Melting Pot

I hate the drudgery of doing laundry. However, out of some of the drudgiest (is that a word?) things, life has a way of creating the most memorable moments - and that is certainly the case with the tale I'm about to share with you.

I live in a nice apartment community in Clarkston, Georgia - which happens to be the most culturally diverse square mile of a city in the entire United States.  My apartment complex is fairly new and very well built - I don't think there has ever been a serious noise complaint made at the office. Additionally, the complex had cheap and blazingly fast internet connection (for that time) - a bonus for me as I worked from home. All the buildings, whether 1, 2 or 3 bedrooms have four units on two floors with a common breezeway. One of the units is the “showroom” for the complex, and two are currently vacant. The apartments all come with a small-capacity, stacked washer/dryer unit, but each floor also has a common laundry room with one high capacity washer and dryer each for those big loads of comforters and towels we all have from time to time.

The apartment complex and my building is like the United Nations. I'm a single white man, age 45, and I live alone in a 2 bedroom unit on the lower left level (if you're looking from the parking lot). Upstairs and to the right of me is the young Ramirez family from Honduras - father Felipe, mother Carla, and 11 year old son Alejandro (Alex). My Spanish skills have improved immensely since I've moved in. Directly above me is a recently married young Indian couple. Atul is about 26 years old, and has lived here for a while doing IT work for a company nearby. He's just returned from India with his bride Rana.  She doesn't go out much or connect with her neighbors - and I only rarely saw Atul and Rana together. I did learn a few phrases in Telugu their native language) to be polite, but Rana never seemed interested in socializing – or even smiling from time to time. Atul speaks English quite well, but her English is quite dismal.  The apartment to the right side of me is the Cho family from Korea - father Jin Woo, Mother Jae Soo, 10 year old son Jae Sun (Jason), and a grandmother. I don't know her name, because everybody calls her simply "Halmoni" (grandmother in Korean). Mom and dad run a Grocery store nearby, and speak passible English. Halmoni speaks almost no English, but Jason was born here and therefore a native speaker of English. Alex and Jason are in the same class at school, and are the best of friends, and are always up to something. Everyone in the building (with the exception of Rana) has adopted them as their own.

Despite our widely divergent backgrounds, everybody seems to get along with each other amazingly well - all except for Rana. It seems she doesn't want to be here. Atul has told me that marriage has been difficult for them, as it was an arranged marriage, and they only met the day before the ceremony in Hyderabad, India. He mentioned that she spends almost all of her time asleep during the day, and online with friends and family in India, which is 9 time zones ahead.  Honestly, I couldn't understand why she would be this way, because Atul is a stunning, testosterone laced specimen of young, virile manhood, about 6 feet tall, well built, with black hair, wispy mustache,  bright smile with a single dimple, light brown skin, and hazel eyes. From the topography of his slacks, he also appeared to be quite gifted and well formed.  Yeah, I'm gay. I notice these things. Atul and the rest of my neighbors have gotten used to the idea that I don't have a wife - I told them I was widowed (not far from the truth, my partner Pete had died in a car accident 20 years ago). I really never saw anyone after Pete's death, this news assuaged their various cultural concerns involving me – although in the many years, I’ve never really caught a whiff of what one would expect of concern about homosexuality in their mother cultures, We have all become friendly. Halmoni, despite speaking almost no English (I think she may be pretending though), frequently taught me how to make Korean dishes, and I've mastered Bulgogi, Kimchi Chigae and Kim Bap.

Although Alex and Jason were in the same class and known to be best friends and partners in crime, Atul and Jason also seemed to have become big buddies around the complex, often seen out on the tennis courts practicing together, or at the pool swimming. Atul would frequently toss Jason up in the air and the screaming tyke would happily splash back down. Atul mentioned to me (often with sadness in his eyes) that he would like to have a son like Jason. He intimated that the production of babies in his current marital situation might be difficult. I could see why he'd feel that way: Jason was a pixie - a slightly built child, possibly no more than 90 pounds and four feet five. He had black hair cut in what could be called a "bowl" style. He also had an infectious laugh and huge, white smile that brought out deep dimples in each cheek. He was also an incredibly bright child – his parents brought him up listening to NPR every day, so at age 10 (correction, 10 and ¾, Jason would say) he was incredibly well versed in things of the world. That should bring us up to the drudgery of doing Laundry.

It was in around noon on a Sunday in mid-September - back when it started getting a bit cool in September –when I was bored, and decided to wash the winter comforters and sheets for my bed, as well as the bed in the guest room. For this task, the heavy load washers in the common room were perfect, and I could knock everything out in one shot. I gathered detergent, softener, and everything else up into the basket to make the 5 step journey from my front door to the laundry room, and open the door. My world changed at that moment.

On the top of the washer was Jason: his tiny, bare feet spread obscenely wide apart with his knees practically in his elbows. His shorts and what looked like Superman briefs were gathered around his right knee. His three inch uncut penis was ramrod stiff and straight, with his partially uncovered glans angry, moist, shining and red. In front of him was Atul standing with his slacks and briefs puddled on the floor. Immediately I noticed what he had pointed at Jason's tight little starfish, and my assessment on his topography had been correct - about 8 inches of straight, hefty, uncut meat that turned upward in a good hook before meeting what looked to be a huge, plum sized head. I quickly looked back at Jason, noting that his aperture still seemed intact, not yet having been breached by Atul's weapon. The whole encounter thus far had only taken a couple of seconds, long enough for both of them to snap their heads toward me, eyes and mouths wide open; I probably wore the very same facial expression. All of us were frozen in place.

Jason was the first to attempt to babble something, but I waved for him to be silent. After using a few more seconds collecting and sorting memories of how my life had been as a gay pre-teen to find a response, I started by telling both of them "I sincerely hope Jason isn't being forced to do this." To this they simultaneously both found their voices: ' said "No, no, please, no!", and Jason said "No! This was my idea!". They then made the same utterance at the very same time: "I love him," and Jason started crying. I quickly told Jason "shhhh, it’s ok", and suggested they pull their pants back up before somebody got curious. As they started doing just that, I invited them back to my apartment to talk, and then turned with my laundry basket, closed the door, made the 5 step journey back to my front door, and went inside. About a minute later, there was a light knock on my door. I open edit up to see Atul and Jason standing there with eyes downcast and bodies fully dressed; it also looked like Jason had found his shoes. I invited them in, and they entered, removing their shoes in the foyer, as is the tradition in Korea and India - I found that tradition useful to keeping clean floors, and had long since before then been removing my shoes on entry at home.

I bade them sit on the sofa, and offered them some bottled water, which they accepted. I'm sure their throats were dry from fright. I came back from the kitchen and sat in the armchair across from them, and tried to break the ice with some humor -- along the lines of "I guess you might want to find a better place to meet," which ended in abject failure as Jason started to wail and hyperventilate. I got on my knees in front of him, wrapped him in my arms, and hugged him tightly. Atul put his hand on Jason's head, and I could see his long fingers lovingly stroking through Jason's hair. Atul also kept whispering in his ear "it's ok baby boy. You're not in trouble. I love you baby boy."  Jason disengaged from me, and wrapped his arms around Atul, at which point I became the one stroking Jason's hair, telling him that it was all going to be ok. I also remember wishing someone had been there for 12 year old me when something along the same lines had happened to me. It reinforced a lesson my grandfather gave me about interacting positively with younger people: be the person that you needed when you were that age.

This tableau lasted about 5 minutes as Jason slowly calmed down. I got him some tissue paper so he could wipe his face and blow his nose. We all turned to our water bottles as we attempted to focus on the matters at hand. Atul and Jason then both turned to me and very deftly and competently began describing the events that brought them to that laundry room. I was once again profoundly impressed with Jason's intellect as he made powerful and insightful testimony. Suffice it to say that they had each found that the other filled a painful gap in each life: the lack of connection with Rana for Atul, and parents that were always absent at work for Jason. When they were finished, I was left with undeniable evidence that Jason and Atul cared deeply for each other, if truly not loved each other. Jason quickly flashed me one of his shy, two-dimpled smiles, but Atul sat there, stone faced, quaking, and ashen in fear of what I meant to do to him as the adult in this coupling.

They had both long since calmed my fears for Jason, and I wanted to put Atul to rest. I told them both not to worry, and that they had proven how important the one was to the other. I also told them that I was gay (seems they already knew that nugget), and gave a short summary of what had happened to me at age 12, along with a brief description of the damage my parents caused with their reaction to it. I told them I had no intent to judge them nor share what had happened with anyone else. Jason lit up like a Christmas tree, jumped up, and hugged me. Atul seemed to have waited to the count of 3, released a long, pent up breath, and started to sob in relief.  I once again got on my knees, and this time hugged Atul tightly. Jason did the same.

After all the nerves had calmed, I sat back in my chair, and shocked myself by telling them that, if they wanted, they could use my guest bedroom to finish what they were doing. I guess it was clear to me from what they told me that they would be doing the deed in the future, and if so, all my fatherly instincts wanted them to be doing it in a safe environment. Jason smiled widely and looked to Atul, but Atul started by refusing the offer. Jason quickly grabbed Atul's hand and interlaced his tiny fingers in Atul's long, shapely fingers, and began pleading with Atul to say yes. I know I would have never been capable of saying "no" to this child, and soon I saw Atul's" topography" re-emerge shortly before his resistance crumbled. I hesitatingly led them both to the guest room, made absolutely certain the blinds were closed tightly on the windows, laid out two large beach towels on the sheets, asked if they needed anything, and left them to it. I heard the door lock quietly click as I walked away, shaking my head.

Resolved to complete my one task of the day, I picked up the laundry basket, but added to it some spray cleaner and paper towels to clean up any tell-tale smudges or other evidence on the washer. I quickly made the journey back to the laundry room, loaded and started the washer, cleaned up, and went back home to watch TV, or do whatever I had to do to avoid thinking about what was might be happening in my guest room. About fifteen minutes into a rather banal sitcom, I started hearing noises coming from the guest room. I heard low groans and high-pitched moans, along with some other rhythmic, metallic, straining sound. I quickly placed the source, remembering the antique queen size iron bed frame I had bought for the guest room some years ago. The mattresses were also quite old, and were spring supported. Able to put two and two together to come up with a reasonable facsimile of four, I quickly surmised that Atul and Jason were indeed doing "the nasty".

Barely two minutes later, had the groans, moans, and strains increased substantially in both volume and frequency. I sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the sturdy, soundproof construction of these apartments, and also grinned slightly at the irony that Atul was having fun despite his absentee wife Rana being just eleven or so feet overhead. The groans, moans, and strains went on for an astonishing twenty minutes without pause or interruption when they suddenly ceased. About a minute later, the door opened, and a naked little boy ran across the hall into the bathroom. He closed the door, and was in there for a short while when the door opened and the sound of a toilet flushing was heard. Jason ran back across the hall holding a ball of wadded up toilet paper; he quickly turned and looked at me and said "I gotta get home!" before going back into the guest room, and shutting the door.  Another few minutes later, a clothed Jason opened the door, dashed across the way with something in his hand, flushed the toilet, and returned Empty handed. A clothed Atul joined him in the hallway, and the two turned to me as if on cue, and gave me blushing grins. Jason then suddenly rushed up to me, threw his arms around my waist, pressed his head to my lower chest, and whispered "thank you" over and over and over. It seemed to me that any residual fear that Atul had been taking advantage of Jason had been assuaged. Atul then came up to me, arms around my shoulders, and repeated the same "thank you." He also told me that the two of them had very limited times to be together, and that they were approaching the end of that time today. As the communal hug broke, I made a decision: I took one of their hands each in mine and told them that I did not want them to be taking any further risks by doing "the nasty" in unsafe places: the potential damage to each of them was far too great to risk. In the future, I asked them, let me know when the schedule allowed for "the nasty", and I would provide accommodation. The communal hug then quickly reconvened, and not a dry eye was left in the house. I told both of them that they needed to run home and shower before anyone else got close enough to smell the sex on the both of them. They both shyly giggled and left while thanking me again: Atul first, then Jason a minute later. Before Jason left, he looked up at me and said "I love you too".

 “All's well, and no harm done" I mused to myself as I went to the laundry room to put the comforters in the dryer. On returning home, I went into the guest room to straighten up. I found the beach towels crumpled, and shall we say somewhat "soiled", and quite possibly soiled by multiple things. I also found a tiny pair of equally soiled Superman underwear in a corner of the room. From the state of the room, as well as the quick dashes to the bathroom and flushing joined together, dictated logically that both these young men lacked an understanding of the mechanics of how sexual congress between two males can be improved. I resolved to bring that understanding to them, gathered up the large towels, Superman underwear, detergent, a bottle of bleach, and once again made the journey to the laundry room. I remember being grateful that Jason seemed to still be sweetheart he always seemed to be, and the only casualties were a couple of old beach towels -- not the 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets that were usually on the bed.