My Sexy Awakening

I know you are there...

I was out of town for the past few days and had a great time. I love being a journalist and a writer. I am working on an in-depth article about the exploitation of undocumented immigrants hired for a miserable wage to work in clandestine clothing factories near the border. I interviewed several migrant workers and former employees of these factories. 

I have been working on this piece for several weeks now, and I know it will have an impact. My last article on the exploitation of undocumented workers, which I published last year, received the National Prize for Junior Investigative Journalists. The piece I am currently working on is a follow-up of it. 

Being out of town on work mode made me forget about my horny neighbor. But as soon as I got to the cottage, the memory of my neighbor’s escapades came right back to me with a vengeance. Thinking about it made me hot. I tried to distract myself by concentrating on unpacking. 

When I was done, about 8 pm, I sat on my lovely patio with a glass of champagne. Soon after, the familiar noises started once again. His s****l encounters went on and on, weekend after weekend. It seemed that every time was with a different woman, at least the voices sounded different. I realized that I was looking forward to the show starting every weekend and ending hot and bothered, making me feel like a total pervert.  

One Saturday night, I was reading a book on the patio when the familiar noises started once again. This time a woman with an annoying high-pitched voice groaned loudly, pleading for more. At a point, she was screaming, and after that, the only thing I could hear was heavy breathing. “Oh my God. I did not know orgasms could be this intense,” she said. “Yes, they can whenever I am on top,” he said. 

Her answer came right away, “this was truly fantastic; I would love to see you again. I have tickets for the Opera. Do you have any plans for the weekend, Paul?” There it is; at least I have a name to go with the orgasm-generating machine that lived behind the fence. “Thank you, sweets, that’s very kind of you. However, you know the drill. As I explained earlier, I never do repeats, and this is only a casual, one-time thing.”

She sounded agitated, and then I could hear her annoying voice saying, “your loss. I don’t care. I’ll see myself out.” I was trying very hard to see my neighbor’s face, but the tall fence and the bushes behind it made it impossible. I grabbed a chair to step on, but the chair fell, making a thunderous noise. Right away, I could hear his masculine, husky voice saying, “I know you are there, my curious neighbor.” Triple s**t, I am busted.

-You get off listening to other people having s*x, don’t you?

-Of course, I don’t, I snapped. It’s just that you seem to lack any modesty, and my patio is so tiny, and it is just behind the fence, and there is no way I cannot listen to you and your loud bimbos.

And there I was, mumbling incoherently and sounding extremely misogynistic. I always thought women should be able to embrace their s****l desires without limitations, and there I was, calling “bimbos” those women who embraced my horny neighbor. 

-Well, well, well, said my neighbor. If I didn’t know better, I would think you are sexually frustrated. 

-You don´t even know me; how do you know that I am sexually frustrated?

-So you are, he said… Interesting. We cannot allow that, can we?

-OMG. I cannot believe you are saying those things to me. Who are you? The s*x policeman? I said, almost screaming.

-A sense of humor, I like that, said, my neighbor. And to answer your question, no. I am not the s*x policeman. I am just a concerned good doer that would go to any lengths to help a fellow neighbor in s****l distress. I think my extensive knowledge may be handy if you want to curb your frustration. Let´s say that I am a sort of s****l Samaritan.

-I am not in s****l distress, not even a bit. Truth be told, I am sexually satisfied. Some of us do not need a man to feel right, you know. You wouldn’t understand.  

-Quite on the contrary. I am all for lesbians—no need to apologize. In fact, if I were a woman, I do not doubt that I would be a very committed, avid lesbian myself—no doubts about it.

-But I am not a lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with being one. It’s just that I like men a lot. I mean, no, like a lot, in a nymphomanic way, but kind of a lot. And now I am not making any sense.   

-Mmm… You do not sound like the kind of woman with lots of men in her life. 

-There is nothing wrong with being selective, I replied. You wouldn’t understand. You are a kind of random seducer, a cocky man who believes he is worth more than he is, just because he would accept any woman who is willing to go along. I am not like that, thank you very much, and I am not planning to be.

-The more you talk, he said, the more sexually frustrated you sound. Do you know what I think?

-Why do I feel that I will get an answer to your question even if I do not want one?

-Because you are my curious neighbor. That’s why you are still behind the fence, talking to me, instead of going back to whatever it is that you usually do. To answer my question, I think you are frustrated because you have never been with a man. A true man, that is, who can fulfill your needs and fantasies, a man who is more concerned with your pleasure than with his own. A selfless s****l soul.

-And let me guess, I said, you are a sort of s****l saint.



-Not a saint, just a Samaritan.