My Neighbor Saw Everything

I have always been careful about my curtains. That's what makes this so embarrassing, or so hot, I honestly can't decide which. My bedroom window faces the back of the building across the courtyard, and I keep the sheers drawn because I'm not trying to give anyone a show. Except that one Tuesday, apparently, I wasn't as careful as I thought.

It had been one of those days. Everything itched. My skirt kept riding up at work, the air conditioning was broken, and by the time I got home I was already halfway gone just from thinking about getting my hands on myself. I kicked off my shoes, peeled out of my work clothes, and flopped onto my bed in just my underwear with my favorite little vibrator, the quiet purple one that never lets me down.

I didn't even bother with the lights. The late afternoon sun was coming through the sheers all golden and soft, and I remember thinking how pretty it looked on my skin. I slid my panties down my legs and kicked them somewhere, spread my knees wide on the mattress, and pressed the vibrator right where I'd been aching all day. Within a minute I was squirming, my back arching off the bed, making those breathy little noises I only make when I'm alone.

That's when I saw him.

Out of the corner of my eye, just a flicker of movement across the courtyard. I turned my head, still buzzing, still spread open on my bed, and there he was. My neighbor. The one with the little balcony garden, the one who always nods at me by the mailboxes. He was standing at his railing with a watering can frozen in his hand, staring straight into my bedroom.

Everything in me said to slam my knees shut. I didn't. I don't know what came over me, maybe the haze I was already in, maybe the way he didn't look away, didn't even pretend he hadn't been caught staring. He just stood there, watering can tipping forgotten, water spilling over the edge of his planter box onto his own balcony floor, and watched me.

So I let him.

I kept the vibrator exactly where it was and I looked right back at him and I let my head fall back on the pillow. My whole body was trembling, not just from the buzz but from being seen like that, completely open, completely filthy, with a man I said good morning to watching me touch myself. I arched harder. I spread my knees wider. I wanted him to see all of it, every shiver, every twitch of my hips.

He set the watering can down. Slowly. Deliberately. And he leaned his forearms on the railing and just watched, and I swear I could see his chest rising and falling faster from all the way across the courtyard. That did something to me. Knowing I was doing that to him, making him breathe like that without even touching him, made my stomach clench so tight I thought I'd finish right then.

I didn't rush it. I teased myself the way I wished someone would tease me, circling slow, pulling the buzz away just when I got close, my thighs shaking, my toes curling into the sheets. Twice I almost came and twice I stopped, and I could see him shift his weight, like he was dying for me to just let go. The third time I let it build and build until I was whimpering, and then I pressed it down hard and let it take me, my whole body bowing off the mattress, my mouth open in a silent cry, while he watched every single second of it.

Afterward I just lay there, boneless, my heart hammering, and he finally moved. He picked up his watering can, gave me the smallest nod, the same polite nod he gives me by the mailboxes, and went back inside. Like he hadn't just watched me come apart on my bed. Like we were just neighbors.

I should have been mortified. I should have bought blackout curtains that same night. Instead I lay there in the golden light, still tingling, still wet, replaying the way he couldn't look away, and I touched myself again just thinking about it.

I keep replaying the moment he set the watering can down. That tiny, deliberate movement told me everything. He wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't going to pretend it hadn't happened. He wanted to watch me finish, and knowing that, knowing a man I chat with by the mailboxes wanted to see me come apart, rewired something in my brain. Now every time I pass him in the hall, I feel that same hot rush climb up my neck, and I have to look away before I do something reckless right there between the mailboxes.

The next night I drew the sheers exactly the way I always do. Not an inch more closed. And I left my little purple vibrator right on top of the nightstand where anyone looking could see it waiting.

I'm still waiting to see if he's looking.