My name is Sam Jenkins, and strange things are happening. Let me start at the beginning.
As I pass older buildings on my habitual walks around the City of New York, I always lookup. I am a devotee of architecture; that's my geekdom. My neighborhood contains many small brownstones built between 1870 -1910. Some of the buildings are undistinguished, but a few are splendid in their diversity with unusual cornices, columns, or figural applications.
One building nearby has a recessed Juliet balcony with a small dog statue waiting for its master to return from the Spanish American War. Not far away from the dog statue, a building entrance has a splendid staircase with statues of ancient Mayan Gods. My building was once an Actor's Hotel. Its construction is sedate, but the exterior is clad with glazed white bricks that glisten when the sun hits them. An antique timepiece, visible in old photographs, was stripped from the facade many years ago, but there are still four separate staircases inside. I don't know why? I can only imagine theater people rushing to be on stage required the extra stairs to avoid falling over one another.
Looking up has its advantages. I imagine most people paid little attention, but one night I saw a strange light beaming from a distant star that illuminated a relatively plain building down the street.
The next day I walked to the edifice to see if there was anything of interest causing that midnight glow. I could see an attractive young woman sitting on the balcony, one story up from the busy New York street. Her long graceful legs were carelessly strewn over the balcony's iron bars, and I could see she was without panties. Anyone passing below would have noticed. She had a tight blouse with cutouts over her shoulders and a great set of tits. I love tits, but I wasn't looking for them at that moment. What she freely revealed was a pleasant surprise!
I took out my I-phone and snapped a quick photo; with a simple enlargement back in my apartment, every detail of her bare vagina came into focus. I was fascinated with the labia lips that resembled the wings of a Monarch butterfly.
Although I lived on the other side of the same street; my quiet apartment faced the back. I had no window from which to view the young lady's sunbathing, but I frequently passed on the street, and on several occasions, I saw her entering or exiting her building.
On the street, I could see she was an attractive young woman. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was tall, with full-sized boobs and a slender waist. I was already familiar with what was under her skirt as I had memorized every detail of her shaved vagina. The blow-up was mounted on the kitchen refrigerator, held in place by a magnetic purple eggplant and some plastic grapes. Slightly harder to see in the photo was what appeared to be a beauty mark, just left of her clitoris.
I was curious to meet her and perhaps sample what I'd seen so exquisitely revealed in the enlargement, and I was trying to figure out how to go about it.
When the Voter Registration woman came around, I asked for an extra copy of the questionnaire, thinking I might ring the girl's doorbell and make-believe I was a Registrar. That fantasy sank like a lead balloon when I realized it was a federal offense to impersonate.
I knew I had to bide my time. As Ming Foo, the Chinese Sage said in the year 1103,
"All things come to the one who waits."
I'm not sure he was talking about 'pussy,' but that was most likely as the legend says he became a hermit after the love of his life refused to have sex.
Luckily, a few weeks later I caught up with her in the little coffee bar directly across the street from her apartment building. I stood quietly behind her admiring her plump ass pressing against her tight blue jeans as she ordered a fancy coffee with caramel. It was too confusing to remember the coffee selection's exact name or ingredients, but it took damn near forever for the barista to assemble it, which gave me the cushion of time I needed.
While waiting behind her, I leaned closer, smiled, and asked, "How long have you lived in our neighborhood? And are you happy here?".
"Why don't you mind your own fucking business," she replied.
The comment destroyed all the backstories I'd prepared to share with her. I shut my mouth.
Two weeks later, I came home at about 10:30 at night when I saw a damsel in distress. A burly homeless man in a long brown coat was trying to pull her handbag away and, at the same time, dragging her toward an outdoor staircase that led down to the landing of a basement apartment.
I didn't know who the assaulted woman was, but I knew if the homeless guy successfully steered her down the stairs, her encounter would not have had a pretty ending.
Like a fool, I charged in and grabbed the black handbag away while kicking the off-guard homey in the nuts. I quickly dragged the victim away from what might have been a worse fate. I was hoping I'd disabled the attacker before he could come after both of us. I rushed her away from the stairs, fearing she might fall. By now, I had recognized her. She was the shaved pussy girl.
I'd seen an older homeless man down there with a young drug dealer only a few days before. While the dealer was lighting his client's crack-infused cigarette, the old guy was busy jerking off the dealer. I thought that mutuality was a novel approach to drug dealing! When the young guy shot his load, he looked up, saw me, and reached down, waving his cock at me. I imagine that was a form of advertising.
I walked her across the street as I knew precisely where she lived,
"Who are you," she said, trembling on the concrete steps that led up to the entrance foyer of her brownstone building.
"I'm the guy you told to fuck off two weeks ago in the coffee shop."
"Jesus, I'm sorry. You were a real hero tonight, thanks."
"No biggie, I knew you were a local as I'd seen you out on your balcony a few times."
"Yeah, my gynecologist says I should take an hour off when the weather is warm to air out my privates. The humidity causes me problems. You know, lady stuff."
I was surprised that she would admit such a thing.
"Yeah, me too. After seeing your magnificent vagina, I couldn't sleep that night. I hope you don't find my remarks offensive because I'd cut off my nuts if you did, well, maybe just one of them."
She laughed, a delightful musical laugh.
"No need to do that, a guy without balls is useless."
"Yeah, you got that right."
"Anyway, nice to meet you." I turned to go. "Oh, can I ask your name?"
"My name is Pansy Parker. I'm a twenty-two-year-old New Yorker transplanted from Boise, Idaho."
"I don't mean to pry."
"I don't mind. There is no need for you to run away, come up to my apartment. I don't have anything to hide from you, and I'll make you an herbal tea."
"Ok, if it is not too much of a disturbance?"
Maybe things were going my way for once. We climbed up to the first level in about ten seconds. She was in front of me, and I must say her ass was as perfect as her vagina unless it was tattooed, which I hoped it was not. She was wearing tight white slacks, but all I could see in my mind's eye was her beautiful vagina as if the front of her jeans were cut out, which they were not.
She stopped in front of her apartment door, where a bouquet of pretty flowers was painted.
"Those are blue..."
"Pansies, yes, as I told you, that is my name."
"Hello Pansy, how do you do? I'm so pleased to meet you."
"Now you are exaggerating."
She reached into her ruffled blouse, pulled out a key on the end of a string, and placed it in the lock."
"I keep the key around my neck so I can't lose it."
"You know it's a good thing you are a girl. Otherwise, your name would get you in trouble."
"You're not the first person to tell me that. But bullying is supposed to be going out of style."
"From your hips, I mean lips, from your lips to God's ears."
As the door lock unclicked and opened, floral air filled the hallway. It smelled like the garden of Eden.
"Jesus, it smells good in here," I said as I walked into the tiny studio apartment."
"Jesus had nothing to do with it," Pansy remarked.
As I looked around, I saw that the apartment walls were covered with watercolors painted on thick absorbent paper, haphazardly taped to the walls.
"This, I imagine, is your work."
She didn't respond.
I dropped my heavy coat on an empty chair.
"Is this ok?"
"Sure, put it anywhere."
"Thanks."
"Can I make you a pot of organic tea?"
She moved off to the side of the room with a small cooking area. She poured some mineral water from a plastic bottle into a teapot while I busied myself admiring her art that covered every crack in the old apartment's wall. There were paintings of the neighborhood stores and buildings in bold colors. The skies were alive with swirls of cerulean blue, almost van Gogh-like. Weird yellow street lamps illuminated night scenes. I was amused by several illustrations of cartoon dogs walked by their nude owners on long strings, sometimes bending over and cleaning up after them. I wasn't quite sure who was cleaning up after whom.
While we waited for the water to boil, she went behind a folding screen, took off her street clothes, and changed into a yellow bathrobe.
"My parents were avid Swedish nudists," she said as if everyone's parents were. She had a slight accent, but it did not sound Swedish.
"I was born over there and dragged to nudist colonies from the time I was a young child before I even knew what penises were for, but I learned early on there are as many varieties of cocks as there are noses."
Her mention of cocks perked up my ears.
"If you want to disrobe, go for it," Pansy said.
"If I had one of those twelve-inch cocks you see at nudist clubs, I'd do so in a minute. Unfortunately for you, I am a modest cocksman."
