Dear Creepy-Ass Neighbor:
I first spotted you several months ago, hanging around inside the chipped white doorframe of your appalling bachelor pad, an apartment so dilapidated that should the occasion arise that we have to give the neighborhood of Ghent an enema, your abode is where we will likely stick the hose. Your chest hair is auburn. I know this because you were shirtless.
It was around 8 p.m. I had just gotten off work. I was walking from my car to my apartment, and I’m sure you heard the click-clacking of my high heels, which signaled to you that a.) there was a woman within 50 feet of your dwelling, and b.) that said woman would derive pleasure in being wolf-whistled at by someone who, measured by the spectrum of modern scientific advances, contradicts all known evidence of human evolution.
My response was to whip my head around like I was the understudy for Linda Blair in The Exorcist and make my most aghast face. I thought this might effectively serve as an indication that I even the mere suggestion of attraction on my part was thoroughly non-existent. You wiggle your eyebrows at me anyway. I scowl.
So then I see you a few days later, around the same time. This time, I am walking to my car and you are standing at your screened-in living window, and when I make the grave mistake of glancing at who-in-the-hell-is-staring-at-me, I am met with your husky, “Hey.” And this, sir, was no ordinary hey, one that signifies, Hello, neighbor, lovely night we’re having. It wasn’t even a, Sorry you’ve caught me shirtless again, standing at my window – I’m terribly embarrassed for the gauche, but maybe if I say hello we can both alleviate our mutual discomfort. This was a lecherous hey. This is a hey that says I want to bend you over the apartment city-issued trashcans and touch you in your underwear places.
As time progressed I got used to having you around. I would park my car, walk past your apartment, and you would be, in what appears to be an inordinate amount of free time (perhaps you’re unemployed?), standing at your door, clearing your throat until I look over in annoyance. It was a process.
Until yesterday.
I parked my car – at noon, mind you – and I saw you standing at your window.
Taking. A. Shower.
What kills me – what fucking kills me – is that you took no pains to hide the fact that you were bathing. You lathered up your hair and stared at me at the same time. You even flashed me a smile. And while it was disturbing that you were scouring your head and watching me, it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as when you put your right hand down where I couldn’t see it. Christ. Jesus.
To your credit, you didn’t leave it where I couldn’t see it for long, but just by looking at you, I would guess it probably doesn’t take a whole lot to get you where you want to be, either.
Well. Allow me to enlighten you.
I have been masturbated to by men more daring than you. One (that I know of) was even in public. He got arrested for it. That may be sickening, but goddamit, that’s dedication. I’ve had several other verbal confirmations of said act, mainly by drunk guys (“Sometimes…I think about you.”), and I’ve done a little math:
First we have to deduce how many men are whacking it to me on a given day. If you count the number of men I see on a daily basis (roughly 300, but we’ll say 265 since I hang around with a lot of gay dudes, but I am adding 4 for lesbians, equaling out to 269) minus 50 (I’m not so self-important to think that everyone is masturbating to me), multiplied by 6 days a week (I’m assuming that as we live a quasi-conservative area that no one would ever masturbate on a Sunday), we have me being masturbated to by 1254 people a week. That’s 65,208 per year, and multiplied by the 11 years I’ve been post-pubescent, that totals up to 717,288 people. And of these 717,288 people, isn’t it peculiar that only you and another dude I pressed charges against are the only ones who are amateurish enough to get caught? So 717, 288 – 2 = you are a fucking dickwaffle. That math does itself.
And if me schooling you in pervy calculus isn’t enough, take this little fact into account: I serve up bagels to roughly 10 cops a day in Yorgo’s, all of whom, if prompted with a breakfast burrito, would be more than happy to pay you a visit.
Yours,
Laura C. Watkins, esq. (Thought I’d fancy it up a bit.)
P.S. – I will be pleased to buy you curtains for your bathroom window. Perhaps something in taupe?
