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This site contains explicit stories of sexual & kinky fantasies and is not intended for readers under 18.

Secret Apartment

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I write a lot about secrets. I’m sure there are lots of reasons for that, but part of it is certainly all the sordid mysteries that were around me when I was growing up. The addictions that were explained away. Little tin foil packets, envelopes full of money, code words and whispers. The affairs, the crimes, the illnesses that were not talked about, the hidden sexualities. Adulthood, victory, power, all came from figuring out all the things that were actually going on that no one would tell me.

These days, a recurring theme, or dream, or image, is the secret apartment. I imagine an apartment some rich person rents to have affairs. Maybe a place a wealthy old man pays for, where his young lover can live. It was a pretty common thing. It still is.

I can see it clearly in my head though, this small Lower East Side one bedroom. Smallish, square, with two windows that face Rivington. It’s above an old storefront, like Ideal Hosiery or the likes. There is a rusted fire escape. The paint is so thick that the crown molding has become rounded. It’s ancient, but well kept. A maid comes twice a week. She gets paid extra not to ask questions and not to put down the address in her books.

The old radiator hisses and bangs. The kitchen hasn’t been used in years. Usually people just put ice in the large sink and keep their champagne there or they drink their whiskey neat. 

The black and white tiles on the bathroom floor are chipped. The bathtub is always clean, though. The mirror has one crack. There is nothing in the medicine cabinet but an ancient bottle of Advil.

The key to the apartment has changed hands many times. Like that Crash Pad series, but there is some darker element to the mythology. No one even knows whose apartment it is anymore, just that someone pays the rent and pays the maid and keeps the electricity on.

At some point someone replaced the bed. The old one must have been thirty years old, at least. There is no television, no WiFi and people like it that way. You go there to do things so dirty you don’t even want to chance doing it at home or even in a hotel.

There are the ghosts of orgasms and spankings in the air. There are secrets soaked into the walls. Crimes plotted, violence planned, debauchery had, lies told, alibis thought up. There was love there too. Forbidden love. The sighs of two people (or more) finally able to let their guard down, fall into each others’ arms. The kisses that have been teased out and longed for, finally taken.

It’s a strangely sacred place. Sacred in a much older way than what so many think of today. Sacred from back when there were temple whores and sacrifice. Back when people worshipped with real blood and wine.

That’s what I’m thinking about today. That secret apartment and all the stories it holds.

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