was erasing from a chalkboard.
"I, kinda, sorta think I should maybe reboot. It's gotta be a virus or spyware or something." He really laughed at that.
"Wow, man, like, right on, you've got a computer, huh? Like, high speed, huh, I hope; got no patience for that freakin' dial up crap? Speakin' of crap, roomie, can I use your can..like, you know, I really need to go?" He asked, his back-pack already in his hand.
It sure as hell wasn't easy to conceal my excitement when he emphasized his urgency by holding onto his dick. I was reading something important into his every move.
How is a sane person supposed to handle an insane situation, such as this, I wondered. I didn't want to refuse him, yet, I felt extremely uncomfortable, thinking I could be allowing a certifiable psychopath into my apartment.
"You'll have to excuse the mess," I said, apologetically. "My cleaning...ahh, person isn't due till tomorrow." Nervous, as I surely was, I still scrutinized his jiggling butt, as he quickly climbed the stairs ahead of me. My apartment door had not fully closed behind us before he'd thrown his back-pack onto a chair and was off to examine the place; his urgent need was, obviously, no longer a priority.
"Man, orb that fuckin' king-size bed," he shouted, admiringly. "That baby looks, sorta, like it's the real thing." Then, stretching out on his stomach, his butt bounced, provocatively, as he humped the mattress. "Ohhh, yeah, like, real kool, man, sorta, like, wake me in a couple of hours, okay?" He asked, pretending to snore.
The living room was the last place to be checked out. Right away, he inspected the sofa. His few, perfunctory bounces resulted in an expression clearly indicating it had, definitely, flunked his expert fornication test. "Hey, dog, am I gonna have to sleep on this, while you're all alone on a bed the size of Manhattan Island?"
"Have you always been this shy and withdrawn?" I asked, facetiously. "Besides, like, dog, you haven't been invited to sleep anywhere, yet."
"Yeah, okay, okay, I know; you think I'm a little pushy, don't ya? Well, let me tell you, man, like, in New York they'd trample all over ya if ya weren't a loudmouth; me, I'm, sorta, considered, like, middle-of-the-road, 'specially by the Manhattanuts...Like, you never been in Manhattan?" He asked, incredulous that there could be anyone who'd never had that experience.
"Yeah, well, like, you're in Montreal, now...and I don't consider you normal in any way," I said, laughing at his exaggerated expression of shock.
"Okay, enough about that," he said, authoritatively, again, "Let's move on...Our legal people can get together to iron out details, if you're okay with that."
"Actually, I think, like, maybe we're not, at all, on the same page. There are a few things I'd like to know about you; for example, I'd like to know your name and I'd just love to know how come your sudden need to use the bathroom, the only reason you're here, incidentally, was satisfied by simply peering into the room?"
"Yeah...yeah, that was a, kinda, weird one, huh? I suppose it was 'cause of excitement over the magnificence of your mini Taj Mahal. It just. kinda, made me forget I needed to go. That often happens, you know." He told me, reassuringly.
"I'm Chris...Christopher Thornton, twenty-three and six-foot-one. I was born in Montreal and moved in here when I was eighteen; my parents live close-by. This is the kinda, like, the stuff I'd like to know about you, capice?"
"Si, I understand. I'd, sorta, like to introduce Keith Obrien," he laughed, offering his hand. "I'm gonna, sorta, be nineteen, like, in another month...Last time, I got measured I was five-eleven and a bit, like, in bare feet. I was born in Manhattan and I lived there, like, till four days ago, like, till My parents, sorta, turfed me out with the garbage; that, the kinda stuff you wanted to know about?" he asked, laughing.
"Is that true?" I asked, incredulously..."Your parents threw their own son out on the street?"
"Yep, but they, sorta, had no choice..like, If I'd been willing to apologize and beg the Elders for forgiveness it would've, kinda, all blown over, but no goddam way was I gonna let them run my freakin life; I don't mean my parents, I mean the church Elders."
