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Authors: Airicka Phoenix
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criticized and my mom was not known for holding back the punches. While she had never lashed out physically, the taunts, jabs, and cruel remarks were so much worse. From the years between fifteen and seventeen, I had no mirrors in my room. When I did happen to catch a glimpse of my reflection, I could never meet my own eyes. I was twenty by the time I had the courage to stick my head out from behind books and my hair. I only had to leave the country and put thousands of miles between me and my mom to do it. So to say I had a slight problem with Sexy, Next Door’s request was an understatement.
But I read on, mind already made up that I would ignore the request.
Call me tonight at seven. Block your number.
P/S, if you’re with someone, ignore this.
Sincerely,
The Voyeur Next Door.
There was a series of ten numbers written at the bottom and they stared up at me with a mocking sort of slant. The cheerleaders had stopped their whooping and hollering to giggle and pondering just how sexy his voice would sound telling me to touch myself. Yet my rational brain couldn’t help wondering how he planned on making this fantasy a reality with all his conditions. I may not have had sex in a while, but even I knew people had to get damn close to make magic happen.
Didn’t matter, I told myself with haughty indignation. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to expose myself to some stranger who could possibly take one look at me and flinch. Last night had been a onetime thing. The way I saw it, we both came and it was good times all around. Why ruin that by adding to it?
Setting aside the letter, I grabbed my purse and went off to do the one thing I’d been dutifully putting off for the last two weeks—grocery shopping, or as I liked to call it, foraging for sustenance in the heart of a warzone.
I hated the whole process. I hated wheeling that rickety cart up and down overflowing aisles, bypassing idiot shoppers and their hell spawns only to stand at the only register open out of thirty for two hours. There were days I preferred gnawing on my own arm rather than endure that bullshit.
Nevertheless, I liked my arms. They helped me do things, like masturbate to my next door neighbor, so grocery shopping it was.
For a miserably hot Wednesday afternoon, everyone and their mother was at Mike’s One-Stop Shop. I barely found a cart, and when I did, I had to snatch it away from a woman in hot, pink spandex pants and a tank top that read: Future Trophy Wife. She snarled something at me in Spanish that I was pretty sure wasn’t a blessing. But in my defense, I had my hand on the thing first. Wasn’t there a universal code for that? Like finders keepers?
She called me a puta bitch and threatened to mess me up when I came out, to which I asked, why wait? I took advantage of her temporary surprise and hurried away, because for all my big talk, she had claws and about six inches of stiletto over me.
Cart in tow, I threw myself into the fray. Mothers with their irate, screaming children seemed to be the main theme of the place. I didn’t even bother risking my life going through the snack aisle. It seemed to be the main hunting grounds, like the zombie apocalypse gone horribly wrong.
At the dairy section, I slowed. My gaze lingered on the eggs and I thought of Earl, which inadvertently, made me think of Gabriel. I felt no remorse for drowning him in my iced tea. He deserved it as far I was concerned, but it did make me feel bad because I knew Earl had his heart set on me being there and, unlike his grandson, I actually liked him. He reminded me of the grandfather I never had. Plus he was actually a decent guy. How many people went out of their way to hire a complete stranger? He didn’t have to, but he did and I was grateful to him for his kindness. It was just too bad his grandson was such a dick.
I grabbed a carton and flipped open the top to check for breaks. It was a habit I learned the hard way back in university after a
But I read on, mind already made up that I would ignore the request.
Call me tonight at seven. Block your number.
P/S, if you’re with someone, ignore this.
Sincerely,
The Voyeur Next Door.
There was a series of ten numbers written at the bottom and they stared up at me with a mocking sort of slant. The cheerleaders had stopped their whooping and hollering to giggle and pondering just how sexy his voice would sound telling me to touch myself. Yet my rational brain couldn’t help wondering how he planned on making this fantasy a reality with all his conditions. I may not have had sex in a while, but even I knew people had to get damn close to make magic happen.
Didn’t matter, I told myself with haughty indignation. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to expose myself to some stranger who could possibly take one look at me and flinch. Last night had been a onetime thing. The way I saw it, we both came and it was good times all around. Why ruin that by adding to it?
Setting aside the letter, I grabbed my purse and went off to do the one thing I’d been dutifully putting off for the last two weeks—grocery shopping, or as I liked to call it, foraging for sustenance in the heart of a warzone.
I hated the whole process. I hated wheeling that rickety cart up and down overflowing aisles, bypassing idiot shoppers and their hell spawns only to stand at the only register open out of thirty for two hours. There were days I preferred gnawing on my own arm rather than endure that bullshit.
Nevertheless, I liked my arms. They helped me do things, like masturbate to my next door neighbor, so grocery shopping it was.
For a miserably hot Wednesday afternoon, everyone and their mother was at Mike’s One-Stop Shop. I barely found a cart, and when I did, I had to snatch it away from a woman in hot, pink spandex pants and a tank top that read: Future Trophy Wife. She snarled something at me in Spanish that I was pretty sure wasn’t a blessing. But in my defense, I had my hand on the thing first. Wasn’t there a universal code for that? Like finders keepers?
She called me a puta bitch and threatened to mess me up when I came out, to which I asked, why wait? I took advantage of her temporary surprise and hurried away, because for all my big talk, she had claws and about six inches of stiletto over me.
Cart in tow, I threw myself into the fray. Mothers with their irate, screaming children seemed to be the main theme of the place. I didn’t even bother risking my life going through the snack aisle. It seemed to be the main hunting grounds, like the zombie apocalypse gone horribly wrong.
At the dairy section, I slowed. My gaze lingered on the eggs and I thought of Earl, which inadvertently, made me think of Gabriel. I felt no remorse for drowning him in my iced tea. He deserved it as far I was concerned, but it did make me feel bad because I knew Earl had his heart set on me being there and, unlike his grandson, I actually liked him. He reminded me of the grandfather I never had. Plus he was actually a decent guy. How many people went out of their way to hire a complete stranger? He didn’t have to, but he did and I was grateful to him for his kindness. It was just too bad his grandson was such a dick.
I grabbed a carton and flipped open the top to check for breaks. It was a habit I learned the hard way back in university after a
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