Through a Window, Not My Own

Girls aren't supposed to look. Or, if we do look, the mere sight of bare flesh isn't supposed to move us. It's always our boyfriends and husbands who pull us to watch a sexy movie. While we feign a lack of interest or protest noisily. Really, we're not supposed to look. Oh, the quickly glanced kiss is fine. It touches us. It's romantic. A moan of pleasure heard through too thin walls; that could bring a brief smile of recognition -- a fellow traveler down the road to ecstasy. But we don't linger. Upon hearing it, we don't run and turn off the TV and shut the windows. We don't stand stock still holding our breath hoping to catch another sound. Closing our eyes to focus concentration on what's going on next door. Hoping, hoping, that he… or she will cry out again. But girls don't do that. We aren't supposed to look.

And so this couple, together in a hotel room. Who maybe forgot to close their curtains. Who just happened to have a room that I could see into from mine. How am I supposed to react to them? After all, I'm not supposed to look. But I do look. I'm in my hotel room, wondering how I'm going to fill another long evening… alone. "It's okay," I tell myself. It's okay as long as you don't seek it out. After all, it's not as if I was lurking in a back alley, hiding in the bushes. I'm just an occupant in this large, impersonal hotel. Who happened to glance out her window.

She is so responsive to his kisses. And the fact that I've turned out my lights so that I can see better. Well, that's just to spare the couple I'm watching embarrassment if they were to happen to see me. I'm sure that their open curtains are an oversight. A missed minor detail.

Her full breasts make me think of my own. Remind me of thoughts I had when I was an adolescent. "Would my breasts grow as big as Kim Keenan's?", the most popular girl in my class. Was she popular because of them. Would I be as popular if mine were as big as hers'? What would it be like to have a man bury his face between my breasts? To have real cleavage. Not an artifice of cleaver lingerie engineering. My palms ache as I wonder what it would be like to feel the weight of her heavy breasts in my hands.

The desk chair can be turned to face out the window. Allowing me to be a comfortable spectator. I open the top few buttons of my blouse. Exposing my own breasts. I wish the windows in these damn hotels would actually open. A cool breeze against my skin would feel exciting. It doesn't matter, my nipples are achingly stiff anyway.

As she takes him in her mouth, why is my first thought to avert my eyes? Because she does it without coyness. There's no long, slow, teasing build up. No attempt to raise doubts or questions in his mind. It occurs to me that maybe she's filling her own hunger, not his. I've always thought of oral sex as an unselfish act. Now I wonder which one of them is being generous? Him or her.

I recall my own youthful experiments. A whispered story passed silently from girl to girl. Frowns and disapproval accompanied by giggles of disbelief. Yet a few hours later, I sneak a piece of yellow fruit from the bowl on the kitchen table and lock myself securely in the bathroom. I turn on the shower taps to muffle any sounds, inadvertent or otherwise, and peel away the bitter skin. I slowly place my lips around the banana and then, untaught, curl them back over my teeth to protect the delicate exposed fruit. In… just a little more. A little further. And then out. Then again. In and out. Back and forth. The sweetness is welcome and familiar. But I wonder what a real one would taste like. I withdraw the fruit and lick the back of my hand. Fleshy. Salty. Is that it what it would taste like? And the other stuff. It's such an abstraction, I can't even imagine it. Back to the banana. Now a little faster. I steal a sideways glance at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror and can't help smiling. I am absolutely convinced I am the only girl who has ever done this. Until years later when I was in college. One of those dunken late night sessions with a bunch of dorm mates.

And as I reach down between my long legs, I can at least share what he's tasting now. I close my eyes and let that full, tangy muskiness fill my senses. A little more moisture on my finger and I explore another place, further back. But just its sensitive, circular perimeter. Talk about something we're never, ever supposed to ask for. Let alone enjoy. Yet I do enjoy it. And the sight of his reaching, probing tongue gives me a shiver I can't suppress. Maybe I adjust my posture to mimic hers, but I feel confined in this chair. There! A foot propped up on the window sill feels just right.

And the first time someone walked in on me. When the watcher became the watched. Maybe my roommate missed the scarf hanging on the doorknob. She was always in a hurry. Me on my knees, face pressed hard against rumpled bed sheets. A tall, curly haired boy from my chemistry class behind me. He was a runner on the track team and we never really dated but somehow ended up together. Me on my knees, him behind me. Thrusting deeply. When they aren't too big, I love that position. Even though the first few times, we're not even supposed to like it that way either. Too impersonal. Exposed.

And as you'd expect, my roommate let out a small gasp and froze. The tall boy who's name I can't remember… he froze, too. And me. We're all taught to freeze. To shriek and yell "get out." I froze, but only for the briefest moment before I resumed our rhythm, even if my partner didn't realize the music had started again. I threw myself against him, over and over. Was I performing for my uninvited audience? Instead of pulling the covers around my nakedness I threw off any inhibitions I had ever hoped to have.

And as that young college age cock began to soften against the surprise, I reached between my legs and quickly circled him tightly. By the time our unexpected visitor left the room with the one notebook she absolutely had to have for her class, my partner had recovered and I met my roommate's eyes with a deep, smiling look of satisfaction.

So I asked myself days later, "is it okay to be seen as long as you don't put yourself on display?" I could never answer that question. Only wonder as I leaned over a co-workers desk to help with a computer question. Our attention tightly focused on the monitor's screen as my loose blouse fell away to reveal a sheer bra. And why is it that some skirts, just don't look right with anything on underneath them? Not even the flimsiest thong.

The first time I climaxed with a man it surprised me. My fingers had always given me a lot of pleasure. And eventually, I found other things to do with that youthful banana. But the experience was always a little disjointed. Never quite right. Too much of one sensation, not enough of the other. Then, the first time I kneeled astride a willing lover, it was as if all the dissonant parts began to fit together. He was everything I needed him to be in that position. Steady and solid. A reassuring face as I was swept forward by a rush of passion.

As I watch this unknown couple, I try to turn my hand into something that it's not. The fleshy part of my palm pressing hard, hard, hard against my swollen lips. Not focused in any one place. But perfect pressure nonetheless. Me grinding against him. Every direction perfect. Forward and back. Side to side. And especially circles. I actually contemplate whether I prefer clockwise or counter clockwise more. Maybe it's got something to do with my own internal flow of energy.

Now she's on her back, completely open to him. His cock hanging thick and heavy, poised to disappear inside her. It's then that I realize that this couple hasn't stolen a few brief minutes away from very different worlds to be with each other. This was no clandestine rendezvous. For certain, the hot, sweaty passion was there. So much of it, that it's hard for me to believe that their love wasn't the brand new, urgent kind. No, I realized, I was seeing something much more. And it would be too easy to dismiss what I was seeing as sexual gymnastics. Her total openness, I realized, could only come with years of trust and togetherness. This was a couple in the truest sense of the word. Seeing them made me ache for everything I've ever wanted in my own life.

That one special person. Always there for me. The one person whose violation of me in every and any way possible I would welcome. And so now I find myself unable to do anything but look. And it seems as if they could go on forever. Not seem. I know they'll go on forever. And that last moment. After she's come, oh… at least three or four times by my count. When I see her urging him on with her hands, her face, her eyes, his explosion becomes mine.

Now both legs thrown up on the window sill. Wide apart. Wide open. I shudder beneath two frantic hands. Probing, rubbing, pressing. Swallowing him only seems appropriate. Adding texture, taste, and smell to his pleasure. A circle completed.

And now I am totally spent. A wasted rag doll. Unable to pull my hands away from the hot wetness that doesn't seem to want to stop. But finally, my eyes do drift away. And as they do, I glance upward. There… faintly illuminated in another window a floor or two above me. I see someone, just for a moment before they withdraw deeper into their own darkness.

Watching me.