Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing
my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not
wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation
drift away.
I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t in the same spot as it
was positioned last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been
using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert,
sharing the story, embellished for more dramatic effect,
with her stern serious dad or, worse, with Angel, that
snobby friend of hers.
I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in
high school because that ridicule had been about my clothes
and this will center around the part of my soul I’ve always
kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth and I won’t be able to
deny it. I am a pervert.
I have to return the telescope to where it was positioned.
This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.
Last night, my man-crazy roommate had been giggling over the
new guy in three eleven north. The previous occupant had
been a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his
luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most
exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.
According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of
man candy, tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He’d
been completing arm curls outside and she’d enthusiastically
counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps,
calling to me to take a look.
I’d resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni
and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the
diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner with
Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and
hasn’t returned.
Three eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten
the telescope. That position looks about right but then, the
imitation UGGS I bought in second year college looked about
right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the
sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.
Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on about right, I gaze
through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden
planes, almost like…
Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.
I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl
of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop
elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles
downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed
torso.
No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy
neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me…
I glance behind me. There’s no one here to catch me. Cyndi
won’t know I looked. The hunk in three eleven north won’t
know I looked. I’m not harming anyone.
I bend over and take another peek.
