Yes, it’s almost time. Untraditional II is heading into the editing phase and I wanted to share an unedited (give me grace please) story from my next baby. Enjoy the first 1K words and if you want the full chapter, just join my Patreon family at the Passionate Fan tier.
With passion, DNC
***For Mature Audiences Only – Over 18***
Voyeurism /vwä-ˈyər-ˌi-zəm/[1]
noun:the practice of obtaining sexual gratification from observing others.
Look at Me
“Fuck this job!” I yell to Romi through the phone.
“Girl stop! That job pays for that dope and expensive ass condo you live in.” She’s right. I close the door and place my keys on the entry table. I kick off my tan strappy Valentinos and head down the hall toward the kitchen.
“You’re right, sis. You know I don’t mean it.” We laugh as I sit my purse on the bar.
“I just wish they didn’t make we work so long each day. I mean over four hours is just too much.”
“Who are you telling? Girl they had the nerve to have a deposition meeting at 8 a.m. today.”
“On a Friday?”
“On a Friday! Girl that’s not allowed on any damn day.”
I nod, knowing for damn well that I would have shut that down as soon as I saw it come across my calendar.
The faint scent of lavender and vanilla sweep across my nose.
“Yay, Clint got a bath today.” I turn and walk into my room.
“Tell Clint I said hi.”
I follow the smell through the condo into my bathroom where my Yorkie eagerly waits for me.
“Hiring Melanie was such a great idea!”
“You’re welcome. I’ll send the bill at the end of the month for my consulting services.” Romi confirms. “She’s the best dog sitter I’ve ever had.”
I can’t agree more. She’s worth the entire one-hundred and fifty dollars I was paying her monthly. Originally, I thought it was a horrible idea. How could I dare ask someone to break up their busy day to walk my dog since I was too damn busy? But, apparently there are people in this world who love to do such a thing. Thank God for Melanie the Yorkie whisperer. She came to my rescue right on time. If I didn’t find her, I would have paid a ton more to send my baby to daycare.
“Okay, I’ll give you that.” I admit. “Plus, she lives in the building so it doesn’t feel like it’s as much of a hassle as it could be.”
“Yep. But enough about that dog. Let me tell you about that hoe ass Tony and who’s he dating now.” Her voice shoots up three octaves.
“I thought you were over him, Romi?” An understatement to what she swore to me. It was something like, “This is the last time I would ever speak of such an irresponsible, punk ass, fuck boy,” or however she phrased it.
We both knew the truth as soon as those words flew out of her lips. Tony was her too-busy-to-date-but-always-ready-to-fuck guy. Ex? Lover? Boo? Shit, I don’t know what to call him.
“Girl I’m always over him but he was just over her last night and then I see a pic with him and Jerreka.”
I let her vent as I finally get comfortable in my own home. It’s been a long week and all I want to do is pour a velvety glass of Merlot and catch up on my favorite horror mystery on Netflix.
“Get down Clint,” I whisper to my baby, hoping not to interrupt her, but it doesn’t work.
“Girl every time you call that dog’s name I hear ‘Clit. Get down Clit.’”
“Bitch, stop hating on my dog.” I roll my eyes, hoping she can feel my annoyance through the phone, then I flop down on my bed and unsnap my bra releasing my exhausted breast.s Men made bras and I don’t know why I keep letting them hinder me. Oh yeah, I would scare a child or two with my triple Ds. Or at least I would get all the men fired at my jobs for not being able to be productive.
That’s a thought.
It would definitely make my plight to CEO easier. I want to pass the idea to Romi, but she’s back on her old ass topic, rumbling on about how that “tramp ain’t shit” and how he “should be getting his life right” with her.
I stand up and pull my skirt over my thighs, trying to catch it before it hits floor so I can kit it toward my laundry basket.
“Shit.” I blurt out.
“What,” she pauses for a moment, then rapid fires several more “what’s going on” through the phone.
“Nothing, I just forgot to close my blinds.”
I can feel her shaking her head at me through the phone. She keeps the conversation going, elaborating more on Tony’s horrible hoeing charades.
I walk over to the window and pick the remote up on the sill. No matter how convenient remote controlled blinds were, I always found a way to still have to walk over to them.
I pick up the remote and point it, but freeze immediately when I notice the man sitting on his balcony right across from me. At first, I think my eyes are playing a trick on me then I realize that I’m seeing what I’m seeing; that Man is watching me.
I quickly close the blinds then lean on the wall next to the window. My heart speeds in my chest and I watch my breast jump from the excitement. But shouldn’t it be anger?
“Are you okay?” Romi asks.
“Yeah, I mean I guess so. Why?”
“Ah, I can hear you huffin’ and puffin’ like the big bad wolf?”
I didn’t notice. I take a deep inhale and let it go.
“What happened bitch?”
Part of me wants to lie since I know how she will respond but I can’t. The truth leaps over my lips.
“A man was watching me.”
She coughs and then chuckles. “A man or the Man?” Again, I want to play an idiot, but I’m way too much of a genus for that shit.
“It might have been ‘the Man’.”
The Man we’re referencing is not just some meager soul. We mean the gorgeous, vanilla dipped Nigerian gentleman who smokes cigars on his balcony every Wednesday and Friday. The man whose silky green eyes pause my thoughts every time I gaze into them. Sometimes I’m embarrassed by my response and other days I’m mad that he’s staring, but no matter the moment, his eyes always make me sway my hips a little slower and push my breasts out a little further.
Whether it was ego or arousal, who was he to pull any unassisted reaction out of me. It’s been a long time since someone has pulled anything like that out of me, metaphorically or physically.
What is it about him?
I can’t help but peek through my blinds to see if he’s still there, and of course he is.
The stogie dimly lights up his balcony and I can see the plaid pattern on his flannel pants. His shirtless chest isn’t as easily visible so I move from my bedroom to the living room window, hoping to confirm or deny my suspension of a perfectly chiseled torso. One that could have been carved by the incredible Richmond Barthe’. No detail was spared. I look over the deep indent that separates each pectoral muscle, flowing down to those hard abs. His tattoo-less chest makes it easier to see the sun kissing his skin.
I’ve been in this condo for almost three years now and yet I still can’t handle his stare, even though I enjoy it.
I’ve spoken to him before even when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. He said, “Hello,” I turned once I realized who he was and pretty much moonwalked all the way back of the store’s seafood aisle.
Sure, I felt like a punk for doing it but how do I address a peeping tom? Maybe something like, “I saw you watching me and I ain’t like it.” Or do I go for truth like, “You live by me and I’ve seen you looking through my blinds. Do you like what you see?” Either approach felt like a stupid one so for weeks, months and now years, I’ve ran from him.
That night, I dreamt about him. I imagined seeing his lips only inches away from mine. I imagine what glory lives under those pants and how strong it could feel inside of me. It almost feels like madness—hell I’m too scared to hold a conversation but I can dream about him knocking down my walls. Crazy as hell. [Read the full chapter on Patreon – Choose Passionate Fan tier]
[1] Definition from Merriam-Webster: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/voyeurism
The Chronicles of DNC 