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This is a work of fiction. My experiences and likes influence all my writing, so there might be a nugget or two of truth somewhere within, but don't worry, it's carefully hidden... Any similarity with actual people or places is entirely coincidental or accidental.
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Knowing me, this story probably involves sex between adult men, or will at some point. There is often a lot of crude stereotyping, role play, nasty and demeaning language and other things that might be called kinky, weird, or just plain ignorant. If any of this offends you, please leave now.
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If you are underage or if reading this is illegal where you are for any reason, please leave now.
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Your feedback is welcome and appreciated. ---------------------------------------------------------
I glanced around the room and then closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
They say the sense of smell is the first sense we really develop, and the last one to leave us as we age. Regardless, scent has always been a powerful force for me. Many of my strongest memories were triggered by - or anchored by - a certain scent or fragrance.
The sweet, artificial smell of the laundry detergent that hit me each time I passed the front door of my childhood home. Being awakened by the pungent smoke from my college roommate's cigarettes when he predictably fired one up in the middle of the night. The salty sweat of my first lover. The delicate but distinctive trace of powdery perfume my mother left in her wake, just as her mother did. The stale bleach smell of the cheap motel bathroom where I got drunk the first time and spent the night passed out on the cold tile floor. The cloying aroma of the hyacinths I gave my first elementary school girlfriend on Valentine's Day, the same day she broke up with me.
Some of these scent memories are good, others not.
And then there's the smell of this room. The scent of an elevator cab from so many years ago. The scent of him, stretching forward from the past to today.
I'm now in my early 50s, rich and alone. I look older than I am, thanks to the wondrous drugs that stunned my cancer into remission. My illness didn't make me cling to the usual things like friends and family. Once I began to feel better I flung those people away like I did so many of my earthly possessions. Decluttering. Reprioritizing.
This is a secret room, accessed only from a hidden door. I designed the house, and this room, myself. My sanctum sanctorum. If you knew me - the new me - this room would strike you as odd. The rest of my small but bespoke home is modern and minimalist - almost harshly devoid of decoration or even much in the way of comfort. But this small, windowless room is ringed from floor to ceiling with neatly stacked boxes in a riot of colors and designs. Some were propped open, but not really to display their contents. Most had never even been opened; and most of them never would be.
I opened my eyes and looked towards the one box set apart from the rest. I reached down and removed a shoe from this special box. I traced my fingers across the leather, the rubber heel, the cloth of the strings. I examined it carefully, turning the shoe over and over in my hands, as if looking for something I hadn't been able to see the other thousand times I performed this ritual. And then I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. And I remembered. I remembered him.
Twenty-five years ago I got a dream job. I had worked in profitable but comfortable corporate jobs since graduation, but suffered from a restlessness that no doubt came from living and working less than a half hour away from where I grew up and went to school. I needed to break away, to get out and see the world. And I got lucky. Really lucky. For me it was almost like winning the lottery.
Not only was my new job in a glamorous, bustling capital city, but it surprisingly and inexplicably came with free housing. And not just any dull corporate apartment, but a top-spec, high-ceilinged penthouse in the very best part of town. When I entered the building lobby the first time, I was awed by not only the scale of the place, but the marble, polished wood, and mosaics. It gave off a part ancestral castle, part Old World art museum vibe, and I was immediately in love. Had I not been stupefied by my good luck, I would have pinched myself. I had arrived.
The one anachronistic holdover in this otherwise thoroughly modernized building was the seemingly ancient and tiny wrought iron elevator. Other than seeing them in old movies, this was my first experience with an old-fashioned manual elevator, and one with a 24/7 attendant to operate the controls. I guess the building owners thought this antique elevator was quaint, but to me it seemed excessive. I couldn't imagine how much the building spent on the attendants each year.
And that's where I first met him: in the elevator the day I moved in. Although "met" is perhaps too strong a word for our interaction.
As the elevator whooshed to the ground floor, the metal grid of the door retracted under the effort of a young, fit man, ornately dressed in the building's staff livery uniform. I paused at the open doorway, unsure if I just walked in or needed to wait for clearance to board. After a few seconds I realized no guidance or instruction was forthcoming, so I slowly walked past the attendant and entered the wood paneled, velvet-tufted elevator car.
"Good morning," I said as I walked aboard. "I'm Jeff Vantyne. My first day here!" I continued cheerfully, extending my hand towards the young attendant who wasn't even looking in my direction.
"Good morning. What floor, sir?" came his response without even looking my way, in a deep, clear voice that you would swear came from a man a foot taller and 30 years older.
"Top floor, I think," I mumbled, quickly reviewing the paperwork to find a reference other than Penthouse A.
"I'm sorry, sir," he deadpanned, still not even looking in my direction. "No one lives on the top floor."
"Oh..." came stumbling out. "Are you sure?" I asked, in what must have been the stupidest question anyone ever asked an elevator attendant in a low-rise apartment building. "I'm Penthouse A, so top floor, I'm pretty sure..."
"Sixth floor," he announced, sliding the door grid closed and still not making eye contact with me.
I looked around the elevator cab as the attendant pulled an unlabeled lever and we began our slow ascent. Refurbished and immaculate but old-fashioned in decor, with a flush beaded chandelier and plush dark carpeting, I imagined this was what Queen Victoria's elevator would have looked like. And that scent in the air. What was it, I wondered, not quite able to pin in down.
This ancient elevator was glacially slow, so after scanning my surroundings my eyes were drawn back to the attendant. He was maybe an inch taller than me, coming in around 5'11" or 6 feet. He was fit, convincingly filling out his over-the-top gold-roped and crested livery pants and jacket. His dark locks of braided hair came down to his collar, and even his forehead and eyes were obscured by the fringe of shorter locks hanging haphazardly in front. "Insolent hair," I remember my unreformed and reactionary grandmother calling dreadlocks years ago, in response to the more poetic but equally unsympathetic "Medusa head" comment from my grandfather. I guess his hair was a rather provocative look in contrast to his gaudy but traditional livery, especially since I was pretty clean-cut and conservative myself at the time. But his braided hair wasn't what really stood out.
His high-top sneakers really looked out of place. They were spotless and mostly white leather, but with a bright logo and contrasting trim. Only sequined heels would have been more incongruous. I wondered how his managers let him get away with such non-traditional footwear.
After what seemed like several awkward minutes the elevator silently came to a halt and the attendant opened the lattice work door. A posh, gleaming lobby beckoned.
"Sixth floor," he repeated, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.
I forgot about him momentarily and walked on to the sixth floor landing. But just as I crossed the threshold I remembered my manners, turned to the attendant and said "Thank you, Mr..." I assumed he would offer me his name.
Never looking at me, he replied "Thank you, sir" and pulled the door closed. Seconds later the car descended in silence.
What an odd ball, I thought. Professional, but unyielding. Technically polite, but the emphasis was on technically. But I quickly refocused on the task at hand and opened the door of my palatial apartment for the first time.
The first couple of months flew by. I went to the office from 9ish to 4ish most weekdays, meeting my colleagues and learning the ropes. Two months in and I wasn't sure exactly what I was supposed to be doing; I wasn't even clear what my employer actually did. Consulting? Whatever we did made a lot of money and paid for fancy offices and fashionable employees. Considering how little actual work I had performed, my own salary was incomprehensible.
But I was enjoying my new city, my new gym less than a block away, and the lively restaurant and bar scene within walking distance. I even started visiting my local gay bar on Friday and Saturday nights, which is something I would never have contemplated back home. I even went on a few dates with guys I met at the bar, and had a few more hookups. Nothing serious developed, and I don't just mean romantically. I just kept positive and enjoyed the change of scene, considering myself blessed and trying to take advantage of those blessings.
I didn't make many friends, though. Most of the people in my office were a lot older than me. The same was true of the other folks who lived in my building. I saw the same 10 residents over and over again, half of whom had to be in their 70s; but even those few residents only seemed to appear sporadically. I think most of the apartments were vacant. Even the building staff were old, except for my be-dreaded elevator attendant. He worked 7am until 7pm Monday through Saturday. As far as I know, he never missed a day of work. And I would have noticed. The assortment of old men who had the elevator night shift were far less interesting.
At both the office and my apartment, everyone was quiet and discreet. It was almost eerie at times. Other times it was just dull.
I could have happily gone on like this for years probably, but then things started changing at work. There were whispers of mergers, of big changes on the horizon. The already quiet and reserved people I worked with retrenched even more. And before I knew it, they announced that everyone was to work remotely while they searched for different office space. Dull coworkers aside, there was something about my brief little daily commute that kept me going. I still wasn't doing much actual work, but at least there were occasionally people to see and talk to in the office.
Once I was at home all day the boredom really became oppressive. I would push for more work to try and keep myself busy, but the others were so worried about the future and mergers and changes that questions and requests from me just seemed to frazzle my bosses, and then just get flat out ignored. I started going to the gym twice a day, and made it a priority to go out for lunch and dinner each day. I had to get out of my palace. It sounds silly, but it really started to feel more like a gilded prison than a home.
But going out in my neighborhood started to become boring too. All the restaurants and bars near me were posh and beautiful, as were their patrons and staff. But those upscale places were also unmistakably sterile deep down. And, as I came to learn, so too were all those posh and beautiful people filling them.
Even my neighborhood gay bar became boring. The same stereotypical people putting on the same phony airs started to bore and frustrate me. Many nights I linked up with imminently fuckable guys. The sex was usually good, but there was zero connection. I started to wonder if I was the artificial one - if I was the one who was out of sorts in this world.
I started going to the gym three times a day, mainly just to get out of the house. Sometimes I would just sit around listening to the news or watching television, or I would walk at a brisk 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill just to keep myself awake.
I also opened myself up to a broader buffet of sex - and not just on weekends - praying for something to stoke my interest. Top. Bottom. Switching. (Mild) kink. Groups. Leather. Bi. I stopped caring about what they looked like. I became a slut. I tried being rude and aggressive. I tried being demure and submissive. But still I was bored. Everyone and everything just started to seem so vanilla and shallow and... and... lacking, somehow.
I was in my mid-twenties, in the best shape of anyone I knew, and was pretty dang handsome. I had no problem finding folks to share a bed, no matter what I was looking for or when. But it just wasn't enough.
But enough of my whining... There's a mysterious young elevator attendant who's about to provide the focal point I've so desperately needed...
The one person I saw more than any other was my boy in the elevator. Sometimes dozens of times per day. He never wavered from his script. Always formally polite, but never engaging. He would announce the floor we were going to and repeat his announcement when we arrived, despite the fact that he had to know where I lived and know that I never went to any other floors. I think if I had asked him the time, or his favorite color, he would have replied "Thank you, sir."
He never changed.
But then again, I never opted to take the stairs either...
I started amusing myself by fantasizing about getting him to react. Farting in the elevator. Taking my pants off. Singing. Trying to give him a bear hug. Of course I never did any of that, but I did laugh to myself over those daydreams. Once I intentionally made out with this gorgeous little guy right there in the elevator, and made it as obvious as I could. I was grabbing his ass, pressing him against the wall, and sucking face as loudly and crudely as possible. Not a peep. The attendant never even turned his head.
Of course I realized he probably wasn't into dudes, and all my shenanigans probably grossed him out more than anything else. So, eventually I gave up trying to goad him, at least for a while. Instead, I started paying attention.
This guy may not possess an infinite collection of athletic shoes, but he rarely wore the same pair of sneakers twice. Nothing else about his appearance seemed to change, but he had the most eclectic and colorful collection of sneakers you could imagine. Green suede. Blue leather. Pink cloth. Highs. Lows. Mostly white leather with colorful elements. And they were all perfect. Not a smudge or speck of dirt.
This is coming from a guy who's worn the same gray running shoes since I was a teenager. Not the same pair, of course. But I always bought the same style, same brand. I've always been a clothes hog, especially now; but shoes were just never my thing.
But shoes were important to him. Important enough that he was able to get away with wearing all those wild sneakers in the midst of all the fussy formality of our building.
Sugary sweet politeness didn't get through to him. Questions didn't budge him. Hell, I almost fucked a guy in his elevator just to get him to notice me. It was time for Plan B.
I went to the mall. I went to every one of the athletic shoe stores I could find, night after night. And I asked the young clerks what the coolest and rarest and dopest shoes were and I bought every fucking pair I could find. I bet I spent a couple thousand in under a week, and was having more fun than I'd had in years. I traveled further afar to some of the specialty shops and bought the rarer and more expensive sneakers. I ordered collectors edition shoes from overseas. I went from one pair of running shoes to an impressive collection in a matter of weeks.
While shoe shopping and building up my collection at home something clicked in my head. The smell. The distinctive smell of the elevator. It was his shoes. The elevator smelled like an athletic shoe store. It wasn't polished wood or plush carpeting that perfumed that elevator cab. It wasn't even cologne, which normally hovers around young guys (myself included, sometimes...) like a thick cloud. It was leather, rubber, foam, and God knows what else they make shoes out of.
This realization fascinated me, but I had no idea why. I felt like a private investigator researching a mysterious person of interest. All of that makes zero sense when I recall it now, but I was bored before. And then I wasn't.
And I was about to put on a damn show.
Other than my nighttime shopping expeditions, all I ever did was go to eat and to the gym. And now I had a purpose for those daily trips. I had to show my elevator guy my new shoes. And I was relentless.
He noticed my shoes. There was no way he could have missed it. I even started wearing plain gray sweats and track bottoms just to make sure nothing distracted him from my new shoes.
I didn't say anything new to him. The same "Good morning" and "Good afternoon" with a big smile on my face. No reaction, at least not that I could tell.
Bear in mind I couldn't really see his eyes. Those uneven dreadlocks dangling over his forehead made it impossible to see his eyes, especially with his face pointing ever forward. To see his eyes I would have had to stop, stand in front of him and stare. That seemed too bold to me then. I would grope a twink's crotch in front of him and make out like a whore in heat, but I wasn't ready to look him in the face. Not while he refused to look at me.
Just to be sure, I would flaunt my shoes whenever possible, giving him ample opportunity to notice. I would hike one of my shoes up to the railing along the cab walls and pretend to give them an inspection. And I tied my shoelaces so many times in the elevator that even a fool could tell what I was doing. No one's shoes could possibly come untied that often. It was even more brazen than that time in college that I wore shorts that were two sizes too small and kept bending over so my studly suite mate would lust after my fat ass. The tight shorts worked a lot faster though, although in fairness the 6-pack of beer helped too.
I progressed my greetings to him a bit during this period, adding the friendly and non-objectionable "how are you?" to the usual "good morning" or "good afternoon." But still nothing.
I tried buying the same shoes as him, if nothing else to prove I was paying attention. Nothing.
My bizarre obsession with the elevator attendant kept me occupied. He gave me something to do. He was my project.
I wanted him to notice me. I'm honestly not sure what else I wanted from him then. I wasn't aware of sexual attraction to him, at least not consciously. Did I just want his attention? I don't know if I wanted to hug him, or have deep conversations with him, or crack jokes with him, or go for long walks with him. I didn't know if I wanted to have dinner with him, much less marry him and live happily ever after. But he was the one person I saw more often than any other, and he totally ignored me. And my spare bedroom was filling up with boxes and boxes of shoes I hated but kept buying and wearing just for him. It was driving me crazy, or crazier perhaps...
Just as my freakish, stalker behavior started to seem a little silly even to me, I had an unexpected breakthrough. Dropping thousands of dollars at shoe boutiques did get store managers to notice me, even if my elevator attendant didn't know I existed. One day I got a call and an offer to purchase a very rare and expensive limited edition pair of sneakers. These were a collaboration between some musician and artist, neither of whom I had heard of. The shoes were only available in a half-size too small and cost as much as a small car. Naturally, I said "yes" immediately.
A few days later I made my move. On my first outing of the day I donned these uncomfortably tight and frankly rather ugly limited edition sneakers and pressed the "Down" call button. As I slowly entered the elevator cab, I thought I noticed his head moving to follow me. "Good morning, how are you?" I asked, as usual. With planned patience, I walked to the end of the cab and slowly turned around. As I did I saw him quickly lift his head to return to his usual straight-ahead pose.
I knew something was up when he didn't immediately close the elevator door and begin our descent. He paused. Like the practiced attention-whore I had become, I hiked one of the shoes up to the railing and did my typical fake inspection. Shameless.
"Nice kicks," he said, which was the only personal thing I had ever heard him utter, as he slid the door to the cab closed and did his thing with the controls. I swear I almost came in my pants right then and there.
"Thanks," I blubbered out, with a smile like a kid who just got a compliment from his lifelong sports hero. I don't remember if I said anything else on that trip down, or if he did. I was a bundle of nerves and excitement and surprise.
I walked to the gym and immediately took off the increasingly uncomfortable sneakers. I sat them on the table in front of me and just marveled at them. I'd never loved a piece of clothing or accessory more.
My dick was hard the whole time, but I didn't care.
I waited the appropriate amount of time at the gym and then headed back to my building. The attendant pulled open the door as I approached. "Good morning, how are you," I asked again, this time wondering if I might get a different response.
"Sixth Floor," was all he said as he closed the door and we began our climb.
I was a little disappointed, but more nervous than anything else. I don't know what I was expecting, or what I had any reason to expect from him. I wasn't in the mood to show off anymore. I just looked at him, anxiously but directly. He never turned his head.
Excruciating seconds passed, and about midway through our painfully slow journey to the sixth floor I heard his voice again.
"I didn't know you were a fan of Martian."
I don't know what the fuck he said, or whether it was Martian, or Martin, or Marshall or even Mickey Mouse.
"Uh, fan of... uh...," I nervously and unsteadily blubbered out, a bit too loudly.
"Martian," he said again, still looking directly ahead. "The collab. Those limited edition sneakers. I didn't know you were a fan of Martian."
"Oh yeah," I said with renewed fake confidence. "I've been a fan of his music for years, man." I surprised myself at how cooly I was posing, shooting the shit with my new hip buddy.
He pulled the unmarked lever that stopped the elevator as we reached my floor, and slid the door back, still looking straight ahead.
"Sixth Floor," he announced, as always.
Good progress on getting to know him, I thought to myself, almost giddy. I've finally made a connection with this dude.
As I walked past him I was surprised to hear his voice again.
"You mean 'her' work, sir."
Well, FUCK, my mind raced...
"And Martian isn't the musician, she's the artist."
I swear I could sense the "gotcha" in his tone, thinly veiled.
I froze. It took every bit of self control I possessed not to turn and look at him, or frankly to run away like a little girl.
"Oh, yeah...thanks. Martian, that's right... Damn good artist," I stuttered out, not even convincing myself.
In the fraction of a second I was frozen there in front of him, I was kicking myself for not doing some research on the goddamn shoes I had spent so much money on, or at least trying to remember the basics about what the shoes represented. I was so embarrassed I almost pissed in my pants right then and there.
Somehow I remembered how to walk and exited. I was headed towards my apartment door, when I noticed I hadn't heard the elevator door close or begin its descent.
I couldn't help myself. I looked back.
"Thank you, sir," he said, pulling the door shut. He was looking directly at me. With an unmistakable smirk on his face.
I fumbled my way into the apartment, ran to the bathroom and threw up in the commode.
----- ----- ----- NOTE TO READERS: Thanks for reading this story. I don't know where this tale is going exactly, or even how long it will be. I know it's going to be about the interactions between Jeff and the elevator attendant, and I have a roughly defined arc in mind already. As you can tell by now, this is also more of a slow burn. Knowing me, it will probably get nasty at some point; but also knowing me, if you're looking for a sexcapade you'll probably die of boredom or angst in the interim(s).
Any and all feedback is welcome. Questions are welcome, as long as you understand I may not be able to answer. Suggestions are welcome, as long as you understand I may not incorporate them. I have so many of my own ideas I have to ignore first...