SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: Laundry Day

 

 

 He had stepped into his living room to find a muscled ass hanging out of the washer machine.

Mr. Hill had woken up from the noise outside his bedroom door. Groggy, he stood up wondering what trouble his son had gotten into. He really hadn’t expected anything too crazy; it was his own personal laundry day in the suburbs after all. A quiet weekend to get all the clothes in the house clean. It was his responsibility: his duty. He was the man of the house after all and what was more manly than taking care of things. There was joy and tranquility to be found in the easy way of life out in the suburbs. He had really let it settle in from the hustle and bustle of city life.

If only he had known the golden rule in the suburbs for which he lived. People talked, whispered, but he never paid it much mind. In the suburbs, Laundry Day was a staple in adult male living. In the store. Passing conversations on the street. Men reminisced about the first time they did their own laundry like it was a milestone in life. They acted like it was more dangerous than sneaking out, more freeing than getting a car, and better than sex.

Mr. Hill had been invited to a cookout, with some of the single fathers in his neighborhood. His son Noah got to meet the other kids but. Mr. Hill was pulled into a spirited discussion. He thought it was about sports, but no the men of the neighborhood were arguing about laundry detergent, which was better, got the clothes cleaner, smelled great etc.

“What do you think?” someone asked.

“What do I think?” Mr. Hill repeated back, caught off guard. “I usually just go with what smells good and doesn't cost much.”

“See a reasonable man.” Someone tipped their beer to him.

“No, no you guys are both wrong, that's a young person’s way of thinking, you have got to be more intentional.” Another guy said.

And the conversation continued for hours as if laundry was the hottest topic in the world. Mr. Hill sat back and listened, nodding his head, not speaking, running his hands through his blond hair. The performance of listening but not actually engaging. Mr. Hill did chores, housework, yard work but at the end of the day he was a dedicated gym kind of guy. This talk was even beyond other househusband level speak. Deeper than a skill they had learned during adolescence, this was a pure rite of passage.

The reverence they spoke with was like the washer and dryer were like twin gods that sat in everyone’s homes. Mr. Hill had to stand and listen to the host talk about his new ones like it was a grill. Then they started talking about their various laundry days, once a week, every two weeks, whenever the basket was full. Mr. Hill nursed his drink until a voice came his way.

“When do you do your laundry, Layton?”

Mr. Hill looked up, “Me? Well, it’s just me and my son so whenever really.” The men’s eyes went wide, someone’s breath sucked in. They looked at him like he had just run over something.

“You don’t have a set Laundry Day?”

Mr. Hill chuckled a bit expecting the others to join him, “No, does it matter?” No one laughed.

“Dude, your clothes will build up, if you don’t clean them—

“Woah, woah I clean my clothes. “Mr. Hill held up his hands feeling attacked. “Just because I don’t have it set when, shouldn’t be the worst.”

A hand rested on his shoulders, “Just be careful, dirty clothes get washed one way or another.

It was weird. Super weird actually, how much they liked laundry, but Mr. Hill was willing to ignore it/ Other than that one thing, they were normal the rest of the time. He also never came home and found them worshiping a large washing machine effigy, so they weren’t completely insane.

How did that lead to today?

 

Who was the strange man with his ass hanging out of Mr. Hill’s washer? He watched the man reach back and adjust…wait, those were Mr. Hill's underwear and socks. “What the…” Mr. Hill whispered, realizing he was dealing with a thief? That would explain the clothes by the man’s massive thighs. Mr. Hill had to collect himself when he was ogling when he should have been getting angry.

“Hey!” He said it more clearly. And the man’s body paused, before coming out.

 

Mr. Hill’s cock responded in tandem with his eyes. The man on his floor was absolutely gorgeous, from the legs to the rump, his back, his bicep, forearm with Mr. Hill’s jockstrap. Then there was that face, structured, clean cut. If his features weren't so hardened Mr. Will would have thought the man bore a striking resemblance too.

“Morning, Dad! Sorry, I mean, Layton.” The man said. A deep silvery voice came out of him. “Still getting used to all this.”

“Chris?!!!” Mr. Hill said, mouth agape. He didn't even believe it yet, his mouth had just simply said because he could believe it.  As if saying his son’s name made the stranger’s resemblance come through stronger. There was no logical reason Mr. Hill shouldn’t have been trying to remove the man or calling the cops, but he didn’t. Instead, he just backed away down the hall, power walking to Chris’ room. His feet stomped their way to the open door. He turned into it. The first thing he noticed, no toys were scattered on the floor. A clean floor greeted him instead, freshly made bed, and a computer desk in the room. He walked to Chris’ closet throwing it open, an assortment of suits, dress pants, and polos. Lined on the floor were shoes too big to belong to Chris' feet: new tennis, shined black shoes, comfortable slippers. He staggered back out to the living room.

Chris was standing up by that point.

 

“What’s going on?” Mr. Hill scratched his head. He meant for it to be a shout, to be angry, but his voice only came out calm.

“I’m your roommate now, isn’t that awesome!” Chris stated Layton’s jockstrap still in his hand.

“No, I mean: how? WHEN.” Mr. Hill plopped onto his couch, body deflated, trying hard to not look at the body of the handsome double-cheeked up stranger before him, or the anatomy of his back and arms. The man’s figure was objectively stunning, an older enhanced muscled version of Mr. Hill’s own boy, though he was having trouble recalling Chris' exact face. In his brain details about his son were being obfuscated, not erased, just harder to make out. He knew this new man had a matured version of Chris' face, but he could no longer envision Chris’ original face.

“I heard the washer machine start this morning, I thought you were up. So, I walked out here but didn’t see you.” He tapped on the washer, “And well you know your son was always hypnotized by the spin cycle, so he—I—man, this is hard. Whichever, sat down here and watched. He thought you’d be out soon, so he just kept watching. Next thing he knew, he was leaning forward, closer to the glass. When he put his hands out to get leverage, they went through and he was pulled inside. The washing machine tossed him around and his body stretched his pj’s went bye-bye, somewhere in there your clothes got on him. Next thing I know, he’s me and I get spat out of the washer along with these clothes.” He taps his head, "And from the moment I land, I know I’m completely different from your son, although I used to be him. Then, I remembered I saw your jockstrap still in there and that’s where you came in.

“That doesn't make sense at all.” Mr. Hill stated.

“Hey, don’t look at me man, The washer only used your son because you clearly weren’t going to do the laundry. Someone had to take up the mantle. You know, be the responsible one around here, not let clothes pile up.”

“I was about to do it!” Mr. Hill defended.

Chris shook his head, “It’s the suburbs man, life moves slow, but you can't be moving at a glacier’s pace when it comes to laundry.”

“So, what happens next?”

“Oh, you mean the dryer? I should probably check if there's anything inside. There’s always a sock you know!”

 

Mr. Hill ignored the pulse of his cock. But he could not ignore the thoughts in his brain: if Chris was still Chris Hill what did that mean for their relationship? It certainly wasn’t father and son. This man was as attractive as the other fathers on the block. That thought gave Mr. Hill pause. He thought back on how the men reflected on doing laundry. “Does this sort of thing happen often out here?”

“Layton, come on, stop being ridiculous. Of course it does! Being able to do laundry by yourself is like the most basic step to independence. When you go from being a boy to being a man.”

“So, what, people are just chucking others into washing machines?”

“No, it’s supposed to be a great coming of age thing. Don’t blame the suburbs for your sloppy habits. Had to start itself and make someone who’d appreciate its importance.”  He reached for some pods, “Now, let’s actually start another cycle.”

 

 Mr. Hill paused at that. He took a moment to look at the clothes on the floor. They weren't just random; they were his jockstraps. Which meant the washer started itself but only chose those few undergarments. Why not clean the whole house then? It felt kind of like a set up to specifically lure Chris, with the intended purpose of changing him. And now just like every other house on the block there was a man who was in love with its process. It didn’t give a damn about clothes being clean, it wanted to be worshiped. These were petty machines with grievances.

Well, two could play that game.

“Chris, would you mind just standing right there—put the laundry stuff down for a moment.” Chris complied with Mr. Hill’s request as his former father came over and kicked his jockstraps off to the side.

Layton Hill took a good once over of his roommate. The man's body was perfect, from head to toe. All for Laundry? A waste honestly.

“Was there a point to this?” Chris asked, scratching his head, eyes on Mr. Hill’s prominent boner.

A smirk on Layton’s face he asked, “Since you love cleaning, have you ever considered the benefits of hand washing and air drying out in the back?”

“No, can’t say I have.” Chris admitted.

The washer and dryer’s outlet sparked like a fit.