Dear Neighbor

Dear Michael, my Backyard Neighbor,

It’s me. The guy behind your house who has the mildest of crushes on you. Okay, maybe it’s not so mild. Ever since you moved in and you and I made contact over our fence, talking about the power lines, my heart goes all pitter-pat whenever I’m working in my den and, through the big glass doorwall, I see you leave your side door to take out the trash.

Now, we both know that compared to Brady, the Abercrombie and Fitch daddy two doors down from me, you’re not much of a looker. He’s lean and tanned and worked out and fond of jumping around his back yard wearing nothing but shorts, as if he’s still playing on his college extreme disc golf team. You’re pale and constantly struggle with your waistline, your nose is large and sharp, and you’re a little too old for the long, curly hair you cultivate. Not that you’re not dreamy, mind you. When Brady’s charms have receded with his hairline, you’ll still be an American classic.

I think it’s because my appreciation of this fact that you’re always putting on a little show for me whenever you appear in your back yard. My favorite was how last summer, whenever I was on my deck working and you were home, you sat on your patio with your chair angled directly facing me, so you could sprawl with your legs spread and your arms stretched behind your head, eyes slitted so you can watch me trying not to stare at you too much. Now that it's spring, I'm appreciating it when you start doing your backyard stretches and exercises, ass bent and prominent, at the exact moment I’ll step outside to eat my breakfast cereal. And the time you recently watched me from your upstairs window, then came out onto your porch to parade around shirtless in your boxers, while you kept an eye on me? I wanted to applaud. Bravo!

Your latest exploit in the art of teasing the bisexual neighbor, however, has had serious side effects. I believe you know to which incident I refer, sir. Yes, it would have been Tuesday night, when I was afflicted with a mild insomnia and was sitting in my dark den with the laptop illuminating my face. I was sitting there, trying to bore myself into sleep, when the brightness of your kitchen overhead light cut through the pitch black between our yards. And there you stood, naked, back turned, so that all I could see was how very perfect was your bare ass, as you leaned against the kitchen counter, shifting weight. Yes, I was a little stunned at how you showed it off.

When you moved out of the window’s view for a few moments, I was disappointed. Yet you came back, once again displaying that magnificent ass for my benefit. Then you turned and faced the window, and simply stood there. Just leaned against the counter, showing me your chest and the top of your bush. You did nothing with your hands. You weren’t drinking or fidgeting. You merely stood there, completely naked, staring through the window in my direction, making me wonder if you knew how hard my heart was thudding in my chest.

After a few moments in which I had a good look, you sauntered very slowly up to the window and stood framed for it for several last moments in which you seemed to be peering through. Then, very deliberately, you turned out the light so that the whole world seemed to go black again.

Yes, that incident. Remember it? Well dude, thanks. You appear to have given me a perpetual case of blue balls.

Sincerely,
Your horny stalker one street over.