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Ass

I wake up to the sounds of the late-trash truck, birds outside our basement window, dogs barking from their yards at the trash truck, and the boisterous chatter of old black women on their way to church. I mean really, who the hell goes to church this early in the morning?? Oh yeah, and my ol’ man is bawling through our apartment for me.

“Well, this is going to be one of those freakin’ days,” I thought to myself.

I can hear my father, annoyingly, bellow through our two bedroom apartment that he gets at a quarter of the price for being the landlord slash Superintendent.

I’m not a complicated person; just your average eighteen year old. I like rock and have a guitar w/ an amplifier that you might be able to hear just outside my room if I turn it all the way up, turn off every light in the house along with every appliance, and open my window. There are posters in my room on one wall of my favorite superheroes from when I was kid, or when I was younger, or however you want to view it. But most of my walls are now covered with hot sultry blonde and red-headed women in either leather bikinis with chaps & calf length boots, or baby-oiled from head to toe on their knees in bikinis in all kinds of positions. And yeah, even the ceiling is wall papered with their bishop-flogging delectable visages. Sue me. I’m eighteen with no girlfriend. I gotta get to sleep somehow.

Anyway, my old man is bellowing for me like we live in the Taj Mahal or something, and I roll out of bed and answer him with a petulant, “What!!”

I throw my lanky legs over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. Did I happen to mention that I’m not the athletic type? Who’d thought? At 5’11” and a solid one hundred and thirty-six pounds I’m not tall enough for basketball and “good ol’ gumption” is not going to get me on the third string of the football team, much less near some cheerleaders, so why bother?

“Get your butt out here!! I got something I need you to do today!” He rumbles.

My dad, is not all bad; just when he’s awake. He’s balding, two-hundred and forty-six pounds and stands 6’2″. I guess I have my mom’s height. I definitely have her black Grecian hair and blue eye color. Don’t ask where she is because I don’t know. Remember when I said my dad wasn’t all bad? Well, that went for when he was ‘young and stupid’ too, as he likes to put it when he talks about my mom.

You see she was a prostitute, new to the country but not so new to life. She knew how to make money and what it took to do so. So while my ol’ man was showering after a particularly gratuitous romp in the hay, he told my mom to get her payment out of his wallet. She did and she also got a good look at his Newark driver’s license. Lucky me.

Nine months later my old man is doing a lady from his tenement when he gets a knock at the door. He answers to find his newborn son in a fruit box lined with blankets. I’m just glad he didn’t name me DuPont.

Anywho, I get dressed and come out of my room in a black Disturbed t-shirt and my best well worn jeans. I see my old man shuffling from the kitchen to the den’s front door. His travel bag is packed and he has his good western shirt, jeans, and lizard steel tipped boots on. I say lizard because they sure as shite ain’t alligator. I see all this and roll my eyes swearing quietly, “Ah, Christ…”

His has that goofy smile on his face because he knows I know what’s coming next. Still all smiles he says, “I’m taking off for the weekend. So you know you’ll have to make the rounds for rent.”

He’s grinning from ear to ear and I edge ever closer to that line when sons and fathers are going to bump heads and lock horns out of sheer stubbornness. I nod in a yeah-yeah kind of way, while he goes over what’s to be expected. Then he hands me the List. I stop in my mental tracks of pushing him off the roof of this building. It’s hanging there from his index finger and thumb. He’s still smiling.

I do the only thing there is to do, I take it hesitantly like I’m expecting him to snatch it back and yell, “Naw, just fukkin’ with ya!” But he doesn’t.

He turns away and gathers his bag, putting it over his shoulder and opens the door. He puts on his cowboy hat and says to me over his shoulder.

“I think it’s about time. I’m getting along in years and some of the tenets in this place have entirely too much energy,” he shakes his head wistfully, and continues. “That’s a young man’s game. I’m going to play one at a time from now on. ‘Till the playin’s done.”

He says the last like he watching something heading off over the horizon knowing its better that It goes, but he’s going to miss It all the same. I see the regret on his face, it’s only there a second or two, but I catch it. He then smiles at me telling his plans for the weekend include Ms. Gonzales.

She’s pretty hot for a lady approaching her late forties, two grown kids and one teen-aged daughter. I remember her daughters and their brother; they were all pretty good to me. Her first girl was old enough casino siteleri that I was cute when she saw me, and the brother was just old enough to be a pseudo older brother from hell. The youngest girl now is maybe a freshman, I think, but she’s smart and goes to a school uptown.

Ms. G comes to collect dad and she is something to look at if you’re into cougars. She has a bit of waist all around but not so much it makes her butt and hips look any less grope-able in her One-Size Too Small jeans. They leave the building, going up the stair to the street and stroll out of sight. I stand in the doorway for a minute, quietly close the door, and then move to sit at the bar separating the kitchen from the den and read the List.

In case it hasn’t come to you, the List is a list of all the tenets that can’t pay their rent on time. Most of them need a three day extension or a ten day extension. It is a list of four or five tenets, all female, all willing, and all know what they might have to do to get the extension they want. And I’m sure you have figured out by now that I’ve never collected from anyone on the List.

I wasn’t old enough and dad told me in no uncertain terms he was not, “‘…going to let any of them worthless mooching whores have an opportunity to call CPS on him for pimping out his boy, just so they can stay in their apartment another month for free in the time it took the owner of the building to find a new landlord.'” End quote.

But I turned eighteen a few weeks ago and I guess dad thought this would be as good a gift as any. I have to say, I’m not complaining.

I check the clock. Crap!! I have thirty minutes before I have to start making rounds. I go shower, brush my teeth and put on deodorant. Collecting rent is never sunshine and roses. The ones on the List are the very last stops on my patrol of the building. I tuck it into my wallet and go by the regular Rent list sent by the city.

People know when the rent is due and they still insist on bullsh*ttin’ the Super. They’ll pull all kinds of crap too. Some will try not to speak English; Hmmph, nice try. Ever hear of Rosettastone? Dad gave me his copy the second I hit middle school.

Then they’ll try to rush out of the apartment past you like they have somewhere to be. Dad taught me how to get past that one too. Wait for an opening, don’t listen to all their quick talking B.S. and then when they’ve locked the door, just reach up and lock the Super’s Lock. It’s 4inch deadbolt. The city came up with it to protect the tenet from thieving Supers and to protect the Supers from swindling tenets.

What we have to do as Supers is let them know, while they are within the sound of our voice, that the door will be locked until they have paid. Many try that, ‘I’ll have the check when I come back’ ploy. You just nod and say, ‘Ok. I’ll unlock it when you put that in my hand.’ Most forget what they have to do and want to be let in to get the check. And if they don’t come out, the cops get called and eviction is immediate. No muss, no fuss.

The lock also keeps whoever might be left inside locked in, so they have to use the fire escape. That never goes over well with granny when she wants her lotto tickets. Those are just some of the problems that go on every month. It’s not all bad. Most pay and are pleasant. Some pay and are not pleasant. And then when all is said and done, its back to the apartment for a quick shower, more deodorant and body spray. Then you take out the List.

By the time the List is to be done, its five o’clock. The first stop is, Ahh! Our cook. Mrs. Burkenborschov. She’s the reason dad and I eat as well as we do. The woman must know 210 ways to cook potatoes. And most of them are not bad. She’s a portly lady about 5’6″ never wears any sort of pants. Whenever I see her she’s in some kind of flower print ankle length dress for the season. Hot, cold, wet or summery, you name it; it’s some kind of dress. She’s closing in on her mid sixties and her hair is in a graying brown ponytail over her shoulder.

I feel kinda weird she’s on the list but, her name is right there in black & white. She greets me with a smile after I’ve knocked, and I read the sidenote dad has left. “Stroke her ponytail if you’re going to eat there. If not just be pleasant and clasp your hands in front of you and wait for the dish.” I let her know why I’ve shown up.

“Hey, Ms. B,” Did I mention her name is harder to say than think of? “I’m here for the rent.”

She stares for only a second then brightens as if I’m an unexpected surprise. I can’t say I like it, because the expression she has is not put-on. She is genuinely glad to hear I’m the collector this month. The only other time I’ve seen genuine elation like this was on one of dad’s girlfriend’s when he gave her tickets to some art gallery in New York.

She, unexpectedly, pulls me into her apartment by the arm. I was going to wait outside the door for my food.

Usually she makes more than she can eat, and her cooking is so good she never slot oyna has a problem dishing a plate if some hungry single drunk comes by at 2 am. Dad and I will get plates maybe twice a week. But when rent’s due, the plate is hot and made just for us for the three or ten day period.

We go down the short hallway and turn right into the kitchen area. She, thankfully, lets me go. I had no plans on sticking around. Ms. B is nice enough, but I’m just not ready to eat here. And I’m eternally grateful there is a guy sitting at her dinning room table, eating a meal and watching some middle European comedy on television. He doesn’t even look my way, but instead is laughing his ass off at the show.

I’d say guy’s a biker except he’s wearing hightops instead of boots. Besides that, he has a bandanna with a skull logo wrapped around his head, his beard is scraggly and touches his chest, the typical tatts are in place on his hairy arms, and the jeans are worn; complete with a chain going from belt loop to back pocket wallet. He’s leaning back from a mostly empty plate and his pants are undone. I just might have interrupted something.

The burly guy notices me at a glance then smirks looking at me over his shoulder. “Where eez Been?” He asked.

It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to me because I was looking at the television. There was a scantily clad tall blonde woman in a red teddy and matching furry slip-on heels trotting across the set to a laugh track. I blinked, startled by his Count Dracula accent and realization I had his attention.

He said my Dad’s name. Though I barely recognized it past the accent. “Oh!! He’s spending the weekend with Ms. Gonzales. I-I’m g-getting the,” I clear my throat and give Ms. B a quick unsure glance, “rent.”

The man’s laugh matches his size and he speaks through a chortle, “Ah! You join!! Yes?” He offers gesturing to another chair at the table. “Come! Been and I ‘eet’ together all the time!!” He laughs and nods at Ms. B. who’s back is turned as she is covering my meal with foil.

All I can think of at that point is, “Woah.”

Ms. B brings me my plate on a heat proof holder. She speaks some kind of Middle European Slavic to the not-biker. He’s not happy with what she says but looks thoughtful and nods once casually. His attention goes back to the television.

It take the glass deep-dish and stand there awkwardly waiting for her to show me out. She doesn’t.

Ms. B stands there looking up at me, Oh god, with a tiny delightful smirk. I’ve seen that look on women in shoe stores downtown. They have it when they pick up the ‘Oh my god I have to try these’ perfect pair of heels.

“Ho boy,” I think, as my own blush crashes in like a tide.

I quickly glance at the not-biker and nod, “Well, I uh…won’t keep you…from your um…company.”

My stammering doesn’t deter her. I think she thinks it’s cute. She steps closer, “Are you sure?” She asked, looking up and through her eyelashes in a slow blink as she strokes my upper arm. “I can remove him.”

Her accent coupled with that look is so husky she could have easily added the words, “…Mr. Bond.” and I’m sure I could not have felt any less flattered or propositioned.

To make matters worse my dick actually stirs like a cat from a nap who has heard something of interest. I physically shake myself and chuckle nervously, sliding away from that touch. I can’t believe I was on the verge of nodding.

Politely I say, “No,no. That’s not necessary. I uh, have to be…hungry-I mean going!! I have to be going…out the door.” I say, finally able to move my feet. “Really. This,” I hold up the meal. “smells excellent…tasty.”

“Oh it is. It may be a bit salty. I love…saltiness.” Her gaze sliding over me; particularly stopping at my crotch and back to my face. I can’t take another one of those sexy eyelash gazes. Is she getting prettier with every look?!? My pulse is thumping. I gotta get outta here!

By now, my dick, thanks to my nervousness and youth, is trying to peek over my belt, “Uh bro! I think this is for me!” It states haphazardly.

I tell him to shut up because we are leaving. This is my ‘first up to bat’ and don’t care that I’m choking, figuratively. I’m not ready ‘those’ kind of relations from someone who could be my ‘Gram-Gram.’ Besides I don’t think any Senior citizen I know has an apparent, judging from the size of her nipples through her blouse and apron, aversion to conventional bras. Really, her boobs are way too big (and squeezable) to be without.

I chuckle again making my way backward toward the door. Is she stalking me!?! Ms.B is smiling and listening while I bumble out excuses and appreciation for the meal. We’re finally at the door. I reach behind myself and nearly cry at the relief of it being unlocked. She leans on the door. Age on her short frame has made her boobs swell past C cups well into double D’s. The real kind that look as if they are 40% of her body mass. The door rest in her cleavage and she gives me one canlı casino siteleri more look and sly smile before closing the door. The look says, “Next time. For certain.”

My dick whines remorsefully, “DooUuude.”

I’m glad I didn’t stroke Mrs. Burkenborschov’s ponytail because I don’t think I can handle her peculiarity just yet. Yes, this sweet old portly lady (that I didn’t know was a Siberian Snow Cougar) has a…”fondness.” I nearly died laughing when dad told me and I still couldn’t believe it. Though I’m not laughing now. You just don’t know by looking at some people.

You’d think that would be an edict to live by, living here for as long as I have, but underage Me has only done the rent thing twice before this. And now I guess Legal Me is on Ms. Burkenborschov’s radar.

Mrs. B has a compulsion, if you eat at her place, to give the man she’s serving dinner to…oral sex…while he eats! That’s right! You get the best Borscht made in the western hemisphere while getting the best Brains in the building. Head-Dome for home-made doughnuts, and Deepthroat for deep-dish Greenbean Cassarole. The kicker is that Mrs. B. wears dentures, top & bottoms. If it wasn’t for the other four tenets, I might have rustled up the nerve.

I go back to our apartment with the dish and enough to eat for the next three days and have dinner. Thankfully my stomach out ranks my dick. And though the margin is infinitesimal, it is enough. I eat my dinner before I head to the next tenant on the list.

Six o’clock. I take my time eating and then use the stairs to get to my next collection. The June sun is still high in the sky, and next on the list is Ms. Black. She’s a late sexy twenty something that is staying in the better apartments on the top two floors. I can’t imagine why she would have trouble paying on time. She’s also single and is a corporate headhunter that thought the apartment was “quaint”, despite it was three times as big as any two apartments downstairs. This performance, however, wouldn’t require any decoration advice on my part. I just had to act my part.

You see, Ms. Black tells people what to do all day, every day, and she gets tired of being the one always calling the shots. She’s in total control of herself, twelve assistant headhunters, and their four hundred employees for twelve hours of the day, four days a week. Today is Friday, she only worked six hours.

My job, dad’s side note says: “is to treat her like absolute street trash…that’s been used by a homeless person.” All I have to do is get a good headstart off the blocks, and we all get what we want. The trouble is-she intimidates the hell out of me.

She’s the type whose fiery red hair has a flawless sheen, cosmetics flawless, body…you guessed it, flawless. Her skin, while freckless, is salon tanned giving it a ruddy pink tint. Her tits are B-cup boarding on C-cups, and in their glorious roundness jiggle delectably with each subtle movement. (For some reason tight bras are not part of the woman’s wardrobe.) The perfection of her long smooth legs is matched by equally clear grass green eyes that produce a glare that could make a clown cry. In short, we exist in two entirely different worlds.

My heartbeat ramps up to just below a Kentucky Red’s pace on the last lap of the Derby. I take a breath, and steel my face into my best annoyed expression and knock calmly. Once I knock and can hear her coming to the door at slow leisurely pace. Even through the door her heels sound expensive. I have to remind myself that she’s on the top floor, alone and away from the other tenets. And this will be part of her getting an extension.

Gawd, how dad does this, I’ll never know.

She opens the door and I’m startled for a split second. She has her stilettos on for sure, but… that is all. She’s in a very sheer transparent robe. There is nothing between her and me but space, nylon pink and furred cuffs and hem. I look into her beautiful face…and the bitch has the nerve to look down at me like it was so not worth the walk to the door!

“You smell like one of those street vendors in Little Russia.” She sneers in a voice that would be sublime for phone sex if it were not for the icy contempt.

It’s all I need to get into role.

I ask her, deadpan, for the rent. Her eyes go wide for a second with palpable uncertainty. For some reason I can’t describe, that reaction pisses me off more. And I think it’s because I know she has the rent! I push the issue by taking that one step that puts me in the apartment. Now I’m breaking the law for sure. My boldness and her uncertainty makes her take an unconscious step back. It dawns on me, while her eyes dart from sided to side as if she’s searching for words…

“This is someone not used to making excuses.” I realize as confidence floods me, it steadily flees her as quickly as doves would an open cage.

Wow, she should hang out downstairs more; some of those people can’t breathe unless they tell at least one lie in the day. I demand the rent again in two words and end the phrase with her name in clipped fashion. The indication is clear that her day will not go well if she makes me wait a moment longer. Her mouth works but nothing comes out.

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