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No. Wait. Not him. If there was him involved, I wouldn’t have such a fucking problem.
No, what I saw was really more of an it.
But god…what a majestic it it was.
Across the street in the apartment facing mine—twelve inches long, thick as a sailor’s wrist—uncut, perfectly shaped, fully erect, and saluting me like a valiant soldier to the Red, White, and Blue…
The biggest, most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen in my life was staring back at me, and I fell in love right then and there.
Sometimes in life, you look at something and realize that everything about it is just right. Dark, inky black curls of pubic hair. Thighs so powerful and muscular they could crush a watermelon between them with a single twitch of their rippling sinew.
And the balls—oh god, the balls! They were like two billiard cues stuffed in a cashmere tube sock, dangling so perfectly I just wanted to kneel before them, feeling them slap against my chin while I sucked them fucking dry.
I saw god in that dick that day. I just wish I could’ve seen more. Because as gorgeous and perfect and world-changingly awesome as that dick was…the man it belonged to was obscured from the waist up.
Fucking privacy blinds. Only a fuckwit at the Birmingham would go through the struggle of installing privacy blinds then only lower them halfway down.
The result was fucking infuriating.
It was the emotional equivalent of building a house of cards, only for some bastard to blow the whole thing down as you place the final peak. Ever since that day, that dick has haunted me.
It’s become my Lolita, my white whale, my one-armed man, so to speak.
I fell in love with that dick, but it was an empty love.
Or, maybe it was just a wake-up call: my pussy is empty, and I only realized how empty it was right then. On that day, I realized exactly how many holes I had to fill—and once I saw that dick, I knew that only that dick could ever possibly fill them to a point where I could be satisfied.
But what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Count the floors and windows of the Birmingham, bribe my way inside, knock on his door and tell him, “Excuse me, sir—your cock is truly divine. Might I put my lips around it until it explodes on my tongue, pretty please?”
Come on—let’s be real. That would be fucking insane.
Plus, I always chicken out just before the part where I knock on his door.
I tear my eyes away from my window—because of fucking course it’s there, just across the street, making my pussy wet and my knees weak. The Dick operates like clockwork: it’s there every morning when I wake up and every night just before I fall asleep.
It thrusts between my tits during my REM cycle—because when I do dream, I dream of dick. Sometimes I wish I’d never seen that dick at all.
No other man will ever satisfy me now—not now that I know exactly how gorgeous a dick can truly be.
Other times, I’m glad. At least now I know that the pinnacle of perfect manhood has finally been reached. It lives across the street, where I can see it twice a day in real life and all day long in my mind.
Two
Felix
That tight little piece from across the street is staring at my cock again.
Kinky bitch.
She’s what we, dear reader, would call a voyeur—she likes to watch. In the film world, we see it all the time. The audience is the onlooker and the camera is their eyes.
But in the film world, the camera usually only replicates the male gaze. We see the slow camera pan up the sexy lead actress’ body, accentuating the curves of her calves and the tautness of her thighs…
The female gaze is something so rarely ever explored.
Male directors, male gaze. The female directors aren’t usually so fucking cheap about it.
