The Neighbor Upstairs Waited for Me Every Friday

You woke up on Friday with your body decided before your mind. Your eyes opened on their own at eight, which was unusual for you, since you were the sort to stay in bed until noon, lounging between the sheets like a cat with no reason to get up. But not on Fridays. Fridays, for the past month, were the only day that carried weight, had shape, meant something.

You lay there staring at the ceiling. The damp stains were still there, faithful as abandoned dogs, drawing continents across the peeling textured plaster. The big one looked like a map of Africa. The small one, beside the dead lamp, looked like an open hand or a claw, depending on the mood you viewed it in. That morning it looked like a claw.

You got up. The terrazzo tiles were freezing, that damp cold of Villaverde's semi-basements that sinks into your bones and settles in like a tenant who doesn't pay rent. You went to the bathroom and washed your face with cold water because there was no hot water: the heater had been sounding like a dying airplane for weeks, and fixing it meant going without food for three days. You looked at yourself in the speckled mirror. The same face as always. Dark circles. The long eyelashes your mother said you'd inherited from Andrés, the one from Cáceres, the ghost father who had left you his eyelashes and taken everything else.

In the living room, Rosa was asleep on the sofa with her mouth open and the television on mute. You put the checked blanket over her, refilled her glass of water in case she woke up thirsty, and she didn't notice a thing. You could have sung her a requiem and she would have kept snoring in her broken-metronome rhythm. You had spent years looking after her like that, cooking and lying to anyone who asked that everything was fine, that you ate three times a day, that you were happy. Lying was the only thing you were really good at.

It was quarter to nine. Nine hours to go. Nine hours you had to fill with anything, with the insipid padding of a life that only made sense when you climbed the stairs and knocked twice on a first-floor door.

You went out into the street with your hood up, your shield, the thing that let you walk without anyone looking you in the eye, without anyone noticing that you carried a secret heavier than your own body. The sky was standard gray, catalog gray. You went down the avenue, passing Paco's bar, where he stood in the doorway smoking, his apron stained.

—Hey, kid—he called as you went by. Not because he wanted to talk, but because he said it to everyone under thirty who passed in front of his bar. A social grunt.

—Hey—you answered. And kept walking.

You made laps around the park like prisoners pacing the yard: circles that led nowhere but gave you the illusion of movement. Four laps, one hour. You went home, ate a can of tuna standing up in the kitchen, looking out the window at the inner courtyard. You lay down and tried to sleep but couldn't, because your body was too awake, vibrating at a frequency that was neither anxiety nor arousal but something in between, known only to those who wait for something they desire and fear in equal measure.

***

At quarter past four you got in the shower. The cold water struck you like a thousand needles, but you endured it and soaped your whole body twice, until you smelled of shower gel and nothing else. You dressed in the black tracksuit, the one you saved for days that mattered, and your usual sneakers, whose soles you had cleaned with a rag. At half past five you checked your phone. Saúl's last message was still there, untouched since the previous Friday: “Six o'clock. Don't be late.” Seven days of silence. Because Saúl wasn't your friend, or your older brother, or anything like that. Saúl looked for you when he needed you and ignored you the rest of the time, the way you ignore a screwdriver in a drawer until there's a screw that needs tightening.

But today was Friday. And today there was a screw to tighten.

At exactly six, you set foot on the first step. The worn terrazzo creaked under your sole. You went up without going outside, turned left, and knocked twice on the first-floor door with your knuckles. Two knocks, as he'd told you. Then silence. And then the footsteps: the flap-flap of rubber flip-flops dragging across the floor inside, calculated, measured, the steps of someone who knows he's being waited for and enjoys making you wait. The peephole went dark. He was watching you, deciding, savoring those two seconds in which he could see and you couldn't, in which he owned the moment and you were a dog sitting in front of a closed door.

Click. The door opened.

—Well, fuck me, the Swiss clock—Saúl said, and smiled. That smile showed his teeth but left his gaze cold, like a poker player holding a royal flush and waiting for everyone else to bet everything.

Twenty-eight years old. Six foot. A hundred and eighty-seven pounds of neighborhood-gym muscle, push-ups on the living-room floor and pull-ups on the doorframe bar. Shaved at the sides, hair slicked back, a thick silver chain across his bare chest, the scorpion tattoo climbing up his side. He smelled freshly showered, of deodorant and, underneath, something older and biological, the smell of a male in his territory.

—Six on the dot. I love that, punctuality—he said, stepping aside with a nod—. Come in.

You went in. The smell of the apartment hit you like a slap: pine air freshener, blond tobacco, freshly made coffee. The place was clean as an operating room before surgery, because that was exactly what Saúl did, set the scene so the client would feel looked after even if he was in a first-floor apartment in Villaverde overlooking a courtyard where Mrs. Remedios's panties hung from the line. The door closed behind you with a click that separated outside from inside, the street from the apartment, your life downstairs from this other thing that wasn't life but a function.

—Have you eaten?—he asked.

The question caught you off guard, not because it was strange but because it sounded human, like something someone who cared about you might ask. But Saúl didn't care about you. He cared about his merchandise, just as a rancher cares about a calf before the slaughterhouse: not out of affection, but for business.

—A fried egg—you said.

—A fucking fried egg? Tete, don't piss me off. Ramón's going to be here for two hours. Do you know how much energy you need to last two hours with that guy on top of you, fucking you bareback? You need fuel, goddammit. That bastard's got a donkey dick and the appetite of a prisoner who's just been released.

He went to the kitchen, took a container from the refrigerator, and put it in the microwave. Rice with chicken, with a garlic-and-paprika sofrito that smelled like a grandmother's house. When it beeped, he set it in front of you on the living-room table with a fork and a glass of water.

—All of it. Every last spoonful. Then get yourself ready.

You ate. Hell, did you eat. It was fucking delicious, better than anything you cooked in the semi-basement, and every mouthful was an injection of energy and something else, the absurd feeling that someone had taken the trouble to cook while thinking of you, even if that someone was your pimp and the trouble was pure investment.

—It's good—you said with your mouth full.

—Of course it's good. In this business, if you don't take care of the product, the product dies. And a dead product doesn't bring in money.

There it was. Product. He had said it without blinking, without quotation marks, without the slightest shame. That's what you were to him: merchandise that had just turned eighteen, traded on Villaverde's black market like stolen sneakers. You had a price. You had an expiration date Saúl knew better than you did.

***

—Bathroom. You know what to do.

You knew what to do. You went without making him repeat himself, pulled down your tracksuit bottoms, and sat on the bidet with your legs spread, feeling the warm stream rise between your buttocks, enter you, cleaning you out for Ramón. You repeated the operation three, four times, until the water ran clear. Saúl had adapted the sprayer with a finer nozzle, that hygienic liturgy preceding every session like handwashing before surgery. Then you showered, this time with hot water, because Saúl had a working heater: another privilege of the first floor over the semi-basement, social stratification measured in degrees of running water. You scrubbed yourself until your skin reddened, until your body was a neutral surface, a blank canvas on which others were going to write whatever they pleased. You ran your soapy finger over your asshole, dilating it a couple of times, loosening it, because you knew Ramón wasn't going to wait and the cock he was going to put inside you was hardly a beginner's.

Saúl was waiting for you in the bedroom, sitting on the bed in tight black briefs that hid nothing. On the bed lay a plastic bag.

—This is for today—he said, opening it.

A white tank top, made of cotton so thin it showed your nipples. A pair of very short black athletic shorts that left your young legs bare. And underneath, leather underwear with a rear opening, the kind from porn movies, framing your buttocks like an obscene picture and leaving your hole exposed, ready for anyone to use without having to pull anything down.

—Get dressed.

You took off your towel. Being naked in front of Saúl no longer embarrassed you; modesty had evaporated the first night, dissolved like an effervescent tablet. You pulled the cold leather against your still-hot skin, feeling the edge of the opening brush your ass whenever you moved, then the shorts, then the shirt. You looked at yourself in the wardrobe mirror: a kid dressed in someone else's fantasy, nipples showing beneath the cotton, the shorts so short that bending over would expose your crack. Saúl nodded with the satisfied look of a rancher at the animal headed for auction. He stood, came up behind you, and ran his hand over your ass, squeezing it, pushing his thumb through the leather opening and brushing your asshole with the pad of his finger.

—Nice and clean. That's how I like you. Ramón's going to enjoy this, you little bastard.

He withdrew his finger and smelled it, with the clinical naturalness of someone inspecting merchandise.

—Perfect. Ramón will be here in twenty minutes. Sit down and don't touch anything.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands on your thighs. Saúl brought you a tall glass containing something clear and yellowish that stung your nose, and a fat joint, rolled with an artisan's precision. You drank it to the bottom, bitter beneath the sweetness, and took two deep pulls from the joint, holding the smoke until your lungs burned. It was your routine, what you chose yourself so the walls would soften and the fear would dissolve, so you could float three inches above the mattress, the bed, your life. The high came on gradually, like a tide, knocking down walls until your head became an empty room where only the present could fit.

—How do you feel?—Saúl asked, watching you as a mechanic watches an engine he's just tuned.

—Good—your voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking it—. Very good.

—That's how I like you. When he comes in, get on your knees and suck his cock before he has to ask. This one likes being greeted that way, nice and warm. And don't bite him, for fuck's sake—the last time you nearly killed the guy from Parla.

You nodded. You rubbed one hand against the leather of your underwear, feeling your own half-hard cock against the fabric, that familiar contradiction: your body responded even while your mind floated somewhere else. Biology was a traitor that got horny on its own, without asking permission.

***

The doorbell rang. Saúl got up without hurrying and went to the living room, and you heard voices: his and another, deeper one, a distant thunderclap. Footsteps in the hall, two pairs of feet. Saúl appeared in the doorway with the smile of a merchant who knew the sale was closed.

—Kid, this is Ramón.

The man who entered behind him filled the doorway. Tall, massive, shoulders too broad to fit without turning sideways, hands like boxing gloves, shaved head gleaming beneath the bulb. He looked you up and down slowly, assessing the product, and something in his throat made a sound of approval. He left four folded bills on the dresser without counting them. Saúl picked them up, winked at you, and closed the door behind him as he left. You were alone.

—Fuck, what a sweet little thing—Ramón murmured, and his voice made the window glass vibrate—. Come here. On your knees.

You stood and went to him. You knelt on the cold terrazzo in front of him, your eyes level with his fly, your nose almost brushing the denim. He put one enormous hand on the back of your neck, not roughly but without asking permission, and undid his belt with the other. His trousers fell to the floor with the metallic clatter of the buckle. His underwear, gray boxers stretched tight from within, held a bulge that looked like another arm. He pulled those down too, without ceremony, and his cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick as your wrist, crowned by a shiny purple glans pointing toward the ceiling. His balls hung heavy and shaved, dark against the white skin of his thighs.

—Open up.

You opened your mouth. He brought his cock to your lips until the glans brushed them, and you tasted the salty pre-cum, the hot skin, the masculine smell of fresh soap beneath and sweat beneath the soap. Your tongue came out on its own, passing over the glans, circling the rim, following the thick vein running along the underside of his shaft. Ramón gave a low growl. The hand on your neck pushed you forward and his cock entered your mouth, three, four inches at once, filling it completely. You sucked him the way you'd been taught, lips tight around him, tongue working underneath, raising and lowering your head to the rhythm dictated by his hand.

—That's it, you little bastard, that's it. Take it all. All the way in.

He pushed deeper. The glans struck your palate and continued, seeking your throat. You felt the gag rise, tears fill your eyes, drool running from the corner of your mouth, and he didn't stop: he tightened his hand on your neck and drove his cock all the way in, until your nose was crushed against the black hair of his pubic mound. You endured because you had to, breathing through your nose when you could, letting your throat grow accustomed to the intrusion, feeling the tip throbbing inside you. He stayed there for a few seconds, enjoying your choking, then pulled your head back before thrusting in again, and again, and again, fucking your mouth with a slow, brutal rhythm that made you drool like a dog.

—Fuck, what a throat the little bastard has. Swallow it all, swallow.

He pulled his cock out in one motion, shining with your saliva, dripping, and lowered your hands to his balls.

—Suck my balls. One at a time.

You obeyed. You licked his balls, one and then the other, taking them whole into your mouth and sucking slowly while he pummeled your cock with his own heavy, massive hand so he wouldn't lose his erection. Then he hauled you up by the undersides of your arms as if you weighed nothing and threw you facedown onto the bed.

—To the bed.

You lay facedown on the mattress, which creaked beneath both your weights when he climbed up behind you. He yanked your shorts down to your knees and found the opening in the leather already waiting, everything calculated, everything prepared in advance. He spread your buttocks with both hands, opening you completely, and you heard him spit. The hot saliva landed on your asshole, followed by his finger, thick as a sausage, entering and searching, probing inside you.

—Nice and clean and nicely prepared, fuck. I like it when they come having done their homework.

He put in two fingers. He moved them in a scissoring motion, opening you, then added a third, and you gripped the sheet with your fists and breathed deeply, because you knew this was only the warning. He withdrew his fingers, spat again, coated his cock with saliva and the fluid leaking from him on its own, and pressed the glans against your asshole. He pushed slowly, giving you time, and you felt the stretching, the burning, the resistance of the ring giving way millimeter by millimeter while the high made the pain arrive blunt and distant, wrapped in cotton. The head entered with a sharp thrust and you let out a short moan, muffled against the mattress.

—Hold on, kid, hold on. I've only got the tip in so far.

He pushed farther. His cock entered you completely, inch by inch, opening you from the inside like a key forcing a lock, until you felt his balls resting against yours and his pubis pressed against your ass. He stayed still for a moment, letting you absorb the invasion, and then began to move. He pulled almost all the way out, leaving only the glans inside, and drove back into you with a thrust that sent you sliding two feet across the mattress. Again. Again. The bed frame protested with every blow, the wooden headboard striking the wall, his huge hands gripping your hips and pulling them backward each time he thrust, synchronizing you with his rhythm as if you were a rag doll.

—Take that cock, take it. You like dick, you bastard? Tell me you like it.

—I like it—you gasped, your voice muffled against the sheet—. Fuck me.

—Harder. Let me hear you.

—Fuck me, goddammit, fuck me harder.

He sped up. The bed bounced, you clung to the edge so you wouldn't be thrown off, and he pounded into you like a machine, with a brutal, steady rhythm, snorting through his nose. You felt his cock filling you completely, rubbing the places inside that made you release moans you didn't recognize as your own, how your own cock began to leak, trapped against the mattress, hard without your having asked it to be, that same biological betrayal. He reached underneath you, grabbed your dick, and began jerking you off while he kept fucking you, and you pressed your face into the sheet to keep from screaming.

—Well, look at that, the kid's getting horny. You're getting hard, aren't you, you little sneak? You do like cock, you can't hide it.

He turned you onto your back midway through, without pulling all the way out, with a single-handed movement like flipping an omelet. He folded your legs against your chest, pushing your knees back until they nearly touched your ears, and entered again while looking into your eyes, holding you by the hips with those hands that completely encompassed you. From that angle his cock entered differently, deeper, touching something inside you that set your entire spine alight, and you began to moan for real, unable to control it, mouth open.

—That's it, kid, sing for me. Sing about my cock.

He leaned over you, the silver chain hanging and striking your chin, and spat into your open mouth. You swallowed without thinking. He smiled, satisfied, and kept thrusting, deeper, slower, savoring every stroke. With his free hand he squeezed your nipples through the thin cotton of your shirt, twisting them until a whimper escaped you. He lowered that hand to your cock again, grabbed it, and jerked you at a rhythm that went against his own, deliberately, to drive you crazy. Pleasure and vertigo mingled until you could no longer separate them, as they had been fused for some time.

—Come, bastard, come first. I want to see your face.

He didn't need to repeat himself. Your orgasm rose from your feet, a hot lash running through your entire body, and you came into his hand and across your own white shirt, spurt after spurt, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut. He laughed, wiped his hand over his mouth, and cleaned it on your belly.

—Tasty. Now it's my turn.

He grabbed your hips with both hands, folded you over again, braced himself on his knees on the mattress with his legs spread, and began fucking you at a frantic pace, without tenderness, chasing his own release. The whole bed creaked. You let him use you, limp, still pierced by your orgasm, his cock pounding your already surrendered ass. It lasted minutes, perhaps five, perhaps ten, until you heard his growl rising from his chest, a deep roar that reverberated against the ceiling, emptying himself with one final thrust that drove you into the mattress. You felt the hot lash inside you, spurt after spurt, his cock throbbing inside you as he came, and he remained on top of you, heavy and damp, his chest rising and falling against yours as he caught his breath, for a full minute that felt strangely like an embrace, though it wasn't one.

When he pulled out, the exit made a wet slapping sound. You felt his semen running down your thigh, warm and thick. He moved away and watched you for a while, lying on the bed with your legs still spread, your ass shining and your hole open, and made that approving noise in his throat again.

—Rest, kid. We'll go again in twenty minutes.

And he did. Ramón fucked you twice more during those two hours: once on your back against the wall, your legs resting on his shoulders and his cock wrecking your ass again; and once on all fours at the end, gripping your hair with one hand and your hip with the other, pulling you backward as if you were a motorcycle, until he came all over you, across your back and ass, marking you the way an animal marks its territory.

***

Afterward he dressed in silence, ran a hand over his shaved head, and left without saying your name, because he didn't know it and had no need to. Saúl came in, took a look at the mess—you facedown on the stained sheet, the leather underwear shining with saliva and semen, the white shirt turned into a yellowish map—smiled, and nodded with professional pride. He handed you your share—two of the four bills—and told you to shower, that you smelled like Ramón. You did. You got into the hot shower and let the water run down your back and your sore ass, carrying away the residue, while you washed yourself inside again with the sprayer until the water ran clear. You put your black tracksuit back on, left the fantasy clothes folded on the bed, ready for the next client, and went down the stairs to the semi-basement with your body aching and your head still in the clouds.

Rosa was still asleep on the sofa, exactly as before, as if no time had passed for her. You refilled her glass of water. You went into your room, took the shoebox from beneath the mattress, and put the two bills in with the others. You lay on your back and looked at the ceiling, the stains, Africa, the claw, and a new, smaller one you hadn't noticed before, in the corner, shaped like a teardrop.

Seven days until the next Friday. Seven days of silence, solitary fried eggs, and stained ceilings, until the phone vibrated again with two knocks on a first-floor door. And you would go up again. Of course you would. Because going up was what you did, and because beneath the mattress the money was slowly growing, bill by bill, like the only promise anyone in this neighborhood had not broken yet.