by Alexis Angel
He followed me as I stormed out of the car.
“We aren’t dating!” he shouted.
“Right,” I yelled back. “Let’s just keep it casual, asshole.”
The next day—still crying—I boarded a cross country flight from San Francisco to New York City.
“Ma’am?” the flight attendant who sold me the ticket asked me at the counter.
“I’m fine,” I said sharply as I put on my dark sunglasses.
I made it through to the lounge and then got onto the plane.
And I curled up.
And began to cry for the next five hours.
Quinn
I’m in love with a dick.
Okay, look, I know how that sounds.
You’re sitting there thinking, Oh no, one of those women. Not again!
Same shit, different story, right?
Boy meets girl, boy hurts girl, boy loses girl.
Cue rainy montage. Dark night of the soul. Grand gesture.
Blah blah blah.
She forgives him, they bang in the final chapters, and have a baby in the epilogue. Three hundred thousand words of unreleased bonus material in the back matter, and sign up here for my fucking newsletter!
You’ve heard this one before, right? Well, breathe a sigh of relief now, babe—because that’s not quite what I’m dealing with here.
See, when I first moved into the Bradford, I thought to myself, Fuck yeah, Quinn! You finally made it!
As far as starting your own company goes, this is pretty much the dream. I sold that enterprise for so much money that I’m set for life.
Cushy apartment in the swankiest apartment building in NYC. Black cherry Tesla in the garage downstairs. Yearly donations to every notable charity that’s batted its eyelashes at me.
And the investments I made with rest of that check are so solid and secure that even my spoiled future great-grandchildren won’t be able to squander this fortune. But then, when I least expected it, Cupid’s arrow misfired so fucking badly that I probably belong in like, I don’t know.
Maybe a mental hospital. Maybe hell.
See, big city apartment life isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.
Sure, the Bradford is luxurious. In fact, it’s kind of like deep pockets Disneyland.
But in New York City, even buildings as swish and luxe as the Bradford have to be facing something. And in my case, for better or for worse, my apartment in the Bradford faces the Birmingham.
The Birmingham is this gorgeous old building. Brick and mortar—real old timey architecture. Sure, it needs a little work, but if you ask me, it’s fucking beautiful.
The Birmingham isn’t the problem here—the dick that lives in the Birmingham is.
On my first morning in my brand new apartment at the Bradford, I woke up in my big, plush bed in my silkiest La Perla nightie. For some reason, I just had this feeling it was going to be the most glorious day of my entire fucking life.
I rolled out of bed and into my slippers, then padded across my hardwood floor to the pretty yellow curtains that cover my ceiling-high bedroom windows. I pulled back those curtains with the biggest damn smile on my face—
And that’s when I saw him.
No. Wait. Not him. If there was him involved, I wouldn’t have such a fucking problem.
No, what I saw was really more of an it.
But god…what a majestic it it was.
Across the street in the apartment facing mine—twelve inches long, thick as a sailor’s wrist—uncut, perfectly shaped, fully erect, and saluting me like a valiant soldier to the Red, White, and Blue…
The biggest, most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen in my life was staring back at me, and I fell in love right then and there.
Sometimes in life, you look at something and realize that everything about it is just right. Dark, inky black curls of pubic hair. Thighs so powerful and muscular they could crush a watermelon between them with a single twitch of their rippling sinew.
And the balls—oh god, the balls! They were like two billiard cues stuffed in a cashmere tube sock, dangling so perfectly I just wanted to kneel before them, feeling them slap against my chin while I sucked them fucking dry.
I saw god in that dick that day. I just wish I could’ve seen more. Because as gorgeous and perfect and world-changingly awesome as that dick was…the man it belonged to was obscured from the waist up.
Fucking privacy blinds. Only a fuckwit at the Birmingham would go through the struggle of installing privacy blinds then only lower them halfway down.
The result was fucking infuriating.
It was the emotional equivalent of building a house of cards, only for some bastard to blow the whole thing down as you place the final peak. Ever since that day, that dick has haunted me.
It’s become my Lolita, my white whale, my one-armed man, so to speak.
I fell in love with that dick, but it was an empty love.
Or, maybe it was just a wake-up call: my pussy is empty, and I only realized how empty it was right then. On that day, I realized exactly how many holes I had to fill—and once I saw that dick, I knew that only that dick could ever possibly fill them to a point where I could be satisfied.
But what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Count the floors and windows of the Birmingham, bribe my way inside, knock on his door and tell him, “Excuse me, sir—your cock is truly divine. Might I put my lips around it until it explodes on my tongue, pretty please?”
Come on—let’s be real. That would be fucking insane.
Plus, I always chicken out just before the part where I knock on his door.
I tear my eyes away from my window—because of fucking course it’s there, just across the street, making my pussy wet and my knees weak. The Dick operates like clockwork: it’s there every morning when I wake up and every night just before I fall asleep.
It thrusts between my tits during my REM cycle—because when I do dream, I dream of dick. Sometimes I wish I’d never seen that dick at all.
No other man will ever satisfy me now—not now that I know exactly how gorgeous a dick can truly be.
Other times, I’m glad. At least now I know that the pinnacle of perfect manhood has finally been reached. It lives across the street, where I can see it twice a day in real life and all day long in my mind.
Felix
That tight little piece from across the street is staring at my cock again.
Kinky bitch.
She’s what we, dear reader, would call a voyeur—she likes to watch. In the film world, we see it all the time. The audience is the onlooker and the camera is their eyes.
But in the film world, the camera usually only replicates the male gaze. We see the slow camera pan up the sexy lead actress’ body, accentuating the curves of her calves and the tautness of her thighs…
The female gaze is something so rarely ever explored.
Male directors, male gaze. The female directors aren’t usually so fucking cheap about it.
When they get Hugh Jackman or Tom Hardy in their movies, what do they do?
They don’t put Tom Hardy in pair of thin white pants and dump buckets of water on him while they find some half-assed reason to turn his dick into a plot point, that’s for fucking sure.
No—when female directors are on set, they make their male leads give passionate monologues and sacrifice it all for the women they adore. It’s a problem I know all too fucking well, being a hot-ass actor myself.
So sometimes, it’s fucking nice to be objectified for a change.
And the kinky little slut across the street at the Bradford indulges me in that desire twice a day—morning and night.
Call me an exhibitionist—actually, really, you should.
That’s right on the fucking money, baby.
I know I’m fine as hell, and I like to be seen. Wouldn’t have gone into acting otherwise.
But the fact of the matter is there’s so much pressure on male actors to be mor
e than just a chiseled jawline and a smoldering set of eyes.
I can’t think of the last time I was allowed to play something so simple as the sexy husband. The hot main squeeze to the badass female lead. I can’t think of the last time, because it’s never fucking happened to me.
Instead, I fucking monologue. I play the same hardened action heroes, day in and day out. I crash motorcycles through windows, because you bet your ass I do my own stunts.
In the beginning, it was fun, sure. But that shit got old so fucking quickly.
I thought that taking a sabbatical from the big screen to tread the boards on Broadway might give a little relief, but if anything…it’s fucking worse.
For once—just fucking once—I’d like a role where I don’t have to throw myself into the damn thing so completely. The leading lady can carry the film for once, and I’ll just be the eye candy hired to put lusty female asses into movie theater seats.
Until then…mmm.
The pretty brunette across the street will have to be the audience that I so desperately fucking need. Is it wrong to be playing her like this? Probably.
Christ, the way she watches me, it must be fucking torture. To look at a cock as amazing as mine, as big as mine, and just not be able to take it…
If I could, I’d lift these blinds and give her the show of her fucking life.
But then she’d see my face and match it to the one staring up at her on the newsstands from this month’s issue of GQ. And if word got out that Felix fucking Fitzgerald was masturbating in the window of his New York high rise…
Well, I’d have a lot of happy fucking fans, at least.
The hot little piece from across the street could sell tickets and make a fortune—which, living in the Bradford, I doubt she even needs.
Jesus, if wasn’t for the fact that no one in Hollywood would hire me ever again…I’d fucking go for it. I’d jack off for them with a smile and wink.
A non-verbal message: Enjoy the fucking view.
But since that’s off the table… I toss the script I’m supposed to be studying onto my desk. I might not have the audience that my dick deserves…but I have her.
And I know that whatever I do at this point, she’ll be enjoying more than just the view.
It’s not the first time I’ve stroked my cock for her. I’ve taken it into my fist before, just to see if I might be able to tease her into doing something she might regret…or something she might enjoy even more.
It worked, too.
Almost.
Christ, the way I fucking held my breath as I watched her in the hallway through my peephole, praying that she’d get the fucking courage to knock on my door…
It’s not that I don’t get plenty of pussy outside of this little experiment in exhibitionism. With the way the magazines keep voting me as the Sexiest Man of the Year, I have so many offers to fuck, that frankly, it feels a little unfair to the other actors out there.
But the babe in the Bradford…
She’s something else.
Something special.
Because as much as she watches me…
I get to watch her right back.
Poor thing probably doesn’t even know it, either.
I stroke my big, thick cock for her there in the window, clenching my shaft tight in my fist. I’m telling myself that it’s fine, the way I look at her through my blinds.
She’s watching me. I’m watching her.
Two way transaction. Mutual benefits.
And if she didn’t want to be watched, I figure she’d probably either close her curtains or put on more clothes, for fuck’s sake. But it’s the darkest part of me—the part that thinks she might not realize at all—that takes over as I stroke my cock for her.
That’s the thought that makes me come.
I blow my load all over my fucking window. It’s a lot—creamy and thick and enough to fill three shot glasses, if anyone was so inclined. Shit, I bet the babe at the Bradford is inclined.
Especially with the way she presses her palm against her own window when I jizz for her. She fucking wants me. And I fucking want her.
But for that to happen…I need her to come to me.
To me, and then for me.
Over and over and over again.
Quinn
I need to get out of my fucking apartment—and fast.
The biggest problem I’ve found with my post-CEO life is time. Too much of it and not enough to do with it all. If I had a husband or a family, it wouldn’t be an issue.
But I don’t. I just have The Dick across the street at the Birmingham and way too much time to obsess over it.
Sure, I go to the gym. I work out until I’m exhausted, thinking maybe I’ll be too worn out to touch myself while I watch it when I get home.
I think about how, maybe this time, I’ll go home and watch television like a normal person instead. Doesn’t even have to be anything highbrow. Home Shopping Network or one of those shows about one of those families with shitload of kids.
I think about watching a Felix Fitzgerald movie, maybe. Not one of his good ones—no, I’ll put on one of those trashy action movies the studios love booking him on. Eighty minutes of explosions, quips, catchphrases and leggy blondes swooning over his bulging pecs—and it always is leggy blondes, even though I think he’d look a lot better with a petite brunette.
For no particular reason except that’s what I am, of course.
That was the plan earlier.
Fat load of good that did me.
No, instead I’m looking at a load of a different kind.
The cum drips deliciously down the window pane, and I press my hand up against the glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break. I don’t want to just touch the window with my hand, though. No, what my entire body is telling me to do is lean forward and lick my own window with my fucking tongue.
Actually—scratch that. What I really want to do is march over there, kick down the door to his apartment, and lick the cum off of his window. Not that I’m going to, though.
At least, as long as I can still talk myself out of it in the next ten seconds, I won’t.
Jesus. It’s too fucking much, this obsession thing. I want him.
Or, I guess, I want his dick.
It isn’t easy, but I tear myself away from the window anyway. It’s either leave the room or go insane. So I leave the room.
I pace in the kitchen for a few minutes just to clear my head. I pay my bills.
And it takes me five whole minutes of reading my electric bill to realize that it’s addressed to the wrong fucking person entirely.
Normally, shit like this would annoy me. But actually, I’m looking at this as an incredible and much-needed opportunity to leave my apartment and get the dick at the Birmingham out of my head for a few minutes.
I check the name on the front of the envelope—Emilia Adams. According to her address, she lives here in the Bradford just a floor above me. Mailman probably put it in my mailbox by accident.
Perfect.
I’m thanking my lucky stars for Emilia Adams as I approach the elevator. I’m thinking that maybe Emilia Adams and I could even be friends. We’ll joke about what a silly mistake I made in opening her electric bill by accident. We’ll go for coffee.
I’ll talk to another human being for, like, half an hour or so, and by that time, the dick at the Birmingham will have gone off to do whatever things it does when it’s not splooging all over the window across the street.
And even if Emilia Adams and I don’t hit it off, immediately becoming BFFs or whatever…at least it’ll get my mind off sex for a few minutes.
Or so I think.
When I knock on Emilia Adams’ apartment door, it gently swings open. Looks like Emilia Adams forgot to close it. But her front door isn’t the only thing she has open.
“Come on then, Daddy. Put it in my mouth,” I hear her cooing in one of tones that we women generally reserve for the bedroom…
Even though the clothes on the floor look like they’re trailing into the kitchen.
“You want it in your mouth, baby girl?” a male voice replies.
All the color immediately drains from my face.
“Oh, god yes! Give it to me, Evan! YES! YES!”
I swallow hard. This isn’t the break from voyeurism that I thought it would be.
Well, shit.
I place Emilia Adams’ electric bill on the floor, close the door and high tail it out of there.
Christ.
I run my fingers through my hair as I take the elevator back down to my apartment. This is fucking ridiculous—it’s like sex is happening in the city all around me, to the point where I can’t even avoid it.
All it does is emphasize my real problem here: everyone else in this building is fucking.
Getting laid. Falling into bed with each other and falling in love.
And here I’ve been this entire time, ogling the dick in the window of the Birmingham across the street—obsessing over something that I’ll never fucking have because I don’t have the guts to march over there and take it.
I consider taking the elevator up to the Bradford’s lounge instead.
I mean, if everyone else in this building is fucking, then that’s probably the place to meet the man of your dreams, right? But then I remember the dick in the Birmingham, and I’m reminded how it’s ruined other dicks for me.
A jolt of fear shoots through me.
If I don’t have the dick in the Birmingham, I might never be able to feel pleasure for a man ever again.
So here’s what I’m thinking—I’m thinking I’ll go back into my apartment, close the drapes over my bedroom windows and pop on that Felix Fitzgerald movie like I planned. Sure, there’s going to be an obligatory sex scene between him and whatever blonde bimbo is playing opposite of him, but fucking Felix Fitzgerald is one of those fantasies that I can cope with right now.
Fantasizing about the dick at the Bradford is one thing. The dick at the Bradford feels oddly obtainable—I mean, it’s just across the street.
Felix Fitzgerald, at least, is more unobtainable. He’s a movie star.
