Every Christmas season, I make a trip to New York City.
A shopping trip.
I could do my shopping in Boston, or any number of other places, but there is something special about New York City at Christmas.
That means something coming from me. I don't like New York City.
I don't like its size.
I don't like the people racing by on the sidewalks, unsmiling, humorless.
I think of it as a particularly cold city.
Unlike Boston.
Unlike New Orleans.
Unlike San Francisco.
Those cities have personality. They are vibrant. People smile. Even in New England. You can feel the warmth.
That said, there is no place for shopping at Christmas like New York City.
So I go.
Every year.
And this year was no different.
I've most often stayed in The Plaza or the Waldorf Towers.
This year, they both were filled by the time I tried to get a reservation.
I managed to book a corner room, on the 40th floor, of the Mandarin Oriental.
I like being pampered, so the cost didn't scare me away. I had heard about the hotel's spa!
I like 5-star hotels.
And the hotel overlooks the Manhattan skyline. And Central Park. The location is perfect.
I arrived later than I had anticipated on Friday. It was 6 p.m. by the time I checked in. It was dark, but the city was alive with lights from all the buildings surrounding me. People were working late. Or just getting home after the work day. Lights wrre going on and off everywhere.
I was never more conscious of the city, the city high up in the sky, then I was when I entered my room. It was a large room, with a sitting area, a dining table, a king-sized bed.
But I was struck most by the view.
The windows were floor to ceiling.
The curtains were pulled back.
Most of the lights in the room were off, accentuating the life outside the room, high up over Manhattan. I could see offices. And I could see condominiums. And I could see apartments.
And people.
There were people moving around everywhere in the little cubicals across from me, above me, below me.
I was fascinated.
I felt like a voyeur, peering into their personal lives.
Now I have never thought of myself as a voyeur. But I pondered that thought.
If anything, I thought of myself as an exhibitionist. I certainly wasn't ashamed of my 32-year-old body. And I had never heard any objections from anyone, male or female. I was conscious of what I ate. I exercised regularly. I liked low-cut tops. Short skirts.
I LIKED being looked at.
The thought of a voyeuristic experience, peering into the private lives surrounding me, however, was turning me on. I was carefully scanning the windows.
Looking for ... what?
Something naughty?
And then, almost by magic, it was there: A couple of floors down, out the side window of the room, a woman, maybe younger than me, undressing.
In front of the window.
With the lights on.
Blouse. Off.
Bra. Off.
Skirt. On the floor.
Pantyhose. Sliding down her hips. To her knees. Stepping out of them.
Just wearing panties now.
In her bedroom.
I could see the bed, as she moved back toward it, still facing the windows.
She sat down on the bed.
Touched her breasts. Her nipples.
I was mesmerized.
She was pretty, if not beautiful.
Her body was breathtaking.
Nice hips. Large breasts. Long legs. Sexy ass!
I kept staring. Turned on now. Watching.
She leaned back on the bed.
Her hands hooked the sides of her panties.
She slide them down.
She was close enough that I could see she was shaved.
I felt it between my legs as her right hand moved down across her stomach.
Lower.
Between her legs.
She drew her legs up, onto the bed, opening herself, still facing the window.
I could see her fingers moving.
I watched.
I moved close to the window.
Her fingers were moving faster.
They seemed, though I could not be sure, to be dipping inside her, drawing out her juices.
I couldn't take my eyes off her.
And then she came.
I knew she came because her entire body tightened, shook, relaxed, and then the aftershocks of her climax hit her. I could see her stiffen, relax, stiffen. The release had been a good one.
I don't know how long it took. I don't know how long I watched.
I do know my panties were soaked.
I wanted to cum, too.
But I needed a glass of wine.
I decided to order dinner, and a bottle of wine, and have them sent to my room. I knew I wasn't going out shopping tonight. That could wait.
Now, I wanted to think about what I had witnessed, how it had turned me on ... WHY it had turned me on.
No, that was silly. I KNEW why it had turned me on. I was bi-sexual. I have been bi-sexual for a long time. I love the taste and touch and feel of another woman's body.
I also had to admit, if reluctantly, I wanted to continue watching the windows beyond me.
Would it happen again? Could it? Could she have NOT known she was masturbating in front of the open window, that the whole world could have been watching?
I was still thinking about it when my dinner, and all important wine, arrived. But by then, I knew, or at least had decided, she knew exactly what she was doing, that the curtains were open, that anyone could be watching _ and THAT, most probably, was the point.
The tables, for those important minutes, had changed: I was the voyeur. She was the exhibitionist. She wanted me, anyone, to watch her pleasure herself. And she obviously didn't care who it was.
The thought turned me on.
A lot.
The dinner was excellent.
The wine was better.
I had turned on all of the lights. All of them.
After I finished eating, I sat, in a chair I pulled next to the wall of glass looking out over the city, slowly scanning the windows around me. Deciding which ones were offices, which ones were homes. The office lights were still going out. The windows of the condos and apartments still were being illuminated as people continued to come home from work.
I sipped wine.
I stared.
Then I noticed the same woman I had seen undress and masturbate standing in her bedroom. Looking out. At the city.
She, too, was scanning the windows.
