So. Last night I was sitting out on our little front porch that Sean-Martin built all by himself. It's a serene place to be in the evenings with a nice glass of pino grigio and a cheese platter. Two wicker chairs, huddled up to a round glass table, stand on a sandstone patio behind a Japanese maple that can’t decide whether or not life is worth living. The sun sets behind our house around 9:15 at night, so the front porch is shaded and cool, and the temperature is perfect. It’s lovely. Or, rather, it WAS lovely.
I was on the phone catching up on the latest goings-on with Devin when I glanced over across the street and down the way a bit. There, standing just inside his garage watching me, was our neighbor BUCK-ASS NAKED with his dick in hand, GOING TO TOWN WITH IT! We’re talking full-frontal, broad daylight, standing just twelve inches inside his garage with the door wide open, and not even TRYING to hide behind a car.
Now, you know when your eyes are in a knock-down-drag-out with your brain? Yes, I know that I am seeing this! No, you’re NOT seeing this! Yes I am! No you’re not! Yes I am! No you’re not!
“Oh my God!” I shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” Devin knew from my tone that something was happening, and that protective bone kicked in from 2000 miles away. My silence certainly did nothing to reassure my brother. “Daisy! What’s going on?”
Not answering, I ran inside the house and called upstairs to my husband who was watching Michael Phelps blow away the competition in China’s Water Cube. “Sean-Martin, can you please come down here for a second?” I knew he was up there rolling his eyes and thinking how that one sentence was never, ever good.
“Daisy!” Devin continued his rant in my ear. “What the hell is going on?”
Poor guy. I just let him hang. He heard me tell Sean-Martin, “Look out this window.” I pointed to the open garage across the way.
“What is it?” they both asked.
Finally, Devin was going to get his answers: “Is that our neighbor standing in his garage, totally naked, tugging on his dick?”
“WHAT?!” both men exclaimed in simultaneous stereo.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.” Sean-Martin pulled the horizontal blinds apart and peered through. Sure enough, there was our neighbor yanking away in front of anybody who cared to look.
Now, for the record, none of the three of us are morally opposed to people showing themselves a little affection. In fact, I have what they call a “Silver Bullet”, except mine is purple. And let me tell you, that thing’ll gitterdun! “Mommy’s Little Helper” is what Daddy calls it. But we CERTAINLY don’t use it in the FRONT YARD! It’s hiding in my underwear drawer, and we only break it out behind a CLOSED AND LOCKED DOOR!
I saw the conflict ensue between my husband’s brain and his eyes as he jerked his hand back from the blinds and let them snap shut, not believing what he had just seen. He leaned his head to one side as the confusion took over his face. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sean-Martin was internally arguing with himself: You didn’t just see that. Yes I did. No you didn’t. Yes I did. No you didn’t.
He looked again. Yep! The neighbor was still plucking away! Devin wasn’t getting any answers out of me so he told me to give the phone to Sean-Martin.
“Yeah,” he reported. “He’s jacking off right here in front of my wife. Standing right there, watching her.”
Devin must have offered some creative suggestion because Sean-Martin replied, “Should I take my shotgun?”
“Well, I’m going over there. Here’s Daisy. She’ll give you the play by play.”
Out the front door he went. Of course, I wanted to hear every word so I followed him out and took my usual place on the veranda. With any luck there would be yelling and Devin could enjoy the exchange as well. When the neighbor saw my husband coming, he ran into the house. Sean-Martin was not dissuaded in the least. He walked right into the garage and called him outside.
Can you believe the guy came back out?
“What the fuck?” Sean-Martin began.
Now, I never heard one word from the neighbor. Devin and I only heard one side:
“What were you doing?”
“I saw you! My wife saw you!”
“BULLSHIT! We saw you!”
“Who else is here then? What other guy is here?”
“Then it was YOU! What the fuck?”
“That’s my WIFE! That is my WIFE!”
“It wasn’t you? Then who was it?”
“You don’t speak English now? How about I call the police? Will you speak English then?”
“Oh, so it WAS you?”
“Bullshit! Too many beers, my ass!”
“No excuse! No excuse!”
“You and me? No mas! No mas! We’re done! We are NOT friends! No amigos!”
Finally I heard very faintly, “Don’t tell my wife. No police! No police!”
“You stay away from my wife! You stay away from my house!”
With that, my hero came walking back, red in the face and shaking his head.
“Well done,” Devin offered before we hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, this guy’s wife pulled up to their house with their grandson and went inside. We hadn’t moved from the front porch and kept our eyes sharp.
“He’s pooping a twinkie right now,” I speculated.
Not two minutes later, both came back outside upset as we continued to stare them down. The guy, fully dressed now, started walking up to our house.
“No!” Sean-Martin lifted a finger to point him back in the direction he’d come. “No, no, no! Get away from this house!” He kept coming up the sidewalk, and I retreated into the house. I’ve had my fill of perverts for this lifetime.
He stopped finally and asked Sean-Martin, “You have my pants?”
He’d apparently misplaced his pants and thought Sean-Martin might have taken them.
“I don’t have your pants. Get away from this house.”
He turned around and started back to his own house. His wife had gotten back in the car and pulled up to our house as her husband walked away.
“Sean,” she called. “What is the problem?”
“Talk to your husband.”
She motioned for him to come up to the truck and talk to her. Sean-Martin didn’t budge from the chair.
“Talk to your husband. Your husband can tell you what he did.”
Finally, without her answers, she pulled away. She turned around and stopped in front of her own house. He got into the passenger’s seat, and they drove off. That’s the last we’ve seen of them.
I can't imagine that he will tell his wife what happened. After all, how does a guy form the words, "Well, honey. I got caught waxing my carrot in front of the neighbors." If his wife, whom I love, really wants to know what happened then she will probably come and ask me. And don’t think for a minute that I won’t tell her every last detail. I will. I’m not sure I should break my neck to run right over and let her know either, even though it’s kind of ironic that I have no problem putting it out on the Internet. I might also mention here that calling the police is still not totally out of the question either.
So, what are your opinions? Should we spill the beans to the wife or not? And what’s your opinions about involving the police?
A post-script here: We really do live in a very nice neighborhood.