The building was a relic of the pre-war, and old row house six floors high, now made into twelve apartments, its yellow facade a faded mask over the cramped reality within. The lower city was just this, row houses in yellow, orange, red.
Sami, the third floor apartment’s self-appointed patriarch and its only legal resident, paced the worn linoleum, his voice a sharp rasp in Arabic. “Karim, move your shit off the couch!” Constantly tidying up and cleaning, making reproaches at the other guys, he saw himself as a provider, a protector, offering shelter to those who had none, but the constant chaos grated on his nerves.
Around him, the other five inhabitants shifted and shuffled. Nasser, his dark skin slick with a sheen of sweat, sprawled on the floor, his fingers deftly rolling a joint, his mind calculating the week’s profits against the month’s expenses. Reda, his gaze distant, sat by the grimy window, ignoring a half-eaten kebab. Tarek, his lean muscles flexing beneath a stained tank top, postured in a corner, reliving a job-site brawl, bragging to Adel, the youngest, who had whined about the oppressive heat all summer long, a constant counterpoint to Tarek's self-aggrandizement. Karim, his eyes glazed and his movements sluggish, stumbled in late, already lost in the haze of a midday high.
The rhythm of their cramped existence was now familiar, if uncomfortable. They had found a way to coexist, bound by their illegal status, their grueling construction jobs, and the community of men around them that had lived the same thing, ten or twenty years prior, and had a few things to say about it. Sami had rented the place as soon as he got his French papers and decided to settle in this southeastern harbor city, close to the ferries if he ever wanted to go home. He’d welcome Nasser, from the job site, who had a salary but no papers and couldn’t stand the refugee center anymore, and then Tarek, and the others had followed until little Reda. All that had been mostly fine.
But across the hall, the silence that had reigned since the old tenant’s death in July was shattered by a flurry of activity all August long. The vacant apartment facing theirs was being transformed. Today, movers hauled in sleek, modern furniture after a few weeks of remodeling. Someone was moving in, right in time for September and the reopening of everything.
Sami, drawn by the commotion, peered through the peephole. “Who’s this?”. A figure appeared in the doorway, a slender young man with a shock of pink in his buzzed brown hair, a cropped t-shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin, his hands adorned with yellow nail polish, moving with an effeminate grace that sent a ripple of unease through Sami.
The group crowded behind him, each for a view in turn.
Nasser, smirking “Looks soft.”
Reda, his cheeks flushing, turned away, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards.
Tarek, his eyes narrowed, snorted, “Fucking fag.”
Adel, his voice a nervous giggle, exclaimed, “Almost a fucking girl.”
Sami, his jaw clenched, spoke a single word. “Trouble.”
Later, the joint passed from hand to hand, glowed like a small ember in the gloom, its pungent aroma a constant, comforting presence. Tarek staggered in from a late-night hashish drop, the scent of weed and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. Just as he stepped into the living room, a figure strode into the hallway. The man was black, tall, wiry, his movements radiating energy. Cornrows, adorned with small gold beads, framed his face, and a chunky watch glinted on his wrist. He wore a loud Puma tracksuit, a splash of vibrant color in the building’s drab interior. A joint, tucked behind his ear, completed the picture. Tarek’s eyes followed him as he moved with a confident stride, a cocky grin revealing a gold-capped tooth. “Who’s that?” Tarek wondered as he brushed past the man, heading into the apartment.
The man knocked on the faggot’s door, his voice booming through the thin walls. “Yo, princess, open up!” he called out in English.
Tarek, his unease growing, slunk into Sami’s apartment, announcing, “Some nigger is here for the faggot,” disgusted and fascinated. The announcement sparked grumbles.
Sami, his jaw tightening, muttered, “What now?”
Karim, his eyes half-closed, mumbled, “Fucking hell,” his words slurred.
A heavy silence descended upon the apartment, broken only by the low hum of breathing in and out of smoke. The thin wall separating them from the faggot’s place vibrated faintly, a subtle tremor that sent a shiver down their spines.
Then, it started.
A rhythmic thud. A steady, insistent beat that echoed through the room. A high-pitched whimper, the fag’s voice, strained and pleading, “Harder! Fuck, Idriss, harder!” in French, and sometimes even in Arabic. Idriss’s growl, a low, guttural sound, “Take it, slut!” The sounds were raw, visceral. Like porn through the wall.
Slaps echoed, sharp and deliberate, followed by a choked gasp, the faggot submitting to a violent, rough fuck. Sami’s face twisted in disgust, his fists clenched, his voice a low growl, “This is a disease!” Nasser, his eyes gleaming with a strange fascination, leaned closer to the wall, muttering, “He’s getting it good,” a smirk playing on his lips. Reda, his gaze fixed on the floor, whispered, “Disgusting,” his voice barely audible, but his ears straining to catch every sound. Tarek, his muscles tensing, flexed his hands, his eyes locked on the vibrating wall, his voice a low growl, “Fucking fag,” Adel, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement, giggled nervously, “He’s choking!” before abruptly silencing himself, his hand flying to his mouth. Idriss’s laughter, a low, triumphant sound, cut through the air, “Good boy! Take it bitch, fuck, Alexis, your hole is so fucking tight,” in English, followed by the creaking of furniture, a rhythmic groan that wouldn’t stop
That’s how they learned the faggot’s name was Alexis.
It took an hour but finally, a heavy silence fell across the hall. Sami stood, his voice hard but shaky, “No one talks to him,” he commanded, his words a desperate attempt to somehow control that which he couldn’t control.
Nasser exhaled, “It’s just a fag, man.”
Reda, lost in thought, murmured, “He speaks Arabic,” his voice barely a whisper.
Tarek cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and brittle in the silence, “They all want it, these white fags” he muttered to himself, almost making sure no one could catch it.
Adel whined, “Gross,” before peeking back towards the wall, thinking back to those choking sounds.
Karim, his eyes already drifting closed, flopped back onto his mattress under the windows, mumbling, “Fucking freaks,” as he was already falling asleep.
The apartment settled into an uneasy quiet. The smoke lingered, heavy over the sprawled figures, each retreating to their corners of the cramped space.
In the small bedroom, originally meant for a child, Sami lay stiff on his narrow bed, the springs creaking under his restless shifts. Sleep eluded him, his mind a churning. No privacy left in his two-bedroom turned shithole, the constant press of five other bastards already a weight, and now a goddamn faggot across the hall, moaning like a bitch in heat. His jaw clenched as he pictured Alexis’s pink hair and painted nails and worse, that nigger pounding him. Why the hell would a man, even a black one, stoop to sticking his dick in that thing? The thought gnawed at him.
In the living room, Karim sprawled on his mattress, drool pooling on the stained fabric. The hash had hit him like a freight train since he smoked twice or thrice as much as the others in a day.
On the pull-out couch, Adel fidgeted beside Reda. The choking sounds, those wet, gagging gasps from Alexis, looped in his head, a relentless earworm. That faggot was choking on dick… his own prick stiffening despite the disgust souring his gut. Sleep wouldn’t come, the sounds too vivid, too close to the porn he craved. “Fuck this,” and he slipped off the couch, careful not to jostle Reda, and crept to the tiny bathroom. Locking the door, he yanked out his phone, thumbing to a video of a white chick getting her throat rammed hard, spit dripping, eyes watering. His hand moved fast, chasing the release he couldn’t shake from his mind.
Reda, curled on the other side of the pull-out, stared into the dark, his breathing shallow. Why did that white faggot speak Arabic? How? Was that black guy his boyfriend? The thoughts lingered, picturing Alexis bent over, whimpering, that thug owning him. Reda’s dick twitched, half-hard under the blanket, his mind wrestling with the sin, yet unable to stop imagining the scene, the Arabic words tying him to it in a way he couldn’t shake.
In the big bedroom, Nasser sprawled on his single bed in the faint glow of his phone screen. Black dudes railing white bitches filled the tiny display, tight asses getting split open, girls squealing as cocks drove deep, one video after the other, every single one exactly what he wanted and yet, unsatisfying. He’d never get a chick to take it in the ass like that. Experience had taught him that much, girls always said no, too prissy for real fun. But that Idriss got it easy and for free across the hall. Alexis took it rough as hell, those slaps and groans proof he’d spread wide for a hard pounding. Nasser’s mind was drifting dangerously. Shove his ten inches in that willing hole, feel it clench like those porn bitches never would. And doing it behind Sami’s back? That’d be a sweet fuck-you to the bossy prick. He stroked faster, grinning at the thought, trying to ignore the voice calling him a faggot at the back of his mind.
Across the room, Tarek lay rigid on his own single bed, fists clenched, staring at the cracked ceiling, ignoring Nasser’s session as best he could, waiting for his turn. Old white men flashed in his mind, shuffling feet approaching discreetly, wrinkled hands offering cash, leering at his cock, promising euros for a quick suck or fuck. He hadd smashed their faces in, all three who’d tried since he’d moved here, blood on his knuckles, screaming, “I ain’t no fag!” in French. But now, that young faggot with pink hair, smooth skin, messed with his head. Would he say no to that? he wondered, his dick stirring as he pictured Alexis’s pale ass up, taking Idriss’s black cock like a whore. Younger, prettier, not some crusty old bastard, would Tarek beat up the faggot if he offered? Fuck, maybe he’d ram it in just to see, feel that power. The thought disgusted him, but the hard-on wouldn’t lie, and he cursed himself, rolling over to shove it down.
To be continued..
