People Watching

The flashing black cursor continued to taunt him by blinking non-stop against the blank white page. How long had it sat there, immobile? How long had it waited to fly across the screen trailing a line of text behind it, prose to inspire, words to live by, or even just something to pay the rent? Julian Soul didn't know. He knew it couldn't have been long—maybe five or ten minutes—but time was doing its disappearing trick, slipping into that vortex making it impossible to know for sure.

It wasn't writers block per-se, just a complete inability to put hands on keys and start typing. Anything would do. At this point he'd have been thrilled to type a page of complete gibberish as long as his fingers were moving, his keyboard tapping with that musical quality all writers love to hear, and the damned cursor would stop flashing, waiting for what came next.

No, this was a special kind of writers block. This was the focus issue.

He knew the story he wanted to tell, knew it well. Had a title, even knew how it would end. Yes even the great mystery/romance author Julian Soul, the master behind Soul Glow, Heart and Soul, Night Heat, the soon-to-be-a-major-motion-picture Naughty, and fifteen other consecutive New York Times bestsellers, occasionally went into one of them not knowing the ending. But this one hadn't eluded him—hadn't left his mind like a lover slipping out from the sheets before dawn leaving nothing so much as a rose behind—it was still there, front and center in his consciousness. He was just unable to write it. He suspected that if he had the first line, if he forced it out like starting a brand new ketchup bottle, the rest would flow easily. But even that rational rang hollow. Julian knew his problem wasn't so much of what he wrote, but where he wrote it.

Like the old joke said, it boiled down to location, location, location. He couldn't focus in his home office, the apartment complex was being renovated, and trying to write to the sound of jackhammers was impossible. He'd tried all the usual suspects; coffee shops (too cliché), the library (too noisy, believe-it-or-not), bookstores (sure, just like Stephen King could show up at the local Barnes and Noble and write his next book without interruption). There was even an ill-fated attempt to use the quiet room at First United Methodist, but somehow writing erotica in a church just felt... wrong. It had given him another idea for a story, but still... He visited parks, cemeteries, the food court at the mall, bars, restaurants, the university, anywhere he thought he could sit and write. And all those places were fine, except...

Julian Soul was a people watcher.

He'd never realized it before, but somewhere along the way, he'd become an avid follower of people. People doing things, walking, talking, eating, it didn't matter. He sat with rapt attention hour after hour watching them. Occasionally his subconscious would make up little back stories for them, little scenarios that would explain why they were, where they were, when they were.

But none of that translated to the flashing cursor on the blank page.

His current attempt involved house sitting for a friend and his wife who'd gone out of town for week and needed someone to keep an eye on their pair of tabby cats,a request Julian couldn't take seriously.

Maxwell and Prudence (the cats, not the couple), were named after a couple of the Fab Four's songs. And while their names were all Beatles, the cats' attitudes were pure Metallica. They were easily two of the meanest felines to come from the species, and Julian suspected the only thing he was really required to do for them after they'd spent a long night caterwauling was to open the front door for them least they knock it down. But still, he'd put out their food and water as Glenn and Holly had requested, treats in the afternoon if he was in, even the occasional quick scratch behind the ears, just to show he wasn't completely emasculated by them. Otherwise, he gave the pair a wide berth.

Tonight, after setting them free to roam the neighborhood and wreak havoc, he'd grabbed a beer and moved his laptop upstairs to a small roll-top desk in the attic. This proved to be far enough from the wireless router to prevent him from getting on line, (something about the copper pipes that crisscrossed the attic floor, he suspected) and far removed from the distraction Glenn's XBOX ONE had been the last three nights. Tonight, he was going to write, dammit. Tonight he would force the opening line out of his mind and onto the page at last, and the rest of the story would surely flow.

But the cursor stubbornly remained where it was, blinking "failure" in its harsh Morse code.

Julian sighed in frustration and popped the top on the beer. He'd promised himself no refills until something was on the damn page, so starting on the brew so quickly in the evening was dangerous. He was distracted from the cool can by an inhuman scream (to call it a noise simply doesn't cover it) from outside. Probably one of the cats, but what kind of sitter would he be if he didn't at least check?

He moved to the rear of the attic and threw the shade up over the window he'd opened earlier this evening to allow the attic to air out a bit before he sequestered himself. It overlooked the rear of the house, the back yard and the backs of the houses on the next block over. Glenn and Holly's side of the street was uphill from the rest of the neighborhood, and their back yard sloped dramatically to the fence line, but the downhill lie kept going. From his vantage point in the window Julian could see over the fence, into the neighboring yard, the back of their house, and if wasn't for an ancient elm in their front yard, the next street over as well.

And there on the patio in the adjoining backyard was a naked couple. Julian did a classic double take; the beer, the writing and even Maxwell and Prudence temporarily forgotten. The couple was younger, fit and sexy even from a distance. They were sitting together in a chair on their patio—or rather, he was sitting in the chair, she was sitting on his lap facing away from him with her legs spread on either side of his. The scream must have come when she lowered herself onto him, an act she was repeating again and again.

The man had short spiked blonde hair and from what Julian could see, a physique like a Greek god's offspring. The woman was shorter, with short dark hair that looked almost blue-black in the moonlight. She had small perky breasts and even perkier nipples, for the weather had taken a turn for the cooler this week. Occasionally the man's hands would travel up her sides to caress those breasts and nipples, but always guiding her body back down on top of his. She moaned again, and Julian confirmed the wailing earlier was certainly not a cat.

He stood a man torn. One part wanted nothing more than to give the couple their presumed privacy and get back to writing. But another part, a more primal part of his brain needed to see this. How often do you get this kind of opportunity? How many times did you wish and pray for something just like this when you were a kid? To open your bedroom window and see a naked woman, let alone a naked woman in the midst of what sounded like a really good screw? Fuck the novel, this was people watching!

Julian set his beer down on the open windowsill, and turned to get a chair. Might as well be comfortable, he thought. He straddled the chair in much the same way as she was straddling her lover, and took a long pull from the beer. A quick side glance revealed a pair of binoculars hanging from a nail in the unfinished attic wall. Julian wondered briefly if Glenn or Holly or possibly both were frequent viewers of the couple outside, but dismissed it as coincidence. Glenn was an avid birdwatcher. Still, no reason for them to go unused tonight.

They were close already—the backyards in this neighborhood ran long but not deep—but the binoculars brought the couple into very sharp focus. Julian could see every stroke the man took up into the woman, every shudder that racked her body when she slid down, taking him deep. A glance confirmed she had only a thin strip of dark hair pointing toward her slit, everything else was shaved smooth. The man too unless the shadows she was casting weren't shadows.

Julian felt the sizeable rise in his thin cotton pants from the action on display, and absentmindedly rubbed his erection though the thin linen material between sips of beer.

The couple's pace intensified and she became more vocal every time she bottomed out on the downward strokes. Her panting carried up from the yard to the window clearly without any help. She threw her head back and cried out in pleasure. He wrapped one hand around her head and leaned forward to suck on her neck, his other hand snaking down between her legs to finger the soft folds of flesh not being hit by his stiff member. The two were one, entwined together in a most intimate fashion that went beyond pure sex. Together they made love, erotic art as living statues. Julian couldn't remember seeing anything more beautiful.

Her cries became louder still, "ah-ah-ah-ah" constantly in time with the thrusts below her. Finally she cried out with one last squeal, and nearly jumped off his lap. She spun like a ballerina doing a pirouette and dropped to her knees, taking him into her mouth. Blondie was as silent as she was vocal, and it was only with the aid of the binoculars that Julian could tell the man was convulsing, obviously climaxing as he released his load into her waiting mouth. She seemed to relish his release as much as he did, savoring it as one would a rare wine vintage.

Julian was about to put the spyglasses (a more appropriate name there never was) back on the hook, figuring the couple would head back indoors when she surprised him—and Blondie, by sliding her hand underneath him. Julian couldn't see what caused the other man to grunt with either pain or pleasure (and couldn't tell which), but it was his guess she had hooked a finger up inside him. Her other hand never stopped it's up and down motion and instead of flagging having just exhausted himself, his erection was actually getting harder.

She stood and led him not inside, but off the patio and into the yard. Julian appreciated her naked form sauntering across the grass closer to him, her breasts swaying back and forth in the moonlight, and appreciated her even more so when she crawled up onto the picnic table sitting in the middle of their green postage stamp. She did it cat-like (very un-Maxwell and Prudence), slinking up onto the table top on her hands and knees.

"Take my ass." She commanded her lover. She did it boldly, loudly and without question. Blondie crawled up behind her, and with his feet flat on the table, mounted her from behind. She gasped hard as he slid inside, filling her up.

Julian set his beer down and unzipped his pants, freeing his own cock without taking the binoculars from his eyes. His long and thick ebony shaft spilled out of his fly, and he started jerking it while he watched.

Whereas before the couple had been joined by an emotional bond in their love making, this was different. He grabbed her hips and thrust roughly, pumping her ass with none of the touching sentimentality they displayed before. And she bucked against him, not welcoming his invasion so much as fighting back. Before her cries "ah-ah-ah" were full of passion and love, now her grunts of "uh-uh-uh" were all physical.

This was not making love. This was pure, primal, animalistic fucking.

Julian stroked his cock as fiercely as Blondie was stroking his own in and out of her, figuring he had some catching up to do. She shuddered deeply with each forward slam delivered, her breasts swaying beneath her, her fingers splayed out wide against the table top, her head thrown back as another scream passed her open lips.

"You...feel...so...good...in...my...ass." She panted through clenched teeth. Her eyes squeezed shut, then suddenly flew open and she looked right up into the open window. Julian froze mid-stroke, suddenly knowing the sensation a deer in the headlights must, not knowing if he had been made or not. His massive erection didn't care, it had reached the point of no return. Julian came, and came hard. Grunting as his orgasm forced him up onto his toes, he fired a shotgun blast of cum that trailed out the window. She never looked away, locking her gaze up into the window with a dreamy smile on her face while the pounding continued.

Blondie moaned—a loud caveman grunt that echoed in the dark and for some reason, made Julian think of the noisy public library again—and she tensed for it. "Give it to me, shoot that hot load in my ass," She cried. Blondie obliged, blasting himself inside her, quivering and shuddering as he did. Her grin widened, but her eyes never left the window.

Blondie collapsed on the table behind her and still she stared and smiled. Despite the flagging member in his hand, her smile made Julian twitch again, and he had to release his dripping cock least she get another rise out of him.

The strange three way stretched on, until eventually an exhausted Blondie took her in his arms and helped her off the table. They embraced in the moonlight, and she helped him back into the house.

Julian stood transfixed for a moment longer, then lowered the binoculars and put them back on the nail. He went to finish the last of his beer, but the can was already empty. He numbly went downstairs for another, his vow about no refills forgotten in a haze. While digging in the fridge, the phone rang.

"Hello?" He half expected Glenn to be calling and then what? Was the display in the backyard something to be brought up or not? Yah man, everything's fine, the cats are still alive, and oh-did you know your neighbors are exhibitionist junkies with a penchant for ass fucking and cheap thrills?

"Hello." The voice on the phone was not Glenn. Not even close. But those two syllables were spoken with such sultry feminism Julian instantly knew who was on the other line. His mind's eye conjured an image of her: She was standing still naked and well and truly humped in her kitchen, (probably twirling the phone cord around one finger) her dark hair and perky breasts shining under harsh florescent lights now instead of moonlight with cum dripping from both holes.

The image made him instantly erect again.

She continued without prompting. "This is Mary from across the yard."

Mary, Mary quite contrary how does your garden grow? "Hi Mary, I'm Julian." He heard himself speaking, but in a surreal dreamlike quality.

"Holly and Glenn said you'd be house sitting, (interesting isn't it, that couples become one name the whole time you know them? 'Glenn and Holly' were always 'Glenn and Holly' to Julian, never 'Holly and Glenn.' But he was certain the idea would have been just as foreign for Mary to refer to them his way) and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay." Her voice still carried the commanding presence from earlier, but somehow was softer. Almost demur.

While the mental image of her made him hard, her voice made a bead of pre-cum well up on his dick.

"Everything's great." He croaked out.

"You don't need anything?"

"Nope. I'm all set."

"Did you enjoy the show?" He paused. Obviously she had seen him in the window watching. "It... looked like you did."

"...I liked what I saw very much." Julian heard himself saying.

"Good. We don't mind at all, we're just surprised. Holly never left the light on before." And then he realized all his worry about whether or not she could see him was completely irrelevant. He might as well have fired up a neon arrow over his head. But Holly was the voyeur and not Glenn? That brought up a whole new set of questions he knew he'd never get to ask his friends. "If you're interested, we'll be out again tomorrow..."

"I'll be here."

"Great. See you then." There was a click and she was gone.

Julian wasn't sure how long he'd stood in the kitchen, phone in-hand with the fridge open and beer forgotten, listening to the dial tone give way to "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again..." He finally got moving, but not for a beer. He made a bee line upstairs, reset his chair in front of his laptop and starred down the blinking cursor. With no hesitation, inspiration seeping out his pores, his fingers began to type:

Marion (but all her friends called her Mary for short) never minded an audience, in fact she welcomed the prying eyes. She enjoyed giving them a glimpse of the life they wish they lived.

His writers block was officially ended.