Date: Wed, 3 Oct 2007 20:21:04 -0400 From: math wreck Subject: From Below the Door I admire those Niftywriters who refuse or neglect to place moral disclaimers above or around or all over their stories. So I'm gonna be one of them cool guys. If you have an opinion on my story, I'd love to read it at anexperimat@gmail.com. I've been reading Nifty since I was 13, so I guess I consider these my "thank you" stories not only to all of the talented writers I've read over the years but also to the Nifty Archive itself, which was (and is) an undeniably awesome resource for a lonely gay kid like myself. Enjoy. From Below the Door Slipping my eyes under the door, my face can feel the light soggy carpet where he stepped, wet soles from the rain. Big steps, big steps. In my narrow view, there are his twisted feet and ankles, legs wrapped around one another at the base of my toilet. This is my apartment and he's in my bathroom. His legs untangle. This is how he sits. Those feet are Converse-clad, which I can now see being brought up sideways with his pale hands, popping one soggy shoe off, grunting at its tight burden. He didn't bother to unlace this one. The space under my door is about an inch in height. He lets the first shoe fall nearby, simultaneously allowing his now free leg to drop to my small rug. His toes dig into the material when he grunts to remove the other, which lands with a thud as it misses the rug. More wet laminate. Great. His toenails on this right foot have been given clear attention, despite his entire foot missing the attention of a sock. My body is spread neatly alongside my wall, head dug low into the carpet he was careful enough to trample over on his way to the bathroom. His feet are now separate and flat as through my heavy heartbeats I can hear him shift his upper body and sigh. My vision only extends as far as his lower knees, and the seat of my toilet, where he's sitting with the lid closed. Soaking my toilet seat. Those knees are trapped in wet denim jeans whose folded edges are skimming the tops of each cold foot. Earlier, he offhandedly commented about how he only likes to wear girl jeans. You know, because they seem to fit him better. "Finally" I think, as I hear him stand up and shuffle those youthful arms of his, unfortunately out of my sight. I can hear him zip his hoodie down, and I can see its sleeves dangling first from his hands, and now from on top of my clothes hamper. I can guess that the next step is to peel off his shirt. Everything is soaked and sticking, and if I hold my breath at the right times, I'm be able to hear everything being removed as his second skin. The rain is still pelting my windows. He plops that black band shirt down onto more free laminate, this time close to the door. It almost threatens to obstruct my perverted view. Oh...I mean, "Gee...I hope he doesn't slip..." The next step is inevitable, and lucky for me, lower. The zipper of those girl jeans is being pulled delicately down as I hear the familiar pop of his button come loose. Standing prone in my poor view until now, I watch his feet and ankles squirm from side to side and now I can see his thumbs come into view. His pants are scrunching around those ankles as he wiggles himself and pushes them down, presenting his meager strain to himself with his brief guttural *oomphs*. The sticky quality of the water to his shivering skin won't let him just drop them, so he stops only when the tips of his thumbs touch the cheap rug below. He is very thorough. Popping each appendage out of those former constraining loops, now dilapidated on my bathroom floor, he settles and pauses after kicking them away. Nice. I assume by the direction of his feet that he's giving himself a gaze in my mirror. I can hear skin on slowly drying skin shift and course along somewhere I can't see. If there was a better view, I'd take it. Mine is a second story apartment, close to the "industrial" part of town. The only thing my tiny bathroom window can see is a high atop view of a wood processing plant's small parking lot and adjacent woods. This sad slit below the door is the only other place to- "Hey! You got any-" Suddenly that door knocks me square in the nose. "Ow!" My hands travel instantly to the smashed area, which my fingers now feel is bleeding. The door stopped where my nose once was, but I'm reeling back now, totally surprised at the pain. "Oh shit man..." He slips through the space that remains as I eye him from my floor, clad only in black, skin-tight boxer brief- Oh shit. "Are you alright?" He bends down after taking a step to my sad, curled position in my own apartment. "Ah...I'm fine" My eyes are darting everywhere but at him. My cheeks, like my nose, are flaring up red. Luckily it's coming on evening and there are no lights on out here. "Here, let me see" I stop moving when he gently places his fingers over the cup I had made with my hands, and pulls it away. "Jeez man..." My eyes are clamped shut. I'm such a douche, I think. He just caught m- "BRB" He abruptly gets up from his bare knee and scuttles into the bathroom. I can hear my medicine cabinet pop open as I snap back in control and turn myself to sit upright next to the door. "Ugh....The real victim taking care of the Peeping Tom". With my bathroom door further ajar and now settled against my outstretched left leg, he comes out and takes a big step around the door to suddenly appear, his almost-nude form directly in front of my bleeding, sorry face. The swelling in my nose can't match the swelling that been built up for this, somewhere else. I'm brave enough to glance up at his face, which has taken this sort of "mother-knows-best" look to it. So he's smirking, standing over his clumsy child who's hurt again. In his hands hold my never-opened bottle of rubbing alcohol (100% by volume), a handful of cotton balls, and three bent band-aids, almost crumpled between his fingers. "Man, you're medicine cabinet is mess. I just grabbed what I saw." Clearly. He strolls over to my right side ,opposite of the door, and bends down once again. To tend to his wounded pervert. I'm just waiting for the question to arise. He can't hold out teasing me with it forever, my beet-red cheeks and pounding heart bet on it. He drops his collection between my legs, very close to my crotch and my well...obvious excitement. I'm wearing jeans like he was, though...but they're BOY denims... "Hmph." He's looking at me looking away from him. In the corner of my eye, I see his dazzling smirk light up again. "But you sure do have some interesting stuff in there..." He's now picking through his pile of supplies over my right leg. "I mean, I only got a little chance to look..." He picks up the rubbing alcohol, brings it to his chest and frees the cap with some lip-pursing effort. I finally eye him and his actions. He notices and looks down. "Hah" he laughs "Now why would I need this?" He twists the cap back on and drops it next to my lap, now eyeing the rest of his find. "Well now, we can't use a damn thing here, can we?" I am bleeding from the inside of my nose. "Well maaaaaybe..." He picks up one of the crumpled band-aids and tears it open, quickly peeling through the annoying plastic with delicate and deft fingers. Before I know it, he has it by both sticky ends, wrapping it under my septum and over the sides of my nostrils, preventing me from comfortably breathing there. "Haha. Maybe that'll help!" I guess this is what I deserve, at least. I'm looking stupefied, I know it. "Hmph." His hands pull back from his creation and they rest on his knees, one of which is propped up where his chin is now resting. He is very close to me. "I was just gonna ask you where your towels were. I wanna take a shower." He pauses. "Even if it already looks like I have." It's then that I notice his hair, matted down and stringy, almost touching his eyes in the front. It's black but looks even darker in the dim light of my apartment. It makes a frame of his boyish face, with long wild sideburns stretching to the onset of his jawline. Tracing this line slowly with my eyes, I eventually lead myself then from his chin up to his lips, which are blood red and wide. I travel up further, my vision graced with his gentle and unbroken nose, and circling to spin in his alluring light blue eyes. These are not the deep blue oceans that one might find in a well-written piece of gay fiction. No, they're hard and impenetrable. Smaller pupils than I've ever seen are trapped inside the irises that seem to revolve around their dark pinhole of a center. It's the twirl of this hypnotist who is suddenly snapping his fingers and calling me awake again. "Dude...You alright?" I think I'm blankly staring at his ear now, I don't know, the way everything is twirling. I feel like I'm on autopilot. "Yeah, you can take a shower." I blankly blurt. "Towels are in the closet, in the middle of the hall." I point past the bathroom door. My zombie-like self drops my hand to the floor. "Al...alright..." he says "as long as you're OK..." Aww, how sweet. Who is this kid again? He's long gotten up from his prone status by my side to search for one of my clean towels. I'm still sitting there idly, quite bewildered. Why can't I move? Why won't I tell him to leave before things get any more weird? Why won't he call me out on trying to see him getting undressed for fuck's sake!? My mind is reeling when suddenly his head pops from the adjacent, still propped-open bathroom door, fingers gripping the edge. My vision focuses and slowly aims up to meet the object of my hypnosis. "Hey," he says, "thanks." Suddenly the head disappears and the door swings to shut itself again. I finally work up the nerve and control to pick my dying body up from my floor over to the couch on the other side of the room. I plop down, staring forward. After a beat, I hear my toilet lid almost smack the back of the seat. I shift and turn my body, laying myself out longways on my couch, now giving the ceiling a good stare. I always felt bad for my friends or family members when they came over. Anybody in the next room could hear them pissing so well, or worse. That's why I avoided going altogether when people were over, if I could help it. I mean, the plant nearby knew me just from being one of the resident tenants, so using their bathrooms once in a while was no big deal. I've even gone in the woods a few ti- On that note, I hear loud splashing noises from the bathroom with an accompanying "urrrgggghh". It was an unmistakable set of sounds, but I couldn't laugh. If the kid had to go, he had to go, and it was none of my business to care or give attention. More scattered splashing. Oh jeez. I'm not going to laugh. I'm now the person who has to hear another's private business and it's my responsibility to maintain a respectable attitude. This is exactly the kind of situation I hate being in, so I need to- "G....aahh...aaahhhhhhhhhhhh!" A bit of moaning from the boy in my bathroom with some final urgent blasts from his behind. I gotta get that room soundproofed. For my own comfort as well as for the consideration of oth- "Yo!" he suddenly calls out "You got any more man-douches!?"