As some of you may recall, I am an incorrigible peeping tom and the layout of our building only encourages me. From my usual perch in our dining room, I can see into the dining rooms, living rooms and, occasionally, bedrooms, of many other tenants. I do not go so far as to keep binoculars in there - anymore. But often, when I'm searching for just the right phrase or contemplating the mysteries of the universe ("Why is there so much pleather at the fat girl store lately? Fat girls don't like pleather! It chafes us! Maybe I should take a break from this thing I'm working on and write an angry letter to the fat girl store . . ."), I find myself gazing unabashedly into other people's homes. Rarely does this practice yield anything exciting - until this morning.
So there I am, all innocent-like, wandering around our dining room in search of pants, as you do. It's still dark outside and there are few lights on in our place, which is why I feel okay wandering about pants-less. While I'm in the dining room, I decide to sit down and take a moment to organize some things on the table (in the dark, 'cause that makes so much sense). Just as I get up to turn the light on, a flurry of movement across the courtyard catches my eye and I look over to the apartment of a new tenant on our floor. This woman had some wooden venetian blinds installed before she moved in (I know, because the good-looking butch who installed them caught me staring lustfully at her toolbelt a bunch of times, often while still in my pyjamas). The lights were on in the room and while the top half of the blinds was shut tight, the bottom half was open. As if daring me to look right in.
At first, it seemed like there was only one person in the room (I could only see them from the waist down) and it also seemed, from my limited viewpoint, that this person was involved in some kind of vigorous cleaning activity. I make similar angry cleaning movements myself, often accompanied by angry questioning ("What is ON . . . THIS . . . SPATULA??"), so I was about to go back to my tidying when the person near the window turned slightly. Three things immediately became clear:
- There were actually two people in the room;
- They did not have pants on either;
- Neither of them was cleaning.
Naturally, once I figured out what was actually going on, I did what any normal person would do if they discovered they were witnessing complete strangers in a private, intimate act. I went and got my glasses. And some trail mix.
As girl-on-boy boot-knocking goes, it was no great shakes. From an "entertaining your neighbourhood peeping tom" point of view, I mean. No imaginative positions (at least, from what I could see in the bottom half of the window), it just went on and on and at one point, I swear the girl was on the phone. But still - I COULDN'T LOOK AWAY.
The whole thing kinda reminded me of the scrambled porn we'd watch at sleepovers late at night on channel 74, if the sleepover hostess' parents had cable. I remember we found the scrambled porn titillating, yet slightly boring - and also, because access to the full picture was denied, frustrating. Unlike this morning, there was no stable window into the scrambled late night porn; lines would strobe up and down the screen, the picture was constantly in motion, you never knew where to look and yet, you couldn't look away, 'cause you never knew when you might see some - Ooo! Nipple! Nipple! Balls! Balls! Balls . . .balls . . . balls . . . ba . . . Jesus, when are they gonna get back to the - HA ha BOOBS! Boobs! Aaaand . . . back to balls. Oh, straight scrambled late night porn. Good times.
This couple across the way took me on quite a little trip down scrambled porn memory lane this morning as I sat there in the dark. Eating my trail mix. Realizing how this incident would just be too embarassing to blog about because my parents read my blog. It was rather sweet, really, a reminder of more innocent times. I felt as though I should leave them some kind of thank you card with a note like "Thanks for the memories! Keep on . . . truckin'." I didn't.
I DID, however, have a chance to deliver my thanks in person later this afternoon. I ran into the girl tenant in the hallway, while I was taking out the recycling. We smiled and nodded hello to each other and I suddenly had this terrible urge to say something COMPLETELY inappropriate, like "Hey!" And then she would say "Hi . . ." and then I would say "Soooooo - saw you takin' quite a ride on the cock rocket this morning!" and then in the stunned silence that ensued, I would nod knowingly and add "Yep. Cock . . . ROCKet."
Maybe next time.
In other, less porn-related news, the voting has begun over at Best of Blogs! So if you're killin' time this fine Friday, cruise on over and check out the action. And if you haven't had enough amateur porn, definitely visit some of the finalists for Best Sex Blog. They . . . uh . . . make me blush.
