Free The Next by Rafe Haze Page B

sensation caused him to gasp. I heard Ruben upstairs moan again. Then Mr. Perfect reached behind his ass with his slick finger, inserting it and causing the cobra to grow another half inch. His eyes practically crossed in the ecstasy of that instant. His lips formed an O as he attempted to control his breathing, his heart thumping wildly in pleasure. His thighs flexed as he dipped six inches, bending at the knees. I could see the definition of his muscular thighs.
    Mr. Perfect suddenly opened his eyes and extracted his finger. He looked at Ruben with intent and motioned with his hand. At first I didn’t understand the meaning of this motion, then I realized he was beckoning for Ruben to come over.
    Oh, my god.
    This was not good news. It’s one thing to flirt with a neighbor, it’s another to invite him over. It requires a certain kind of pathology to think it appropriate to invite a complete stranger over to fuck the shit out of you in the very bedroom in which you sleep with your wife, in which your kids climb into bed when thunder scares them, in which your wife braids your daughter’s hair.
    I heard the window above me open. Ruben descended the fire escape, trying to step as lightly as possible on t he thin metal stairs with his red Converse shoes. He was wearing well-fitted khaki pants that showed off his long thick legs and his tight ass, and a tight thermal shirt with a V-neck that accentuated the development of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. When I’d seen him face-to-face, I was too busy being an asshole to realize there was a goddamn good reason the show he’d been putting on upstairs for the neighborhood was well worth watching. I ducked out of sight as he circled around the platform to climb down the second flight of the fire escape. I popped back up as he reached the bottom of the stairs, which ended at the approximate height of the top of the foot wide brick wall that separated my building’s section of the courtyard from that of the Perfects.
    Rather than lower the rusty ladder that would allow him to climb down to the ground, he hopped onto the brick wall. With catlike agility, I watched Ruben’s silhouette traverse the top of the wall, which took a right angle toward the Perfect’s building. Ruben then climbed onto the mirroring fire escape. He dexterously ascended the metallic stairs to the bottom of the Princess’s apartment. She was reading a fashion magazine on her bed, dipping a spoon into a container of yogurt. She was facing the window. Ruben could not get past.
    I looked up and saw Mr. Perfect observing Ruben’s actions from above. All that elation halted because of the Princess’s innocuous positioning. Mr. Perfect opened his window and stuck his head out to get a better look at what Ruben was doing. Ruben looked up at him, smiling, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and shrugged his shoulders helplessly, pointing with his index finger at the problem. Mr. Perfect seemed unperturbed. He pulled up his pants and exited the bedroom. I watched him walk through the short dividing hall to the living room and then exit the front door to the hall.
    What was he doing?
    The other neighbors were completely oblivious to this ridiculousness.
    The Couch Potatoes glued their eyes to their screen and their garlic bread to their asses.
    Schlongzilla was holding a script opposite some beautiful dark-haired actress who was also holding a script. They were rehearsing, apparently, gazing into each other’s eyes, mouthing soft dialogue. A love scene? He glanced away to pour two glasses of red wine. Right. Wasn’t difficult to see what kind of catharsis this rehearsal was leading to.
    I could tell by the way the Broadway Dancer kept grasping his forehead as he typed in his underwear on his laptop that he was nursing one whopping hangover.
    The Princess looked up from her magazine. The doorbell just rang. She put down her spoon and headed down the hall. Ruben seized the opportunity and