After all, aren't peepers meant for peeping and windows for being peeped through? Of course they are. And it behooves neither my character nor my value system to divert those good and noble things from fulfilling their peepish destinies. Besides, I can't be blamed that the scrumptious little brownstone buildings in which he and I happen to hang our hats were designed so that our units (ahem, apartment units, thank-you) sit side-by-side, gazing longingly upon each other like big brick Romeo and Juliets, forced forever apart by an itsy-bitsy yard-and-a-half wide driveway that snakes between them to the small parking yard out back. It's not my fault; I didn't draw up the damn blueprints.

And the fact that my neighbor is hotter than Satan's Sunday gumbo is simply my supreme good fortune. God bless his rock hard little ass, the guy next door has this whole "guitar and tattoos," "long hair and vegetarian lasagna," "I know fifty obscure oriental massage techniques and have tickets to Burning Man in my pocket" quality going for him, and that can really kick the seeds out of my watermelon.

Who are you to judge me?

Okay. Our apartments don't technically look upon each other. Directly. His is a floor down and slightly to the left. And he tends to complicate matters by leaving every window shade in his apartment shut as tight as a Mormon girl on her wedding day, excepting one: the tiny kitchen window -- a small, but deeply appreciated peephole upon his sexy, sexy world.

It's not easy, but if I just happen to be, say, in my kitchen doing dishes or whatever, and I just happen to be standing tippy-toe and angling sharply left, sometimes I just happen to catch a glimpse of my next-door neighbor sitting in his boxer shorts (from his belly-button down, at least -- a full body shot would require yoga postures beyond the skills of most card not-carrying Vedas). And if I'm doing, let's say, a lot of dishes, which can take hours (I'm terribly thorough) -- well, a guy living alone can get up to a lot of really freaky shit in a few hours, now can't he? Naturally. And if every now and then I just happen to catch an eyeful -- of say, my gorgeous neighbor skittering quickly yet ever-so nakedly from bath to living room -- blame our building's architect. Blame fate. Blame the singular natures of windows and eyeballs. Just don't go blaming me.

Let's clear something up before we get to the good stuff. I've made it sound (quite unintentionally, believe me) almost as if neighbor-boy runs around his apartment all day with his pecker in his fist, and I spend all day crouched like a UFO geek waiting for a glimpse of the mothership. If this were the case, my head would have exploded from sheer joy months ago. However, it may be prudent to note that as far as the great Magic 8-Ball of his sexuality is concerned, all signs point to "straight." Well, not all signs: his apartment is fastidiously maintained and he's suspiciously artistic. But his (pardon the expression) girlfriend does tend to rouse suspicions of breederdom, which, of course, quadruples his already off-the-fucking-charts studliness. (Don't ask me why; I don't make the rules, I just masturbate furiously in the face of them.) He almost always wears his shirt off when he's home alone (thank you Jesus) but for some reason (He's shy? His hips get cold? That huge cock of his drags on the ground?) he has an infuriating tendency to always keep his swimsuit area under wraps. Except, of course, for that one time. And that's what we're here to talk about.

Alert! Horny guy about to drop his pants!

On that one time in question, he was, as he often is, sitting in his favorite chair. Small, unglamorous, a spare piece cast from an ungrateful kitchen set, the stud next door spends a lot time sitting in this particular chair. I love this chair. He often reads (he's intellectual), practices guitar (I wasn't kidding about that), and watches television (though not so often) while he's sitting in this chair. This chair (that he and I both love) is perfectly positioned to allow me the aforementioned navel-to-floor flesh show through his kitchen window, which is, of course, the reason that I love it. And when he does any of these ready, guitary, TV-watchy things, well, it's a good as time as any to get some dishes done, don't you think?

I was, as I said, washing enormous, towering piles of dishes (a continent of cookware, a dirty China of dirty china -- or maybe the same spoon over and over? I'll never tell) and he, wearing fashionable blue nylon jogging shorts, white socks and nothing else, was sitting in his chair, presumably watching television. I could already tell something was out of the ordinary, an imperceptible energy, a foreboding sense of expectation. Something about the way he was sitting maybe, some pheromone, some charge in the air that set that marvelous intuitive alarm that nature in her glorious wisdom blessed all homosexuals in varying degrees with to wailing: "Alert! Alert! Horny guy about to drop his pants! Right hand stand by! This is not a drill!" And, let me tell you a secret: I may not believe in politics, government or organized religion, but I'd trust this intuition with my collection of Tori Amos CDs and my life. And what it was that set this alarm to alarming -- and how and why it exists and seems to be infallible -- makes no difference whatsoever. The point is, it is infallible. As I watched, spoon suspended in mid-wash, those blue shorts were scooched from hips to knees. Paydirt.

The scene gets confusing here, try to stay with me:

My eyes were wider than the hubcaps on God's Mercedes, my entire body was quivering like the end of a Chihuahua's moustache and my dick was smiling its head off. After seven long months of discreet peeks that obscured more that they revealed, torturing me, starving me and sending my libido into fits, my hot fucking neighbor was, finally (praise Jesus, halle-fucking-leujiah) putting the goods in the window. And I'm not talking about the itty-bitty kitchen window, either. For reasons only he, his God and my ego may ever figure out (my ego figures it was because he knew I was watching, and he wanted me to watch more) he stood (!), knees still clutched in blue elastic embrace, and waddle-hopped to his living room window (the one that's always closed, remember) and pulled the fucking shade wide open.

My jaw dropped. So did the spoon.

You know? The term "big as a baby's arm" is a terrible, terrible cliché. But I say, if the cliché fits, let that huge dick of his wear it.

There he was. All of him. Exposed, aroused and with a view you couldn't buy for money. I had to move slowly. If I startled him off I'd be kicking myself in the head forever. I had to think. My mind raced, reviewing the possible motivations behind this sudden burst of exhibitionism: A) He was giving me a show, just like my ego wanted to convince me or B) He was giving his dick a chance to say howdy to the driveway. So far so good. But the situation was still touchy. If he knew I was watching, he also knew I didn't want him to know I knew he knew I was watching. (Don't worry, this is not about to devolve into one of those, "and he knew I knew he knew I didn't want him to know I was watching," things. You know?) Well, it was just in my best interests to keep still and pretend he didn't know I was there.

Perhaps you think at this point I'm being ridiculous. Perhaps you're thinking, "There could have been a zillion reasons for him to open the shade while he was jerking off that have absolutely nothing to do with you, you egotistical bastard." Right? Does it matter? I abandoned the kitchen, repositioning myself strategically at my own living room window to maximize the view, hidden discreetly behind a curtain.

He shot and shot -- like a shit-faced Charleston Heston

And maybe you'll still think I'm a delusional egotist when I tell you what he did next, which was kick those blue shorts the rest of the way off, sending the socks after them, abandon his favorite chair completely and assume a half-squatting, half-kneeling position in front of the window (giving me a far better and -- dare I say -- sexier view?), where he started fisting that dick of his like the last butter churn during the International Toast and Pancake Convention. Never slow, not from the start, but fast and hard and long furious strokes, both hands playing his cock like The Tuba that Saved the World, his sun-browned abs clenching and releasing; sometimes his hands did all the work, sometimes he held them still and bucked his cock into his fist like he was giving whatever it was in his mind he was giving it to the fucking fuck of its life. He heaved back, make short, quick breaths, once...twice...three times...and in a pitch of dramatic tension, he shot and shot and shot like a shit-faced Charlton Heston at the NRA's annual picnic.

Before the dust could settle and I could resume breathing, he sprang from the floor -- that baby's arm between his legs (and is that an apple I see in its fist?) still in his hand -- shut the shade (smack!), and retreated into the presumed privacy of his apartment. And me? I stood there glowing, fulfilled at long last, curiosity's vicious thirst finally slaked, blessing my luck, my architect, and my neighbor's seemingly new liberal policies on jacking off in front of me, and wishing above all else I'd had remained standing over the sink. I hope the drycleaner can save these curtains.

Adrian Ryan thinks that tooting one's own horn is tacky and bios are dumb, but he will let slip that he enjoys midget tossing, worshiping the devil and please God, anything but Thai food. A consummate gossip, Adrian also authors Celebrity I Saw U, the weekly celebrity gossip column in The Stranger, Seattle, where the majority of his ranting can be found. And that he likes you, he really, really likes you. You can contact him here.

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