*If this is too explicit for you, I’m sorry, but I’m also not sorry.
Sex on the third floor
No, not sex on the beach. That’s right, sex on the third floor.
I just sat in my car and watched my neighbors on the other side of the apartment complex having sex. Just sitting in the parking lot, packing up my things. And then I saw. I felt like I was intruding, of course. I just helped myself to dinner. Popcorn and movie. I took a load off and enjoyed the show without asking. (My feet were on the coffee table).
I hope I don’t go to jail for looking. I feel like if I was an older man sitting alone in my car, people would think differently about this scene. Why should I, as me, be any different?
Their blinds were full mouth open. And their bodies together formed a lulling tongue lapping up the window’s view of night time. Maybe they wanted me to see.
I thought, “Like what the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop looking? More than that… why am I suddenly doing more than a look? I’m full-fledged watching.” But I couldn’t help myself. It was completely fascinating.
The night blinded them. And so did the sex. So they could not see me huddled below them in my front seat even if they tried. They had other things to occupy their minds, their time.
But the truth is: I couldn’t tell if it was sex at all. A rocking chair? A guy doing crunches, muscling up his abs or something? Maybe because of the height or distance, I thought I saw two people having sex, and really it was just a trick of my eyes. Something I created in my mind.
I know for sure I saw movement—one thrusting whoosh of pale color. Whatever it was, it was bent over like a hot glue gun. On a sunken-in couch in the living room.
I swear I could almost see another person. Maybe a brunette with a round fist of hair on her head, the rest falling into her eyes.
Backwards cowgirl? I’m rusty on my Kama Sutra, the Bible of all naked connectedness. It looked like bodies blown into glass or silver utensils, forks and spoons.
I swear I could see moonstone skin blazing in between the blinds. Just like shooting stars above the balcony stairs. And maybe a rippling chest, overcome with folds of dewy flesh.
Maybe the figures, if there were two of them, could see a little bit of light creeping in. Cut-out shapes of light on the carpet. A maple leaf, a paper fan, or a spiderweb.
I grabbed my purse and remembered the time. I remembered what I was doing. “I was just grabbing my things, and then I was leaving.” We say this all the time when we run eyeballs first into things we feel like we shouldn’t see. We call them oops-a-daisies.
I move onto other things. I think about my brownie kissed chocolate ice cream slurping my name in the freezer.