Ron walked into the Marlboro Arms Apartments, absolutely defeated. Because his dumb ex-boyfriend couldn’t hold on to a five dollar bill to save his life, all his cards were maxed out, he couldn’t afford his $1800/mo apartments, and he had to drop out of his Ph. D. program. Fucking Betsy DeVos WISHES she could fuck over grad students as bad as he got it.
So, there he stood, surrounded by what little belongings he had left after Craigslist, begging for the cheapest studio apartment they had. The lobby was covered in a thick layer of dust and smelled of stale Newports from the 1970s. The decrepit nature of the cheap tenement was a significant departure from his old loft near campus, so as the disinterested manager signed him a month-to-month lease, Ron could do nothing but hope that this was only a temporary home.
As he walked down the cigarette-stained 8th floor corridor, each step he took reminded him of the pointless hours he spent mulling over Micro and Macro Economics, ROI & Dividends, trusts and annuities, LLC’s, Corporate Finance... All adding up to shit; two and a half years of shit. He somberly looked up at the old hollow-core door which read 836, opening the clearly busted deadlock, and stepped inside his apartment.
Inside, the apartment was simple, dirty, but functional. The strange, ugly blue wallpaper, paired with the unfinished drywall patches definitely were an eyesore, but for $200/mo, it was all Ron could afford. An old, orange and brown Madras sofa straight out of 1979; a chipped and stained bookshelf; cheap 1980′s vinyl floor tiles; and a yellowing cloth over the window were the only furniture fixtures in the studio. A grimy, unidentifiably stained mattress sat in the corner, and the small kitchen sat empty. Before Ron could set his bags down, he heard a knock on the door.
He walked over to the eyehole, and saw a beautiful, sexy ebony man smoking a cigarette. His interest instantly peaked, he opened the door, only to get a gigantic cloud of smoke pushed in his face. He fanned the smoke away from his face, only slightly irritated.
“Whassup, son. You new here?” The man’s sexy street accent made Ron shiver, and tent ever so slightly. He nodded, failing to let words out of his mouth. “Cool, dude. Name’s Dion.” Dion sauntered into the room, a trail of smoke following him, masked by a thick veil of Dolce & Gabbana cologne. He plopped himself down on the ratty old sofa, and kicked his big Nike-clad feet up on the armrest. Not knowing what to do, Ron just stood at the door, speechless. “Ay, my nigga. Pass me a 4-Loko.” The sheer swag that this sexy thug emitted made him rock hard, and completely irresistible. Almost as if he had done it before, he walked to the old refrigerator and opened it to reveal a full case of Hurricane 4-Loko, and a half-eaten pizza.
After getting his 4-Loko, Dion downed it in one swig. He crushed the can, and tossed it into the corner, where a pile of cans had mysteriously appeared. “Motherfucker, what the hell you wearin? You wanna get yourself killed?” Ron looked down at his clothes, instantly recognizing what he was talking about. Skinny jeans, a navy sweater, & light brown oxfords... What the fuck was he thinking? “Relax, bro. Just throw on what you wore yesterday.” Ron looked on the ground, discovering the formerly barren floor strewn with dirty laundry. Socks, boxers, shorts... even some condoms by the bed. “Here, take a drag and just chill.”
Ron gingerly walked to Dion, who had his cigarette extended to him. He pinched the white cylinder, and nervously took his first puff. Nothing... Still lounging on his couch, Dion motioned for him to take another bigger drag. Emboldened, Ron inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke invade his lungs, and cloud his sight. Surprisingly, though, no coughing followed as he expected. Just a smooth, consistent exhale, and a big cloud of smoke.
His pants dropped to the ground, exposing toned, and unshaven legs, and a raging boner under his sticky white briefs. “Fuck, Ronnie. Why you always so worked up? Damn.” Ronnie? No one has ever called him Ronnie before... He kinda liked it.
“Yeah, bro. Big cocks have big needs.” Ron clamped his hand over his mouth, shocked at what escaped his mouth. Not noticing his calloused fingers and thick, strong arms underneath the ugly wool sweater. Dion burst out laughing. This freedom to say whatever he wanted felt good, and Ron was starting to let it flow. He tossed off his H&M sweater, and kicked off his pants and shoes. Stripping off his whitie-tidies was the last thing that Ron did. Once he sat down on the couch beside Dion, and began pumping his thick 12′in uncut cock, it wasn’t Ron in the driver’s seat any more. In fact, the streams of sticky cum that shot out of his cock marked the beginning of Ronnie taking the helm.
Smirking as he wiped his cum on some tossed aside boxers, he slipped them on, enjoying that warm, sticky feeling inside them. Dion tossed him a pair of black shorts that were lying on the ground next to him. Sure, he had played ball in them yesterday, along with the still sweat-damp socks he had slipped on, but who the fuck cared? Dion? Hah, those two go way back, all the way back to the hood they grew up in. A little cock juice? Meh. Everyone’s gotta release that tension sometime. Ronnie just has to do it a little more than the rest. Dion was cool, he got it.
Ronnie looked around his new digs, filthy and stinking of sweat, booze, and cigarettes. He snatched a pack out of his pocket, lighting the first in a long line of smoking in his future. Just how he liked it. The crib was for fuckin’ bitches, and layin’ back with the boys. He knew this was his home, and would remain so for years to come.
