He stared out the window at the homes beyond the gulch, his view of them obscured by trees and the lightly falling rain. His mind, foggy from the weather or too much wine the night before, was dangerously close to drifting into a similar gloom. The weather definitely wasn't helping. Neither was the day's planned activities, or more precisely, the lack of plans.
He embraced the possibilities of no work for a day, no chores, nothing required of him except to stare out the window, if that's what he wanted to do. His family was equally unprogrammed for once. No chauffeuring to dance, soccer or sleepovers. It was a true holiday, everything on hold.
He stared, scanning the house directly across the gulch from theirs -- the "monstrosity". Sitting in the "breakfast nook," the marketing label for an afterthought of space next to the kitchen, he imagined the lives of the monstrosity's occupants. The house had changed hands frequently in the time he'd been living here: an older widower, a young couple who had exchanged their house with the widower (he still couldn't believe that one), the couple divorced -- she keeping the house and remarrying with a new family, they moving away but keeping the house as a rental, and then a string of renters -- mostly families -- the house was suited for families.
It was a late 50s, mid- 60s at the latest, developer box: shiplap siding, cheap single-pane sliding windows, and the requisite patio sliding doors leading off to a deck from the kitchen, a patio from the downstairs den. Really, it was an eyesore, the only saving grace the lush forest and the intervening gulch blocking it from his view. The various owners had modified the outside, adding the deck, the patio, cutting in new sliding doors here and there, but from the start the house wanted to be in warmer climes than the Pacific Northwest.
He'd never been in the place. In all the years it had changed hands, it hadn't gone on the market, the usual chance to tour his neighbors' homes. Not that he would have taken the effort, should the opportunity have presented itself, except for one keen interest: seeing the sight-lines to his house. It was something he'd done from all of the neighboring homes at the front of his property.
The gulch, and the forest of trees between the rear of his home and the others below and behind his, was a green scrim during the height of summer. It was one of the reasons they'd purchased the place -- the near-complete envelope of greenery with open sky above that created a private haven. An envelope, but not claustrophobic: the different species, plantings, slope of the hill, and wildly different shapes, densities and colors of foliage created a never-ending distraction looking out his back windows. When the sun set, the light was almost indescribable: yellows and greens deep in the crowns of the black oaks, obscured by the dying catalpa and dappled by the mimosa. He could stand at the nook window and simply stare at the shifting light forever, or so it seemed.
But winter was a different story. The deciduous canopy would fall away, revealing the monstrosities of the homes on the other hillside. The one at the bottom of the gulch, hidden so nicely in the summer, was revealed in all its misguided ugliness come November. Others, even further away -- either up the slope of the hill opposite, or off to the side down the street a ways -- would be revealed, reminding him how impoverished most of the architecture was in this part of the neighborhood. Land sales from the primary homes as owners died and heirs split the lots in the 50s resulted in quick bucks from developers putting up cardboard and baling wire pieces of crap.
He sighed, wishing he could afford to finish the remodeling they had begun a few years back. That project had made their kitchen a wonder of 21
st
century living -- light and airy, but cozy and warm, in spite of its north-facing exposure. He spent most of his time at home in the kitchen and the "nook," now a more integral part of the entire room. Between the kitchen and the gulch was a small strip of yard, no more than 15 feet deep, mostly mud-soaked grass, and of course beyond that, the wonderful riot of green trees and foliage. Except in the winter.
They had discussed re-landscaping the back yard -- pulling out the horrible cedars and hollys, replacing them with evergreens more suitable to their taste. As they looked at catalogs and discussed ideas with designers, a plan began to emerge, a plan that would continue the idea of a multi-layered green envelope, year-round.
But that plan was only a pipe-dream at the moment, he remembered. They couldn't afford what really needed to be done, and they couldn't imagine anything cheaper.
He felt self-conscious sitting in the nook. Private though it was from all of the next-door neighbors, he felt he was on stage at the top of his side of the gulch -- on stage and exposed. Up until a year ago, before he had decided to live naked, he hadn't really given it a second thought, but since then it was top of mind.
He had walked the street below, looking up at the house. He had imagined all of the sight lines, seeing how the kitchen countertops would obstruct views of anything below his waist, and identifying any of the neighboring windows that might see more. From the kitchen, the image of his nude body reflecting back from the windows, he would look out and imagine who might be in their rooms and what they might see.
There was nothing illegal about what he was doing -- it was his house and he could be naked all he wished. In his community, he had recently learned, he could be naked outside without violating any laws, as long as his behavior wasn't sexual. Which, for his part, it wasn't...mostly. He enjoyed the freedom of walking through the house without a stitch of clothing, the feeling of air on his skin and the way his cock and balls could swing freely.
For the most part, during the summer, he knew no one could see much -- perhaps his bare chest, and if he was really stupid or daring, his whole body if he stepped outside to empty the trash during the day, but only by a limited number of view points and for a very limited amount of time. Perhaps they'd see a flash of skin, know he was naked, but be unable to see much more. At least, he had convinced himself that was true.
But during the winter the entire back of his house was open to view, not only by the house at the bottom of the gulch, but by most of the others up the far hill. He wasn't especially concerned by them -- they were far enough away that even if they did see he was naked, they couldn't make out much.
To be fair, although he spent the majority of his time in these rooms, and the majority of
that time
naked, he didn't spend all that much time at the house at all. He worked 60 hour weeks, leaving when it was dark and returning well into the evening. It was on days like this, when he wasn't at work, that he realized he was risking his reputation with his recent addiction to being nude.
His day usually started early -- 6AM, sometimes earlier -- when he'd come to the kitchen to wash dishes, prepare breakfast and make his lunch. He would usually strip off his pajamas before attacking the dishes -- not only did they tend to get in the way, it made the job a little less dreary doing it in the nude. He would look over the gulch, the houses dark, figuring no one was staring back at the only lighted window along his side of the ridge. He would empty the food scrap bucket from the sink outside into the composter, the crisp morning air raising the hair on his arm. From that vantage point he was hidden from the houses across the gulch, but more exposed to the neighbors immediately to the sides, a fairly low risk, he calculated, given the time of day.
Sometimes he would stand for a few minutes and look over the gulch, enjoying the morning air on his skin. Sometimes he would take a few minutes and piss around the composter, relieving himself without holding his penis. It was a truly liberating experience, and he rationalized, kept the rat population away from the composter.
In the evening, when the family was upstairs doing their work, he rarely had the opportunity to disrobe -- and when he did, it was equally unlikely anyone outside the house could see him. But on days like this, when he was at home during the middle of the day, with nothing to do, he wanted nothing more than to strip off his clothes and hang out in the nook, reading, surfing or just...hang out.
He sat and stared, noting that no one seemed to be home in the monstrosity. Hardly surprising given the holiday. They hadn't been home the day before, but must have come home and left -- the bedroom blinds were open, and he remembered seeing he garage light on the night before. There were many telltales as to their absence: no lights, no steam from the vents, no activity whatsoever. He decided to strip and enjoy the day.
Standing at the stove, heating leftovers from last night's meal, he looked at his reflection in the glass door leading to the back yard: A middle-aged man, his butt slightly sagging but still round and tight when he tensed it, his chest still retaining some of its former glory, and most worrisome, a slightly expanding waistline; hell it was a paunch. That his penis was exposed should have been the least of his concerns -- his body was not a sight for sore eyes.
He heard footsteps coming toward the kitchen and his heart beat faster. The thought that his clothes were too far away to put on before one of his kids appeared came just before the realization that it was his wife entering the room. He breathed easier, smiling to himself. She had never really acknowledged his recent desire to live naked, nor had she joined in. As disappointed as he was in his own reflection, it paled in comparison to her own self-loathing: a far too large butt, breasts sagging and a roll of middle-aged fat she couldn't seem to burn off, no matter how much exercise and diet.
