For as long as I can remember, I lived right next door to Jennifer Newell. We never really talked, but she was always just there; we saw each other constantly coming or going, and our bedroom windows faced each other. I could see straight into her room whenever she left the curtains open. My desk offered the best view; from it I could see her cluttered desk and most of the tiny bed shoved into one corner. From my bed I could see most of the rest, although it wasn't as interesting, just her closet and dresser and whatever she had up on the walls at the time.
When we were young, it felt almost like a game, both of us watching the other. By the time we entered high school it was more of a habit, and that helped to smooth over a lot of the weird feelings I was starting to have. It helped that she was already so familiar; I didn't think about her body, just the way she was dancing to alt rock blasted so loud I could hear it in my room.
When we graduated high school, she went off to the illustrious heights of journalism school, and I stayed in our hometown to work at my dad's electrical company. Two years later she came back with a new haircut and word quickly made it around that she was a lesbian. All that really mattered to me about the situation was that she settled back into her old room, and I settled back into our old habit.
I was partaking in my favorite pastime again - watching her instead of the movie on my laptop - as she tapped away at hers. I could just see the side of her face, the little scrunch of concentration and frustration. A scene on my own screen briefly caught my attention and when I looked back, her screen was filled with black and orange for a moment before a video filled it.
I was too far away to see what it was, but I could see the motion as it started playing. Her eyes were glued to the screen, and I briefly had the thought that this was something I shouldn't be watching. But I felt glued to my chair.
Her skirt hiked up, too far for me to see what she was doing, only a pale stretch of thigh. She started to gently rock back and forth, lips parting just slightly before she bit the bottom. Suddenly I was utterly hypnotized by her, the steady motion of her body, and I wished that our windows faced each other a little more directly so I could be seeing her in profile instead of at an angle. A deeper part of me wished that she was facing me. And then - I wasn't sure exactly when it happened, but she became a lot less urgent, eyes shut as she relaxed into her chair.
I became aware that I had just watched my neighbor get herself off, and quickly left my room while thanking every deity in the world that my parents weren't home. I took a cold shower to calm down and did my best not to think about Jennifer Newell.
With her hands between her legs. Hips rocking against her hand.
Fuck.
By the time I got back to my room her curtains were shut. I kept glancing back that way, but they didn't open again.
* * * * *
I was out picking up groceries when I ran into Jennifer. Literally, checking my phone to tell my mom that yes, I picked up bread, and then jumping halfway into the air as I collided with another body. I apologized profusely even before I saw that it was her, and then I felt my words dry up as I suddenly remembered the way she bit her lip with her hand buried between her legs.
She looked at me with wide green eyes, also mid-apology, and I said, "Seriously, it's my fault, let me..." I helped her gather her stuff back into her bags, and sorted my own stuff into mine. I expected her to get up and go as soon as it was all done, but she didn't.
Instead she said, "I heard you stuck around after high school, but I didn't really believe it when I heard it. And I definitely didn't think you were still living with your parents."
I didn't really know how to respond to that for a few seconds, burning with embarrassment. I decided to shoot back with, "Well, you had to move back in with yours."
A crooked grin spread across her face. "Fair enough, dude. Cheers to being poor in our twenties, I guess." I could see her starting to pull back, to leave, but she stopped abruptly and said, "Do you still, you know, look across sometimes?"
Heat flooded my face immediately.
She knows, she has to know, there's no other reason to ask that question...
I said, carefully, "Not really."
Something flickered across her face and I wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment. It was gone too fast to get a good read. "Oh, yeah. It's something that's fine when you're younger and gets creepy when we're older, right?" She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she just muttered, "See you later, Zack," and headed for her car.
That night I kept my curtains closed. The urge to look was unbearable; she could be doing anything, from simply reading to... what she did the last time. But Jennifer was cool and I really didn't want to cross her boundaries. The whole situation had crystallized in my mind: She'd forgotten to close her curtains, and I'd watched her getting herself off like an absolute creep, and she just didn't know how to outright ask if she accidentally gave me a show.
So,
I resolved,
I'll just have to make sure I don't see it again.
I lasted for two entire days of glancing up and only seeing thick cloth. It helped that they were busy days, and I spent most of them out on call with my dad, rewiring an old house to be up to modern code. But on that third night, as I was bored out of my skull writing up the invoice, I finally broke and nudged open the curtains.
Jennifer was laying on her stomach on her bed, reading a book. I kept one eye on her as I continued with my work. The simple, familiar sight of her doing something utterly mundane helped me keep my focus. The fact that she wasn't masturbating helped a lot.
I was double-checking my math so I didn't see when it happened, but by the time I looked back Jennifer had turned around and her jeans were bunched around her ankles. Her book was set aside and I had an amazing view of her ass as her panties slowly shifted and flexed in a way that completely eliminated any doubt as to what she was doing.
The invoice was completely forgotten as I watched her finger herself again. She rocked back and forth gently, and once again I was rapt. Hypnotized by the slow and deliberate movement of her body.
She stopped abruptly, and I instinctively moved to close the curtain again, thinking that she'd remembered me and was going to get up and check if I was watching. Instead, I watched as she pulled up her shirt, unhooked her bra with one hand, and moments later threw it away. It was a simple, efficient set of motions that made me wish that I could see more of her.
I knew that if I moved, I could see more of the bed. See more of her. But that felt wrong. For one thing, it would mean standing in the middle of my room watching my neighbor masturbate. For another, it felt like doing that would be violating the trust it felt like she was placing in me.
My eyes were locked to her, seeing the movement of her hands in my mind's eye - was she rubbing or fingering herself? Was she playing with her nipples? - for what felt like an hour, but was realistically only a few minutes at most. I was painfully hard by the time she had an orgasm. I didn't fully appreciate last time how animated she was when she came: Back arched down into the bed, arm gently flailing as she worked herself through it, quakes that smoothed out as she spread herself across her bed in the afterglow.
She laid there for a moment, maybe just basking, maybe recovering from what seemed like a pretty intense session. Then she abruptly kicked her jeans off her legs, revealing their full, naked length to me, sat up and tugged her shirt back down over her breasts, crossed over to her window and looked across at me for a moment. And then she shut her curtains.
After a few shocked seconds, I closed mine too.
* * * * *
I was reading a book on the history of electric power and glancing across the way every few seconds, wondering if she was going to do it again. But Jennifer just wrote in a notebook and sometimes glanced over at me. Her eyes were always carefully down by the time I was fully looking.
It didn't take me long to get the message. Of course whatever this was, it should be mutual; if I got a show, then so should she. It was equality, or something.
Maybe it should have taken me longer to think about it, but a few seconds after I had that realization I was booting my laptop straight to my porn collection.
I started slow. Giving her enough time to notice, to pay attention. I didn't look over to see if she was watching. Not knowing whether she was watching - knowing that she could if she wanted to - made the entire thing feel more intense. I wondered if she was turned on by this. Not by me - I wasn't arrogant enough to think that the sight of me could flip some magic switch in a lesbian - but by the situation. I imagined her staring into my room, thinking about what I was doing for her, the way I'd done before.
Pure curiosity finally made me look up. There was a startled moment where I locked eyes with Jennifer - those bright eyes drilling straight into mine until she realized that I was looking back - and even from a distance I could see her blushing. She was perched in the little nook beneath her window, body in profile as she stared.
I spent a few moments trying to figure out the protocol for locking eyes with your lesbian friend while you were giving her a show before realizing that there really wasn't one, and just gave her a little wave. I could hear her embarrassed laugh in my mind as she waved back. And then I went back to my show.
I didn't last very long after that - acknowledging what was happening made everything more intense, more real, and even if we didn't lock eyes again, we were watching each other. I could see the little ways she shifted, and I could tell when she bit her lip, and when I finished she waved again before going back to her notebook, leaving her curtains open.
* * * * *
