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Milford Slabaugh
Tales from the Projects
Tales from the Projects
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Gay erotic short stories with explicit language. Eight stories all set in the same housing project, the Mad Tower, and focuses on the lives of the people who live there, ranging from rough sex to gentle intimacy.
Excerpt from "The Son of Jack:"
The elevator wasn't working, and I had to climb the seven flights. As I walked, I listened to the sounds of arguments on three of the floors, what sounded like a fight in another, loud music on two more, children playing noisily on another, and then a burst of fetid stench and a yellow puddle of what could only be urine as I stepped into the hallway of the seventh floor. I held my breath, avoided the worst of the piss as I crossed it, and down to 714, knocked on the door, holding my clothes in a garbage bag.
He opened the door and I looked up for the first time into the eyes of the man my mother said was my father. Taller and darker-skinned than me, but the face...he looked just like me, with sharp square jaws, small nose and high forehead. He had muscles like you build up in prison and have nothing to do but work with the weights for hours and hours. Even with a baggy shirt, his muscles showed under the flannel, broad bulges at the biceps, wide lumps at the shoulders, an extension of the material at the chest for the pecs. His hair was cut short so that it was only a mass of frizzle on top of his head, almost straight. A huge, mean-looking man, and he looked just like I'd look when I grew up. Maybe he was my father, after all.
I'd always wondered about that, because Mom was an addict, hopping up on amphetamines back when she'd had me nearly two decades ago so that the doctors had to send me through drug rehab therapy as a newborn. These days, her drug of choice was crack, powerful but cheap. She said she was trying to get off the stuff...yeah, right! Still, if this guy would put us up for a while, I'd live here. I had a choice, but that was foster care, and I'd been in it a couple of times. And at my age, I'd end up in a government home instead, unless they decided I was old enough and just turned me loose entirely, despite the fact my senior year of school had three more months to go.
Jack looked at me without saying a word or moving, and I said, "Are you Jack?"
"Yeah." Then. "You ain't my kid, even if she named you Jack, too."
"You're probably right." I knew he wasn't enthusiastic about me moving in with him. But he'd just gotten out of prison after some ten years and his sharing an apartment with my mother was as good as he was going to get for a while.
"Jackie, honey, is that you?" Mom called out.
"Yeah, Mom." I said. Jack grudgingly moved out of the way and let me come in. I looked at the place. A couch, where I'd be sleeping, and a television set on a milk crate. That was it for the living room. Looks like my garbage bag was going to be where I kept my clothes.
Excerpt from "The Son of Jack:"
The elevator wasn't working, and I had to climb the seven flights. As I walked, I listened to the sounds of arguments on three of the floors, what sounded like a fight in another, loud music on two more, children playing noisily on another, and then a burst of fetid stench and a yellow puddle of what could only be urine as I stepped into the hallway of the seventh floor. I held my breath, avoided the worst of the piss as I crossed it, and down to 714, knocked on the door, holding my clothes in a garbage bag.
He opened the door and I looked up for the first time into the eyes of the man my mother said was my father. Taller and darker-skinned than me, but the face...he looked just like me, with sharp square jaws, small nose and high forehead. He had muscles like you build up in prison and have nothing to do but work with the weights for hours and hours. Even with a baggy shirt, his muscles showed under the flannel, broad bulges at the biceps, wide lumps at the shoulders, an extension of the material at the chest for the pecs. His hair was cut short so that it was only a mass of frizzle on top of his head, almost straight. A huge, mean-looking man, and he looked just like I'd look when I grew up. Maybe he was my father, after all.
I'd always wondered about that, because Mom was an addict, hopping up on amphetamines back when she'd had me nearly two decades ago so that the doctors had to send me through drug rehab therapy as a newborn. These days, her drug of choice was crack, powerful but cheap. She said she was trying to get off the stuff...yeah, right! Still, if this guy would put us up for a while, I'd live here. I had a choice, but that was foster care, and I'd been in it a couple of times. And at my age, I'd end up in a government home instead, unless they decided I was old enough and just turned me loose entirely, despite the fact my senior year of school had three more months to go.
Jack looked at me without saying a word or moving, and I said, "Are you Jack?"
"Yeah." Then. "You ain't my kid, even if she named you Jack, too."
"You're probably right." I knew he wasn't enthusiastic about me moving in with him. But he'd just gotten out of prison after some ten years and his sharing an apartment with my mother was as good as he was going to get for a while.
"Jackie, honey, is that you?" Mom called out.
"Yeah, Mom." I said. Jack grudgingly moved out of the way and let me come in. I looked at the place. A couch, where I'd be sleeping, and a television set on a milk crate. That was it for the living room. Looks like my garbage bag was going to be where I kept my clothes.
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