I moved cross-country to Phoenix, Arizona for work when I was 22 years old and just out of college. Born-and-bred with Midwestern manners, after leasing a 1-bedroom apartment I proceeded to knock on the doors of and introduce myself to the neighbors who shared the building with me.
You know, just in case any of them ever needed to borrow a cup of sugar, or could use an extra set of hands in an emergency situation.
The gesture was met with disinterest at best and "get the hell off my doorstep" stares at worst. All with the exception of one, a mid-30s single-mother-type who seemed lonely and had a great smile. But that's a story for another day.
Anyhow, the lesson of tall fences making great neighbors was not lost on me as I spent the next decade continually moving my way across the American Southwest, to the Deep South, east to the Mid-Atlantic and finally to Oahu, Hawaii where I settled in to a beachside community of townhomes overlooking an ocean-fed bay.
Given Hawaiian's general distaste for outsiders - they dismissively call us haoles - I knew it'd take some work to ingratiate myself with the locals. Fortunately, I'd refined my 'aw-shucks' Midwestern approach over the years and began to discreetly take stock of my new neighbors.
Overall, the community was primarily haole, like me, but skewed more toward older, empty-nest couples. There were some newlyweds mixed in and several obvious 'party' units inhabited by gaggles of single Marines assigned to a nearby base. Pretty standard stuff, down to the housewives sunning themselves daily at the community pool.
Within a few months I had settled into a healthy routine: wake up, work out, go to actual work (hey, rent isn't cheap!), and end most days watching the sunset from my private lanai with a cold Maui Big Swell beer in hand.
Being a solidly-built, tall, blue-eyed, brown-haired guy with just enough personality and manners, it didn't take long for me to develop a social circle, complete with a leggy, SoCal transplant surfer/artist girlfriend.
In short, I was living the dream.
And then, one day while walking out to get my mail, I heard my name ...
"Oh Frank, may I borrow you, please?"
Turning, I looked up and spotted Mrs. Harris calling from across the parking lot. Walking toward her, I caged my thoughts. Mid 50s, maybe. Married, I was pretty sure. And she was a runner. If I'd noticed her at all up to this point, it was on her daily morning run. From afar, I respected her disciplined routine and the way it was helping her age with a lean toughness.
"Hi Mrs. Harris, how goes it? Get in your run today?"
"I did thanks, this cooler weather is a real treat," she replied. "Speaking of a treat, I was hoping you might join me for a drink this evening. There's something I'd like to discuss. Say, six?"
"Of course, I'd be delighted."
That gave me just over an hour, most of which I spent turning over the question of "wtf," in my head. Was this a neighbor just being a neighbor? Was this a religious thing; God knows I'd been pitched all sorts of faiths over the years. Or, was she channeling her inner-cougar? And if so, mayyybee ... She did have a toned, runner's body, after all, which I began to reassess in an entirely new light.
Regardless, I was intrigued.
----------------------
Promptly at six I found myself back at Mrs. Harris' door, knocking with one hand and holding a hastily put together platter of crackers and spinach-artichoke dip in the other.
She greeted me with a smile that matched the warmth of her tastefully bright Tori Richards sundress. If this was a seduction, she was taking a decidedly Hawaiian approach, I thought, as she led me out to her lanai.
"I hope you don't mind, but I've mixed us a pitcher of Pimms Cup", she said.
The drinks were strong, delicious, and before I knew it we'd passed several hours chatting amiably. Not flirting, but it had been a long while since I'd connected with someone so easily. As the sun set, I learned that Mrs. Harris' husband, Ed, was a pilot with Hawaiian Airlines and gone more often than not. The two of them had one daughter, Rebecca, who was a sophomore at Arizona State. Once a model and debutante, Mrs. Harris now devoted her time to various charities on the island, enjoyed polo season up on the North Shore and despised politics.
In turn, I told Mrs. Harris about growing up in Nebraska, described the wanderlust that drove me to continually move across the country, and made her laugh by detailing my first failed attempt at surfing down off a break near Diamond Head.
"Well Frank, you are every bit as charming and well-mannered as I'd hoped," Mrs. Harris said as an evening breeze began to kick up and we realized how late it had become. "Before you go, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to show you something."
A bit taken aback, but still warm from the drinks and lively conversation, all I could think was "oh here we go!"
Without missing a beat, Mrs. Harris led me off the lanai and up to the second floor of her home. Since the layouts of our townhomes were the same I knew we were headed to the bedroom and couldn't help but grow semi-hard as she swung the door open and a soft light shone out.
Walking inside, my first thought was home gym. But home gyms don't have a long row of variously sized dildos hanging along a wall. Or paddles ... Or - no - my eyes fixed on what my brain finally figured was a man, encased in rubber, bound to a large cross in the corner.
"Oh, Frank, your face is priceless," squealed Mrs. Harris with delight.
"Is he alright," I managed.
"He is in heaven dear, come lets have a closer look."
As we approached, Mrs. Harris explained that the man was nearing the end of a sensory deprivation "session" and pointed out how the rubber hood affixed over his head blocked his ability to see or hear anything, including us.
Mrs. Harris then snatched what she called a "pinwheel" off her wall and proceeded to run it from the man's rubber-encased lower thigh up to his groin. He jumped, settled, and then exhaled in delight through a black ball gag planted firmly in his jaw. A bit of drool shone in the soft light as it fell like a string from the gag to his chest.
"There it is in miniature, Frank, a surprise sensation - maybe even a small shock of pain or discomfort - followed by the pleasure of release. Look there, how he's bobbing his head now, quietly begging for more."
"I ..."
"It's a lot to take in, I know. Go home. Whether you head right to bed, or spend the night on the net googling all things "bdsm" is up to you. If you are comfortable, or even the least bit curious, please feel free to visit again."
"Um, alright, sounds good Mrs. Harris."
Meeting my still sheepish gaze, Mrs. Harris fixed me with her eyes. "In here I am Mistress Harris or ma'am, Frank."
In a stupor, I turned and ran out.
Holy shit, I thought as I closed my front door, grabbed a beer and headed to my lanai to let that evening's events unspool, "That was unbelievable."
Over the next several days my mind continued to race back to what I'd seen that night. The toys on the wall. The bound man clad in rubber. Mrs. Harris' transformation into "Mistress" Harris. More than anything, it left me wondering what else was hiding all around me, just beyond plain sight.
