The Boarder, Part 1 by Barberian

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It was a Saturday morning, shortly after ten o’clock, that Troy Castillo first stepped into my living room with that sheepish but immutably masculine stride. I had taken out an advertisement in the local paper less than a week earlier, offering up a small, second-story bedroom at roughly half the going rate, and Troy had been my second caller after the first—a newly divorced woman of about fortyish—had made me an offer a few days prior. It hadn’t been easy to change that poor lady’s mind about the room once she showed up on my doorstep, but I didn’t let up. Eventually I managed to sway her away from the place on the exaggerated pretense that the neighborhood was bad and that I was worried for her safety. That wasn’t exactly a lie; the area had, in fact, degenerated some in the six years I had lived there, and crime rates were on the rise. But I’ll admit I may have overstated the threat some in an effort to shake her interest in the place. It wasn’t that I disliked the gal. On the contrary, she would have been an ideal occupant in many respects, if a conservative lifestyle and a strong credibility were anything to be valued in a lodger. That wasn’t the issue. The problem was that I had ulterior motives, and that I was searching for a specific kind of tenant when I placed that bit in the classifieds. See, I had my imagination fixed on the image of the quintessential straight guy—confident, naive and easy on the eyes. I was lonely, living in that big house all by myself, and to be frank I was eager to try my hand at getting at a straight boy’s cock. Two days later, I found exactly the man I was looking for. His name was Troy Castillo.

Troy was tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered, and sported perhaps the finest head of thick black hair I had ever seen on a man—feathered and cut in a way that struck me immediately as both fashionable and incredibly expensive. For some reason, I remember wanting to destroy that head of hair from the minute I laid eyes on him. I know, that’s kind of a bizarre impulse, but it aroused the f*** out of me thinking about it. His hair was too perfect, for starters—way beyond metro. But it also struck me instantly as something more than hair. I don’t know how to explain it. It was, like, his vital essence, the secret of his immutable beauty and the source of his superhuman strength, all wrapped up into one. Point was, I wanted it. To destroy it, to possess it.

That morning, Troy was casually dressed in blue jeans and a blue V-neck shirt which showed off just a peek at his burly chest. Later, I would learn he only dressed this way on Saturdays, when he had to go neither to the office or the late mass which he attended every Sunday. His face, like everything else, was impeccably groomed, modeling a slim, closely clipped goatee. His eyebrows were heavy and furrowed slightly when he spoke, but the severity this gave his face was negated by the softness of his smile. His eyes (at the risk of being extra gay) were a kind of café au lait.

Although I would have been willing to make any number of concessions in order to snag this handsome stranger in a contract, Troy took almost an immediate liking to the room and in fact seemed eager to sign the one-year lease when the brief tour was over. I, naturally, was enthralled by the prospect of having him so readily under my roof, and made no objection to the impulsive eagerness in his eyes as he skimmed over the contract. He paused only briefly at the end of the last page, when a look of embarrassment and unease crept over his features.

"Is it all right for me to have—you know—visitors, in the room?" he asked me, looking at me through eyes which were pregnant with all kinds of subtext. There was a moment’s pause before he added, "you know, like, girls."

"Doesn’t bother me any. Do you, uh, keep a lot of girlfriends?" I asked him, honestly intrigued by the shape of his sexual appetites.

"Just the one," he said with unashamed honesty. "Actually, I’ve been thinking about proposing to her for a while now. Once, that is, if, I ever get the promotion I’ve been workin’ for. Oh, but that won’t f*** up our contract or anything, so don’t worry."

"I’m sure it’ll work out just fine," I told him, at this point struggling to ignore the erection I got just listening to Troy talk. His voice was deeper than I’d anticipated, and the slight drawl to his words was almost too hot to handle. Mention of his fiancé disappointed me a little, of course, but I couldn’t muster up any real jealousy toward her. I was too busy imagining what’d be like to slide my cock between his lips—how would that low voice translate into a gag? I wanted to be alone with the thought of him living under the same roof, pissing in my toilet, f***ing some pretty, big-breasted brunette under my sheets. But of course I didn’t want to scare him off just yet—not until the affair was settled and we could arrange a move-in date. I put my hands in my pockets and pressed against my member while he waded through the rest of the paperwork, which really didn’t take him long at all. When he finished, he held out his hand to me, and I was forced to free up one of my own. I offered him my right forearm—my left hand still wrapped around my swelling cock as he looked me in the eye.

"Troy," he said, a sudden self-assurance donning over his features. His hand was like silk but his grip was strong and firm. I gave him my own name and tried to suppress the heat simmering off my skin. Sweat was beading on my brow.

***

Troy moved in two days later, importing a wardrobe of six suits and a box of softball paraphernalia amongst the other necessities of a modest, twenty-something-year-old bachelor. To my disappointment, it became obvious to me after only a couple of days that he was exceptionally clean and well-organized in his daily habits. The hairbrush he stored in the upstairs bathroom hadn’t so much as a single dark hair tangled in its teeth (How did he manage that?). I also never have the fortune to discover a strand of his pubic hair snagged on the shower drain or abandoned on the toilet seat, though I checked both locations on the daily. It was like he left no trace, wherever he went. He aimed when he pissed, washed his own laundry, and neatly disposed of his own garbage—although I did succeed in procuring a Kleenex and a pile of nail clippings from his wastebasket one night when he was kept late at the office. I kept them in my nightstand, along with a carefully kept journal of his activities, where I scrawled my many accounts of trying to catch him naked.

***

Troy proved also to be diligent in his work. He rose early every morning, shaved (and scrubbed the sink), showered, put on a suit and tie, and then proceeded to vanish into the office world until six-o’clock at night, at which point he came home, drank one beer on the couch, then went to bed early. If he ever masturbated, he did so silently, and he left no mark on the bed sheets when he came. Meanwhile, I grew increasingly agitated that I still had never caught him in his underwear. He dressed and undressed in the bathroom, and so never found cause to wander the house in any state of undress, despite—or perhaps because of—how I lusted after the prospect. He did change into loose pajama bottoms at night, on the other hand, and it was easy to discern the size and shape of his penis through the cottony fabric—and let me tell you, was one hung son of a bitch.

We didn’t talk much, but what words we exchanged were friendly, natural. He went out on Friday nights, presumably on dates with his soon-to-be fiancé, but she never returned home with him and he was never out very late. For my part, I continued to observe his habits for another week or so, jotting down observations in my journal and comparing notes from day to day until I had committed his schedule to memory.

Then one day while he was at work I decided to try my luck. Inserting my spare key into the lock, I opened the door and crept into his room. The furniture was cleaner than I had ever kept it, but the smell of his cologne lingered about the room and made me dizzy with desire. Finding nothing of interest in either the closet or his nightstand, I moved over to the dresser and started with the bottom drawer, careful not to disturb the insides or leave any sign of my intrusion. Most of the contents were disappointingly usual—the first drawer full of spotlessly white undershirts, another of starchy socks, another still lined with at least three dozen neckties. But the top drawer was exceptional. In one corner was a box of unused condoms; next to that, a neatly folded pile of jockey shorts, mostly plaids of various colors but also solids of red and gray; a cup and jock strap occupied the final corner, tucked neatly under a baseball mitt and cap. It had that manly vinegar smell to it when I held it up to my face.

For a while, that was the most that ever came of my obsession. I went about my life, for the most part, although I still thought about him whenever I touched myself and hunted for a slip in his hygienic ritual when free time presented itself. For weeks on end, though I never came close. Then, on the seventh Friday after he moved in, Victoria came to visit.

He must have f***ed her six different times that night, and their screams cut through the walls of the house like a chainsaw. I lied awake well into the morning, listening to Troy moan quietly with my ear against the wall—imagining his hips pumping steadily with the rocking of the bed. The next day, I took advantage of my duties as landlord and set about pretending to wash the sheets. As I had hoped, Troy’s reveries the night prior had proven a moment of indiscretion, and the sheets were stained in several places where he had come. I licked at these spots for hours before giving the sheets one more once over—plucking loose two black hairs from amidst the folds before surrendering the soiled linens to the washing machine. Those two hairs were tiny monuments of perfection: so soft, so smooth, so dark, so fragile. That was when I stumbled on a dangerous idea.

***

When Troy came home from church on Sunday, I surprised him with two fresh six-packs of beer in the refrigerator. I explained that I was feeling exceptionally generous, and that I was thankful to have a boarder who was as friendly and as organized as he had proven himself to be. He of course tried to pay me for the first few beers he drank, but I turned him down, laughing, and offered him a few more. He drank them all too eagerly, not wanting to insult my hospitality, and by midnight I had succeeded in putting him to sleep on the couch to the banter of a late night talk show. Thankful for the sound of the TV, which was still roaring when he had nodded off, I rose quietly from my recliner. I had been waiting for exactly this opportunity.

Crawling up next to him, I stroked his cock softly through his pants, wrapping my fingers around the shaft to discern for myself some sense of its shape. Troy breathed heavily, but did not stir. Pulling gently on the elastic band, I looked down under his pajama pants. His cock was ebbing, large and half-erect. His pubes where trimmed but still bushy enough to curl around the base of his penis. I slowly released the elastic band of his pajama bottoms and for a while contented myself to watch him sleep, embedding the image of him in my mind. His face was peaceful, every line of his face surreal. After a while, though, I could hardly stand looking anymore.

It was that fixation with his hair again. Like before, I wanted to mar it beyond repair. Only this time, I realized, there was nothing to stop me. Half mad with lust, I tiptoed into the kitchen, where I drew a pair of scissors from a junk drawer near the stove. Returning to the couch, I knelt soundlessly on my knees, careful that I had a clear view of Troy’s face and the crown of his head. His hair was a little messier than usual, but for the most part retained the fashionable, expensive shape which had impressed me when we met. I gently ran my fingers through it, checking it for snags but not finding any. I repeated this several times, literally shivering with ecstasy at the thought of actually touching that glorious hair. Then, very carefully, I made the first move—taking a lock between my thumb and forefinger, sliding my grip down to about one inch from his scalp. By this point, I was breathing pretty heavily. This was crazy! What if he woke up? What if he didn’t wake up, but he notices the damage in the morning? It didn’t matter anymore. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.

Once again, I was thankful for the sound of the television blaring as I spread the scissors’ teeth with my free hand. I opened and closed them several times, testing the cleanliness of their slice. Then, still tightly gripping that generous black curl, I slid the scissors underneath the place where those pinched fingers met, the blades spread just far enough to cradle their claim between them. For a second I was totally still. After this, there was no turning back.

At last, bracing myself against my beating heart, I drew the blades closed. The wiry strands severed easily, gliding off every which way in the place where they were cut. I had done it; I had cut his hair without knowledge or consent, and now had a secret part of him for myself. It must have been a solid two inches in length! Troy, to my relief, remained fast asleep, undisturbed and snoring in a quiet tenor. I considered leaving him to that peaceful sleep, but the clean, easy snip with which I stole that lock had emboldened me too much to stop there. Instead, I took hold of yet another waving tress and again savored the sound of severing it—slowly, full of meaning. Like the first, I cut it off roughly an inch from Troy’s head, a few loose strands gliding down onto the pillow underneath. I collected those, too, afraid that they might otherwise give away my conquest. Then, again, I snipped at his crown, and then once more for the sake of memory. By that point, the top of Troy’s head was unmistakably misshapen, though probably you would never notice the imperfect taper on anyone else’s head. Satisfied, I returned the scissors to the drawer where I had found them and crept off to bed, still holding those four trophy locks in my left hand as I climbed the stairs to my room. That perfect hair belonged to me now.

***

In the morning, it was difficult to discern how much notice Troy had paid to the condition of his ravaged scalp. He washed, combed, and gelled his hair as always, and while it looked somewhat flatter without the volume I had taken off the top, I should point out that his good looks had by no stretch abandoned him. I should also note that this disappointed me some. I stared at him intently as he drank his coffee opposite me at the dining room table, looking for any sign of shabbiness. I found no such thing. Troy did, however, seem somewhat less at ease than usual, furrowing his brow as he skimmed the morning paper.

"You seem out of sorts this morning," I ventured as he stood rinsing his coffee mug in the kitchen sink. "Drink too much last night?"

"God, I hope that’s all it is," he said. "This whole morning has just been s**t. I’ve got this kink in my neck, and my hair is being weird—"

"Maybe it’s time for a trim," I said. A part of me was hoping he’d opt to do something crazy like shave it all off, but the other part wanted to find a scapegoat before he figured out what I had done. An hour later, he left for work and I retired to my room to contemplate his plundered mane. By the light of morning, his tresses looked especially glossy and supple, and even longer than I had estimated the night before. They had to be two-and-a-half-inches long, at least. Over a third of their original length—how the hell did he still look so f***ing good?

Troy took my advice and went to a barber’s that afternoon. When he got home an hour later than usual, his hair was significantly shorter and, once again, perfectly sculpted. I wondered if his barber had any idea how lucky he was to clip at that hair with Troy’s full consent. I nearly brimmed over with jealousy: just the night before, I had been the one taking scissors to that immaculate head of hair, and already someone had moved in and cut easily ten times as much—effacing my little stigma of imperfection. I felt that craving to cut his hair more fiercely than ever as he climbed the stairs to his room. I knew, furthermore, that I wouldn’t be able to settle for a couple of inches from his crown next time; I would shave him down to nothing.

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