Before my retirement, I had worked for 30 years as a Literary Classics professor at a small New England college. Both I and the students thought it funny and strange that my last name was "Shakespeare", but it was. Luckily, my first name was "Donald", not "William."
The college had an antique mandatory retirement policy which meant that once you reached the age of 65, you had to fold your tent and prepare to leave. Such a policy had been established in the 1930s when people often were finished academically or senile by the time they were 65. That was no longer true of course in the modern age when people lived longer, healthier, and more active lives, but the policy remained.
Still, since I had never much cared for students anyway, and the retirement pension was generous, I was happy to take it and prepare for what remained of my "second life."
My wife had died of breast cancer ten years earlier, and our three children were grown and gone, so I was pretty much on my own. Consequently, I was finally able to do what I had always wanted to do: leave New England, move to New York City and get a small but nice high-rise apartment.
There was a lot to do in New York, and so I fancied a retirement life of reading books, going to museums and galleries, and watching video movies. Little did I know that I was about to begin the most erotic adventure of my life.
It happened one night. My apartment on the upper east side had a wonderful view of the lights of the city and the East River from the 18th floor, so one night shortly after I moved in and after having a modest dinner, I walked to the living room window to look out. About 70 feet away was another high-rise apartment, but beyond that was the East River.
But instead of looking at the river, my attention was drawn to the apartment directly across from mine. Like mine, it apparently consisted of a living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The only light which was on was a small lamp on a nightstand in the bedroom. The window did not have blinds, but it apparently had drapes, both of which were pushed to the side. The nightstand lamp illuminated the body of a beautiful woman, who was lying on the bed completely naked and who appeared to be—masturbating!
I know I should have looked away, but I was fascinated. In all of my life, I had never seen a woman masturbate. She appeared to be about 25 years old and was blonde with what looked like a very fit body. And boy, was she taking her time. I doused the lights so she would not see me and went back to the window. What I wouldn't have given for a pair of binoculars right now. It took her nearly a half hour, but she finally reached a shuddering climax, with her whole body trembling. Wow! And speaking of bodies, I suddenly realized that even at the age of 65, I had a real hard-on for the first time in many years.
I thought about her that night when I went to bed, and I did what any man would do. After all, if she had not wanted someone to see her, why did she leave the drapes wide open and the light on?
I found from keeping an eye on her apartment the next day that she apparently worked somewhere during the day and did not get home until after four. She usually had a light microwave dinner, a glass of wine with dinner, and another glass after dinner. Then she usually watched a video or DVD movie and retired to the bedroom around ten. She undressed in the bedroom, again with the drapes open and the nightstand light on, laid down on the bed naked and masturbated! Every night. And now I could see when she was walking around the room that she was in her early twenties and was in fact a real blonde. Her little tuft of maidenhair was deliriously entrancing.
The next day—in the interests of science of course—I purchased a pair of binoculars. The investment was worth it, since she continued to do it every night. And with my lights off, I felt I was an unseen and unknown observer. I found out the following evening this was not true.
The phone rang, which it hardly ever did, around 7 p.m. I picked it up. "Hello?"
"Is this Mr. Baker?" the voice asked. It sounded like a young girl.
"Yes."
"This is Kathy Walton."
"I'm sorry, but I don't know any Kathy Walton."
"I think you know me—but not by name. I live in the apartment across from yours—in the Williams building."
I fell silent.
"I know you've been spying on me," she said, "And I just wanted to let you know that I don't mind. That it's all right."
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
"Easy. I walked over to your building, waited until someone was coming out, then eased myself in and looked at the list of tenants on the wall. I could figure out who you were from the floor and the position of your apartment on the fire exit map on the wall."
"Clever of you."
"I thought so. I know you turned out the lights, but you apparently were not aware that the outside lights reflect off the lens of your binoculars."
This was one clever girl. "So why are you calling?" I asked.
"I've been spying on you as well, and you look like a nice older man who lives by himself. I wondered if you might like to come over and have a glass of wine with me? I have a proposal to make to you."
Was she kidding? I had no idea what she was up to. But what did I have to lose? "All right," I said.
"How about tomorrow at seven? Just buzz my name at the entrance, and I'll let you up."
"Which was?"
"Kathy Walton."
"All right." I could not resist. But what was going on here? Was she a hooker? Was she a serial killer? I had to find out.
The next night, promptly at seven and carrying a bottle of fine Bordeaux, I buzzed her name—and she buzzed me up.
"Hi!" she said when she opened the door of her 18th floor apartment, "I'm Kathy Walton." She held out her hand, and I took it.
My God, I thought, she's even prettier than I had thought. She was about five foot six, was wearing a blue denim dress, and had a chocolate-colored scarf about her neck. Her blond hair, which fell to her shoulders, certainly looked like the real thing and not dyed. "And I'm Donald Shakespeare," I said.
She laughed. "I never met a Shakespeare before. You should be a professor of English."
"That's exactly what I was before I retired a few months ago."
"Then we're in the same profession—in a sense. I'm an elementary school teacher. In the Bronx."
"Good for you."
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Of course. And I brought you this." I handed her the bottle of Bordeaux.
"Fine. We'll have that." She took the bottle and went to the kitchen. I sat down at a chair in the living room. She returned a few minutes later with two glasses of wine, handed me one, and sat opposite me.
"Let me get right to the point before I lose my nerve," she said. "First of all: I'm a very good girl, I'm the daughter of a Methodist minister in New Jersey, I've never been married, but as the result of a lapse in judgment, I'm no longer a virgin, and for some strange reason, I guess I'm an exhibitionist, and I like the idea of your watching me," she said. "There, I've said it."
I laughed. "I admire your candor." I toasted her with the wine, and she took a sip of hers.
