Holding the Elevator Doors Open
Step into a thrilling encounter in ‘Holding the Elevator Doors Open’—a captivating gay sex story that explores desire, spontaneity, and the electric tension between two strangers. Join them on a steamy journey that unfolds in an unexpected moment. Don’t miss this provocative tale!
I entered the elevator. Having just gotten back from the apartment gym, I was hot, so I took my shirt off. Just as the doors began to close, a man entered the lobby and waved at me to hold the elevator. I waved my hand between the doors and they slowly slid back open with creaks and groans.
The man entered without a word of thanks or even a slight nod. He was my front door neighbour. He was in his mid-to-late 30s, or maybe it was his clean-shaven face that made him look younger. He wore a shirt and tie and creased trousers, and the business bag hanging off his shoulder looked almost as old as me, a 23 year old guy starting his first job. I moved into this run-down apartment just a few weeks ago when I got the job. I had never really conversed with my neighbours except to exchange greetings with the wife or their 5-year-old daughter when we passed each other in corridors or run into each other in elevator. Every other night, I could hear the husband yelling at the wife, and their 5-year-old crying. Him and I had never exchanged words.
I glanced at him. Bastard, I thought.
He turned his head slightly and looked at me from the corner of his eyes as our elevator shuddered and slowly began to ascend. The small elevator fan was broken, so I was sweating even more than before I took my shirt off, and with the bastard’s eyes on me, I felt a little exposed and became starkly aware of the sweat running down my hairless chest, pooling at my navel, and the rest of it soaking my waistband.
I heard a scoff as the man turned to face the door again. I looked at him, but he said nothing. He was a little taller than me, and it looked like underneath his clothing might be a dad bod, or a development of one. He was not bad looking, but I could tell his best days were past him already. I was sure I could take him in a fight, I thought as I looked away again.
The elevator stopped at our floor. And as the doors creaked open, the man looked at me, said, “Put your fucking shirt on,” and exited before I could think of a reply.
Our next interaction came a few weeks later. An old friend (with benefits) was in town for the night and he came to spent it at my place. In the morning, I was seeing him out. And as we were walking toward the elevator at the end of the hallway, my neighbour exited his apartment about to go somewhere. Although our backs were to him, I could feel his eyes on us, especially on my friend, who almost anyone could tell was gay with just one look. He was pretty flamboyant, and had no fear or shame, and sometimes zero self-awareness which could make it embarrassing to be out in public with him. But as my neighbour watched, I delighted in the flamboyance of my company.
As my friend entered the elevator, I looked back towards my neighbour. He was still at his door. I called out to him and said, “Want me to hold the elevator for you?”
He only glared at me in silence.
I gave my friend a kiss on the lips, admittedly less as a goodbye and more to taunt my neighbour.
I walked back, and my neighbour headed for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator to come back up. As we passed, he mumbled, “Fucking faggot.”
“Oh, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” I said to him with a taunting smile as I reached my door; I was not threatened by him at all. “Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll let you have it.”
“The fuck did you say to me?” he grunted as he turned and headed back.
I quickly entered and closed the door behind me. I waited for a few seconds, wondering if he might begin thumping on my door. My heart was beating fast, and a grin was plastered across my face. Bullying bullies was a different kind of fun. I could heart muffled footsteps just outside, but they disappeared shortly.
Maybe it was a little cruel of me, or at least immature, but from then on, I put on an act. I played on stereotypes whenever I was around my homophobic neighbour, raising the pitch of my voice a little, gesticulating a lot more than I usually did, pretending to speak on the phone whenever we passed each other and mentioning some obscene details about some fake escapade, and if I was wearing shorts, I would roll them up and expose as much of my thighs as possible, or I would pull my shirt up and expose my body as if to wipe sweat off my brows, all of it to make my neighbour squirm. And it was fun to hear him take sharp disdainful breaths or grunt disapprovingly, not quite daring to do anything about it.
One evening, however, I might have taken it a little too far. I just got back from work, and my neighbour was in the elevator. I waved at him to hold it, but he ignored me. It was a slow shitty elevator, and the doors took their time to close. I sprinted forward and reached the button before the doors completely closed. They creaked back open. I smiled as I entered and thanked him sarcastically.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled.
I took my phone out, played my own ringtone, and then picked up my fake call. “Yeah, last night was so good. I was horny the whole day thinking about it. Still very horny, actually. I wish you were here right now. I wish anyone was there right now,” I said as I reached down and ran my hand over my crotch and gave a little fake moan.
I glanced sideways at my neighbour. His eyes were on my crotch, and there were ripples on his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
“Yeah man, at this point, I’d be down to fuck anybody,” I said and made a not so subtle turn toward my neighbour and I squeezed my bulge.
He looked up and saw me looking at him, and he immediately made a face, and said, “Fucking disgusting homo. I know what you’re up to. You won’t fucking get to me. Keep your perverted hands to fucking yourself.”
I took my hand away from my crotch and covered the receiver with it and said to my neighbour, “Mind your own fucking business.” And then continuing the fake phone conversation, I said, “Yeah, I’ll probably just drop my pants and jack off as soon as I get home.”
I finished the conversation as the elevator reached our floor. My neighbour exited quickly before the doors were even open all the way. I paced after him. I had one more taunt in my mind that I wanted to deliver before he entered his apartment.
He was still at his door when I got to mine. As I opened my door, I turned toward him and, stifling a snigger, said, “Hey, letting you know just in case, my door will be unlocked.”
“Sick fuck,” he spat and turned with a huff. There was fury in his eyes as he approached me.
I backed in through my door, surprised that he was reacting more than he usually did. I rolled my hands up into fists, ready for whatever might come next as I stood just inside, refusing to back up an inch further. He stepped in through the doorway and stood right up to my face. “Back the fuck up,” I said.