Two doors down is a guy who is inordinately fond of talking about sex. I’ll call him Dave, ’cause that’s his name. He’s seventy-two years old and never grew up. First question he asked related to my orientation. Being an open, honest person, I answered despite my uneasiness.
In his mind, that opened the door to other sex-related questions, and wondering if I was a nudist was at the top of the list.
Then he told me what a great ass I had, how my legs were terrific and I should always wear short-shorts, and he liked my chest. I either ignored him or shut him down.
That changed yesterday. Here’s what happened:
A few weeks ago, he took to wearing worn jeans with lots of holes in them. One hole was in the crotch, and if he moved just right, you glimpsed his dick. I didn’t want to see that thing, so I averted my eyes and ignored it. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, ya know? Didn’t like wearing underwear, only came outside for a minute… I tried not to be around when he was. You know, the whole “pretend it doesn’t exist and it’ll go away” thing.
My attitude must have got to him, and he made the hole bigger. I was just noticing that when a male friend of his from across the canal showed up not a minute after I did. We almost always visited under the shade tree with drinks while looking at the canal. Kept things casual.
We planted ourselves under the tree and chatted. I noticed Dave pointedly making efforts to avoid flashing his neighbor, and I finally tumbled to his game. On to you, Mr. Perv. No more doubts.
I saw the jeans again a couple weeks ago, and I swear that hole had gotten even larger. He was pruning bushes along the back of his lanai and not being shy about it. I don’t remember now, but I’m guessing the neighbors on either side were gone, and he wasn’t worried about someone using the canal sidewalk at his back.
At this point, it’s obvious he didn’t care what I thought, and in fact he may have hoped I’d see him in all his glory. I lowered the blinds.
Yesterday he really crossed the line though. He knocked on the lanai door to ask me questions about my internet blah blah (nothing a company rep couldn’t answer, so I’m guessing this was an excuse to shove his penis in my face, and I’m only talking half-metaphorically). The crotch hole had gotten so big, I could see the whole damn thing, and he made sure to stand with that leg facing me so I wouldn’t miss a damn thing.
While I’m averting my eyes, I’m asking myself, “How do I deal with this? If I report him to the condo board, they may or may not require proof, and it would cause a ruckus one way or another. They might even label me a troublemaker. If I call the cops, they would certainly require proof, and I don’t have my camera, so I can’t even take a sneaky picture. If I bring it up with him right now, he will argue and attempt to shut me down and belittle my complaint. I might not get a chance to say what I need to say.”
I didn’t invite him in, and he left after a few minutes. But I was fucking pissed, so this morning, first thing, I wrote him a letter.
Here it is in full:
Being around you lately is making me uncomfortable.
Those jeans you’re wearing? The ones where you’ve ripped a bigger and bigger hole so your dick can hang out? Throw them away, because one day soon, someone you didn’t intend to is going to get an eyeful and report you to the cops. It might even be me if I get fed up enough.
There’s a difference between practicing nudity for the joy of not wearing clothes and flashing your junk at people. The latter is criminal sexual harassment, and for all I know, may qualify as sexual assault. It’s certainly indecent exposure, and there are laws against that.
Knock it the hell off.
The behavior you’re engaging in now is not healthy, nor is it nudism. It’s perversion. You’ve crossed a line, Dave.
I’ll make it perfectly clear: I don’t want to see your dick. I am not interested in any kind of sexual relationship with you. Stop talking about my legs, my ass, my chest. I am not interested, and it only makes you sound like a dirty old man.
And don’t pretend innocence either. The day your racist friend showed up and you were wearing those jeans? You made sure to sit with your legs crossed so you wouldn’t flash him. You are fully aware of what you’re doing.
I like talking with you—we’ve had come good chats under the tree—but if you don’t stop this bullshit immediately, our friendship is over.
The next time we run into each other, you will not be wearing those pants, and you will not bring this up. We are not going to spend time talking about your genitals, nor will we debate the difference between nudism and perversion. I’m pretty sure you know what separates one from the other, and if you don’t… seek mental help.
I told R about this, and he said, “Oh, that friendship is over.”
I had the letter with me when I visited one of his neighbors this morning. I wanted to know if he’d treated her the same way he’d treated me. She said he’s been suggestive on several occasions, but she just ignored it.
He told me some time ago he’d asked her if she minded if he had his morning coffee in the lanai while nude, and she said no. I asked her about that. Turns out reality didn’t exactly go like that.
He inquired about how much she saw out her bedroom window, which overlooks his lanai. She said she almost never looked out of it but if she wanted to know if he was there, she might. So he told her about his liking for drinking coffee naked, and thereafter, she kept that window closed and the blinds down.
You see how he twisted things.
I’m sad right now. One of the few people I enjoyed talking with turned out to be so perverted, I couldn’t take it. And damn, that live oak was wonderful to sit under while drinking wine or a scotch and watching the canal.
Assholes ruin everything.