Evidence mounts that I live next door to an exhibitionist ...

Sometimes, your significant other throws something out there in a matter-of-fact way that catches you off guard.

Then there's other times when she throws something out there in a matter-of-fact way that packs so much WTF punch that the tremors are felt by cargo cults in Micronesia who interpret it as a sign of apocalypse.

My wife hit Defcon-95 last week with a revelation about our next door neighbor.

We were having a pleasant, typical suburban conversation between husband and wife -- probably talking about our daughter's first week of kindergarten, or how I needed to go get milk at the store, or something mundane. Then she fires off a Katyusha rocket ...

"Oh I forgot, I saw our neighbor topless in her pool last night."

If I had been drinking, my spit take would have covered the Ohio Valley.

"Come again?" I said. "You're full of shit!"

"No, no! I swear, it was about 8:30 or so. There she was just bobbing around in the pool," she said as a second wave of incredulity seemed to be washing over her upon spilling it to me.

"Oh c'mon. She must have just had a white shirt on or you were seeing things," I countered.

"I swear on my mother's grave," she said. "She had no top on."

Holy mother of fuck. I knew she wasn't kidding. My wife doesn't swear on anyone's grave lightly.

All of this requires a bit of background.

My one-story home is in a respectable middle-upper class neighborhood. The neighbors in question live to our south in a nicer 1930s era two-story.

The living space in my house is almost exclusively southern exposure, so it all faces their house. Nearly every window we walk by in our day-to-day life faces their yard. Our main kitchen window faces their yard. Our driveway, which runs the length of our property, runs adjacent to their backyard.

In their backyard is one of those cheapo, temporary above-ground pools you can buy for summer-use only. Mostly, their kids use it.

At this point you might be skeptical ... what kind of jag off Rear Window wannabe's are you and your wife, Bubbler? What's up with snooping and peering over their 10-foot or higher fence? Not cool. Let them do whatever they want behind closed doors.

That's the bitch of it. The only thing that separates them from us is a three-foot high chain-link fence. They're like some sort of unintended zoo exhibit for our viewing pleasure. They know it, we know it. That fence is about as private as Nina Hartley in Boogie Nights.

Upon hearing the news, millions of thoughts raced through my mind -- none of them good. I suppose now is the time to tell you what she looks like ... Mama Corleone from The Godfather, if she was 10 years younger in the film. The actress who played Mama Corleone is Morgana King and she was a jazz singer. Her younger pictures are a dead ringer.



My first thought was logical ... sex thing. It had to be ... right? Her husband looks a lot like Mike Tice. My mind raced to the night before ... when I came home for a late dinner (9 p.m.), Tice was arriving home from work when I came home. The timeline was sort of right.

That was alarming enough on its face. I'm open-minded, I'm a live-and-let-live kind of guy. Given time, I can wrap my mind around my neighbors gallivanting in the backyard in the buff.

But I might go insane if I had to contend with Mama Corleone-on-Mike Tice fuck action going on in the background while I'm scarfing down a ham sandwich and Jay's Chips at the dining room table. There's only so much a man can handle and semi-regular viewings of Tice's schlong is not one of them.

The timeline didn't add up though. My wife drove her sister back to her sister's house and wasn't around when I was home for dinner, a half-hour difference. Tice arrived home when I did. There was no sign of nudity in the backyard when I was in the kitchen making my dinner. So what gives?

Then I had a Sergio Leone-style flashback ...

(continued) ...

 

(continued) ...

My mind's eye took me back to spring. I was leaving for work and my car was parked in the street. As I loaded my laptop bag in the trunk, Mama Corleone came out to go for a jog. As I pirouetted to get in my car, we waved to each other, and I noticed she was jogging in my direction.

Now would be the time to cue Ennio Morricone orchestration and Edda Della Orso operatic vocals.

Mama Corleone decided to jog in a white T-shirt and no bra. How do I know she didn't have on a bra? Believe me, it was evident from fucking space. I'm pretty sure she single-handedly showed up as ground clutter on our local Doppler radars.

That's because her areolas were not dissimilar to the spot on Saturn and they were blacker than Manute Bol. I was repulsed, and yet, I couldn't peer away. They were like black holes, literally and figuratively. Nothing could escape them -- not light, not matter, not me trying to avoid being scarred for life.

I mentioned this to my wife the next day and I was met with the kind of skepticism and hostility that UFO observers probably get.

"You were seeing things,"she said dismissively. "And why were you looking at our neighbor's tits? You asshole!"

I chalked it up as an aberration and forgot about it.

But now? What did this all mean? After raunchy pool sex with Mike Tice was ruled out, my mind turned to darker thoughts. Was this some sort of high-sign to introduce us to swinging?

It kind of added up. We've lived in the house for just over a year. For the first nine months or so, they completely kept to themselves other than the cursory wave from time to time. Then one night when the whole family came back from somewhere, they opened up to us like we were long-lost pals. One extreme to another. Odd.

We've also noticed that their blinds on our side of the house are always open. We can see right in there, though I've never seen anything untoward. I've also observed that some of our neighbors will go over there to be entertained, but they never enter through the front door, they always come in through the back alley gate, which is also "protected" by only a chain-link fence. And I never see them leave.

What in the name of Eyes Wide Shut is going on over there?

Since my wife saw Mama Corleone's rack (I still don't know if she was fully naked, and to quote Lance Rock, I don't want to know), we've had no additional sightings. And I've never witnessed it myself. But now it hangs over us like a haunting.

The other day when I left to go to work, Mama Corleone's son -- probably more Fredo in nature than Sonny or Michael, but I digress -- was walking home from school. The only thought that entered my mind was that I had the power to scar him for life with the knowledge I had rattling around in my head. Of course I said nothing, I'm no child-abuser.

But that doesn't mean I'm not scarred. Every time I walk past my dining room window, I'm afraid I'm going to see an end-of-Shining-like vision of Mike Tice in their window with nothing on but a donkey mask and with Ben-Wa balls in his hand imploring me to bring the wife over anytime. I cringe every time I see their pool, as if I'm going to live some sort of slow motion, reverse Phoebe Cates-from-Fast Times At Ridgemont High scene featuring Mama Corleone.

As for swinging? You'll know we fell victim to their charms if I start advocating that Mama Corleone's character was underused in both Godfather movies and if I start waxing nostalgic about Daunte Culpepper and Randy Moss.

Please God, do not let that happen to me.

 

I read every word.

 

Ditto

 

Too bad she's not a Swedish supermodel. You should be so lucky.

Lots of people are more comfortable with little or no clothing in the privacy of their own home. She's just taking it a little further, apparently. If it really bugs you, say something to her. She probably just wants some attention.

And maybe she has a friend who looks like a young Sofia Loren. Then the complaints will stop.

 

Be strong, Bubs. Be strong.

 

I totally thought this was going to be about a male weightlifter [/insidejoke]

 

Could be worse, Bubs. It could have been Ronnie Barzell's tits you saw.

 

I don't know which is more appropriate:

KRAMER: (Stopping him) No, no, no, no. You can't! You can't! This is something that comes about once in a lifetime! When we were boys, looking through our bedroom windows, we would think: "Why can't there be a woman out there, taking her clothes off?" And now that wish's come true, and you want to (Makes a noise) throw it away?!

or

JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.
GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.
JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends. ... Naw, I'm not ready for it.

 

Bubs, I'm going to give you the ultimate high-school yearbook compliment.

Don't ever change.

 

Santino, did they kill your father some kittens?