Brandy's bathroom light went on at 9:30. I pushed away from the computer screen and took my place in the chair by the window. I made sure that the chair was back from the streetlights that bleed through my third floor window. I also made sure that the chair was a comfortable one, for I would often sit and watch Brandy for hours.
Brandy wasn't her real name. I made it up, just as I made up most of the details of Brandy's life. Mind you, I wasn't reckless in the life I imagined for Brandy. I pieced together the young woman's history after weeks of meticulous observation. Brandy took a room in the Greenwich Village flat on a gorgeous day in mid-June. By the hot nights of July, I probably knew more about Brandy than I did about anyone in the entire city. At first I doted over Brandy like a surrogate father as she went about her nightly routines. I noted the encouraging signs of her growth and acclimation to the city. I thrilled at her sexual awakening - my reward for all the long summer-night vigils.
Admittedly, I didn't get much done after Brandy's arrival. I hadn't managed more than a dozen half-hearted pages of my novel. The deadline for my short story was long past due, a fact about which Ms. Monroe left daily (and increasingly impatient) reminders on my voice mail. But I simply couldn't manage the focus.
Brandy was from the Midwest - Minnesota I would guess, judging from the bulky Twins jersey she slipped into each night as she prepared for bed. The rows of books on the shelf next to her bed and the scattered stacks of books sprouting about the room, spoke of Brandies love of literature. Perhaps Brandy had studied literature in school. Maybe she had come to New York for the same reason I had but learned early that compromise is the key to adaptation and survival. Brandy was close with the folks from back home. In the early days she'd call home at 10 every night. Sometimes Brandy would hang up the phone and lie upon her bed. I watched Brandy cry. She was so lonely and vulnerable back then. It took me about a week of investigation to figure out Brandy's apartment number, but when I did I quickly had flowers sent to her. The little note said they were from the building's Welcoming Committee. Their origin was bogus, but I think the flowers made a difference, sitting on the stand next to her bed for days.
I watched Brandy through the gauze of sheer white curtains that covered her windows. They softened her features – made her more angel than mortal. Brandy was going out late. When Brandy let her dress drop to the bathroom floor, I studied the body with which I'd become so obsessed. Brandy wasn't skinny. The deep curves of her body rose and fell as gently as her Minnesota landscape. Her soft round shoulders were broad and strong. Her narrow waist gently flared to ample hips. How long I stared at Brandy's pink bottom as she readied herself in front of the bathroom mirror – two fleshy pillows upon which I imagined resting my head. I longed to breathe in the perfume of Brandy's sex. Brandy was small breasted and flat-tummied. Her legs were athletic. I loved to watch her rise to her tiptoes as she closely examined something in the mirror over her sink. Her legs would lengthen and her calves grow defined. Brandy's upper thighs were fit and firm. A triangle of light passed through the place where her legs merged with her pubis.
At first Brandy didn't go out late at night. Most of the summer, Brandy preferred the safety of her bedroom. Listening to the radio, talking on the phone, working at her laptop, and jotting entries into her journal were the things that occupied her short evenings. I mark the date things changed as a sweltering evening in mid-July. Brandy returned home late. The city air was still and oppressive. The fan in Brandy's room ruffled the loose paper as it oscillated. Brandy had been drinking. She braced herself against her desk as she undressed. Brandy pulled back the sheets, but before slipping into bed, she returned to a position in front of the fan. She lifted her chin, exposing her slender neck to the breeze. Then the modest Brandy opened a couple of the top buttons of her nightshirt. She pulled back the collar to expose more flesh to the fan. Then slowly, one button at a time, she opened her shirt completely. She stood for minutes, savoring the relief and pleasure as the air passed over her breasts and tummy. After some time, Brandy buttoned her nightshirt and retired. The room was dark, yet in the dim streetlight I watched Brandy sit up in bed and remove her shirt. Brandy slept naked every night for the balance of that summer.
The changes were innocent at first. I recall the night Brandy modeled all of her new panties for me. Casting away the pastel cotton ones, Brandy's new undies were lacy, bright, and a little naughty. Brandy paraded around the room in her scant red, violet, or black panties, pausing before the mirrors in her bedroom and bath to admire the new and exciting image. It was a Brandy that she kept hidden to her friends and the men at work; after all, she had only just revealed this Brandy to herself.
Brandy's clothes became more expressive. The colors were brighter, the patterns more electric. Brandy's dresses and skirts clung more tightly to the fullness of her hips. She wore tops that revealed more of her delicious, alabaster skin and hugged her flat, strong tummy. Shorter hems, deeper cuts, and slightly higher heels all drew attention to Brandy's long, elegant legs. Brandy had legs that inspired men to wonder at the moist oasis that lay hidden at their summit.
One night after showering for another night out, Brandy picked up the scissors from the sink. She began trimming the hairs from her dark, thick triangle. She lathered herself with shaving cream. Brandy stood in front of the mirror. The wedge of meringue between her legs, made Brandy playful. She covered her pink nipples with cream and drew a question mark over her belly. I watched with fascination and great anticipation as Brandy shaved. With slow and careful strokes she removed the patch womanhood. As the sharp blade passed over the tender skin, I imagined the soft scratching and the razor's gentle tugs. It aroused me in a way that caught me off guard. Brandy cleaned herself with a towel and returned to the mirror. The image was spellbinding. In a matter of minutes, Brandy had altered the most distinctive remnant of puberty. The soft curves of her body were those of a woman, yet the smooth patch of skin between her legs harkened back to an age of innocence. The contrast was intoxicating, and I wanted to touch the place with my fingers just as Brandy did every time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. When Brandy returned from her evening out, she hurriedly stepped out her dress and panties. Turning slightly in front of the mirror, Brandy examined herself from every angle while gently petting the soft, smooth flesh.
It was late July and I was relaxing at an outdoor café on Bleeker. I was sipping coffee and thinking about Brandy when Ms. Monroe called. Her message was terse and testy. If I were incapable of submitting my piece by the end of the week, she told me, they would need to go with another writer.
Three years ago I left Tucson for New York to pursue my passion. I was going to be the next literary sensation, chronicling cotemporary life in the city, offering insights into the condition of modern man that rivaled Fitzgerald's observations on the Jazz Age. I had cashed in on stocks in the mid-90's and then parlayed my profits with some lucky real estate investments. After selling everything but a couple high end rentals in Phoenix, I arrived in New York with enough cash to live an idle life for several years – in the unlikely event that it took that long for my talents to be appreciated.
As it turned out, I was far less adept at revealing the twenty-first century soul than I imagined. What I did discover, however, was that I was surprisingly adept at portraying the twenty-first century libido. Seemingly, I could write about sex in ways that people found interesting. I was reaping the benefits of an adolescence spent fantasizing over the college students and the brown, fiery senoritas of Tucson. So after a few early successes, I adopted a pen name and began cranking out stories on every imaginable sexual topic – most of which I had no actual experience. I wrote under the name L.X. Diamond. It took me about an hour to come up with that one. I wanted something exotic, unusual and androgynous. To be honest, the "Diamond" came from a canister of almonds that sat on the table next to me as I contemplated a moniker.
Ms. Monroe was the junior editor at a publishing house that produced works the works of New York writers in a variety of genres. Their newest project was a volume of erotic literature. I had been asked to contribute.
Naturally, I didn't try to explain to Ms. Monroe that I had been preoccupied with an obsession for the comings and goings of a young woman into whose bedroom and bathroom window I happened to enjoy a perfect view. Instead, I apologized for my procrastination and promised to have something to her by Friday.
By the latter days of July, New York had seduced Brandy. It happens often, particularly among the innocent. The city beckons them away from the well-lit places – Central Park, MOMA, and Fifth Avenue. It leads them to the places where the air is perfumed with musky humanity. Places that pulse with an erotic rhythm. The city whispers in their ears. Tempts them to taste. If one's not careful, a single drink can lead to addiction.
Brandy went out most every night and returned sometimes so early in the morning that she went off to the next day's work with little more than a catnap and a cup of coffee. Lately she'd taken to inviting men into her bedroom. The first was a fresh Midwestern boy. Brandy and her farm boy proceeded cautiously. For hours the couple sat cross-legged on the floor, drank beer and perused Brandy's photos and high school yearbooks. When the lovemaking began it was awkward. I felt embarrassed for the farm boy. He was as unsure of what to do with Brandy's naked body stretched out before him as he was with the overwhelming seduction of the city itself.
In the night's that followed, however, Brandy brought men into her room who understood the reason for their presence. Brandy and her lovers wasted no time with quaint and provincial social foreplay. All the groundwork had been done in the bars and clubs. The flirting across the room, the coy glances, the inviting stares, the witty conversation, the bold innuendo, and the slow, grinding dances had built to the moment during which the lovers tore at one another's clothes. They devoured the warm flesh with an almost frantic desire. Speaking through voices thick with lust, they selfishly begged and pleaded for more pleasure. They praised one another's bodies with primal, poetic language. They exploded against one another. They rested in a bath of their own semen, sweat, and female nectar until the desire pulsed into their sex and they fucked again.
