I have several recurring themes in this blog -- men, my weight, liquor, shoes, Springsteen. Ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, my job, my friends, my family, the curious thoughts that pop into my head when I'm trying not to stare at freaks on the Metro or soaping my naughty nuggets in the shower, my bad poetry, my bad puns, my even worse happenstance. But never, in all my days and nights of hunting and pecking my deepest darkest obsessions for the rest of the world to share (or at least the five people who read this blog) did I ever think that I'd be adding neighborhood pervert to my repertoire of written regurgitation. I mean, he's found his way into the occasional post, but he has yet to encapsulate a category onto himself.
I've lived with his frequent window-front masturbation since June of 2009. The first time I spotted him, I was teaching my friend Kenny how to play Texas Hold-Em after a full Sunday of drinking at a Cleveland Park hole in the wall. At first Kenny and I thought the guy was naked ironing without realizing his shades were open to the full monty view we were getting. Then, as we stared a little longer, we realized, he was naked ironing while wearing a pink corset. We chuckled, we drank another Corona, and Kenny learned another way to bluff his friend the DC Damsel out of her dollar bills. Who were we to judge? Who were we to shun this lingerie clad fellow citizen who's soul mission in life was to rid himself of ghastly wrinkles while enjoying the early summer breeze?
But then we realized, our friendly, cross-dressing, co-resident wasn't ironing. Nor was he obsessively vacuuming his floors or over-watering his Ficus. He was doing the deed, in front of his Cleveland Park apartment window facing Connecticut Avenue.
He was loud.
He was proud.
And it was, well, kinda funny.
Kenny stood in my window and waved at the dude while I took pictures of Kenny on my iPhone.
I mean, I thought the dude was creepy but I was drunk and it was summer and my good friend was about to move to a Central time zone so I didn't really give it much more thought than that.
Until, the next time.
And it was nighttime.
And he added a spotlight.
And I was alone.
I frantically text messaged Kenny and his partner Sean.
What should I do?
Draw the blinds?
Tell the building managers?
Call the cops?
"Just ignore him," Kenny told me.
Kenny's partner Sean simply laughed at me and told me to make sure my deadbolt was in place.
My mother told me she was quite sure that while the man may be a pervert, it was unlikely anyone wearing a pink corset had violent tendencies. (Not sure how mom became an expert at such things, but I digress).
Naturally, their reassurance was most comforting.
So, I learned to live with the cross-dressing, chronic masturbator like you learn to live with a broken drawer, a creaky closet door, a leaky sink.
I made sure to admonish him consistently when he decided to "practice his craft," by drawing my blinds boldly before him.
Surely if he lacked a captive audience, he'd turn elsewhere for his voyeuristic sexual gratification.
I mean, regardless of the old woman with Elephantitis who sits on the lobby couch talking to herself all day long, or the nice Jewish newlyweds domestic abuse couple or even the alcoholic old guy who liked to accost any woman under 60 with his drunken admiration and his surefire meatloaf recipe, regardless, this was a nice building to live in. And surely I thought, our cross-dressing, chronic masturbater would realize this and bring a halt to his uncovered activities.
But alas, he has yet to see the light.
And after eight straight months of living with his nightly performances (he does matinees for half price on the weekends), he has yet to cease pleasuring himself for the public.
And I am left frustrated, grossed out, and wondering why he hasn't visited a decent lingerie store by now.
I mean, seriously, go dumpster diving at La Perla already, because I'm pretty sick of the extra large Maidenforms from Filene's Basement you've been rocking.
If you're going to be a dedicated pervert, go hard or go home.
I'm quite sure this ain't what Bob from Sesame Street meant when he told me these were the people in my neighborhood.
Surely this is the guy the "stranger danger" folks had been warning me about all those years.
What in God's name would our dearly departed Mr. Rogers have to say about this man and his McFeely ways? This brings a whole new meaning to the term "speedy delivery."
It would be pretty fucking hilarious if it wasn't so damn disturbing.
So here, I boldly sit, typing this blog post, and waiting with bated breath for the moment I have to Iron-man it to the window to pull my blinds down when Fiddle Faddle Felix makes his nightly appearance. I can only hope he's a peaceful kind of pervert and doesn't want to make a suit out of my epidermis.
I shall say so.
Otherwise the chaffing would be ridiculous.