The peeping Sumo - a moral dilemma

So wrong, yet so right! I bet most of you have these moments, but not as much as I do these days. You know? You see something that is horrendously wrong, but it gives you so much pleasure even though you know your mother would’ve slapped you three times from Sunday had she been close by and caught you looking at it and salivating, but because she isn’t there at that moment, only your conscience is your guide and you overrule it and peep on instead.

I reside in a rather plush neighbourhood in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg these days, not because I have struck it rich yet or come upon wads of cash by marrying a 63-year-old philanderer, but rather I needed a place of residence and quickly when I moved up to Jozi to chase my dreams and it just so happened that this particular apartment was available, at a suitably hefty premium of course, but I say the money is worth being saved the trouble of homelessness. And later, and as my beer-budget suffered under the strain, I roped in a good friend of mine King Doggo the Antichrist to come lighten the load since I have a rather spacious two-bedroom place, but this is not my point, just the setting.

Life has been rather peachy since I moved in here in October last year, the address rolls off the tongue ever so nicely when I pronounce it in social gatherings among polite company and whenever there are desirable females around. It also affords the otherwise shunned Sumo a second glance from said members of the fairer sex, but after a brief pros and cons analysis from the said potential mates and all things having been considered; the result is usually the same — rejection of the Sumo, but I soldier on, never dejected at every rejection.

So my mojo is just not working in Jo’burg, my swagger non-existent and the Sumo has had zero female company since he landed on these golden shores. Sad, but true. I know — I can’t believe it either, which makes my moral dilemma all the more difficult as you shall see where cheap kicks abound and not the types you would get down Mahatma Gandhi Road in Durban, may I add. No, not that cheap.

Delightfully; a couple of black females moved into the apartment on the block opposite ours a few weeks ago. Very nice females, to boot, from the little I have seen of them through the lush foliage that peppers the complex. Like me when I arrived, I would guess they are probably just starting out and do not have much in furniture, so it is probably for that same reason that they do not have blinds or curtains on their bathroom window which faces my apartment, one of those “we’ll get to that later” situations.

This should be okay though, right? I mean the bathroom windows are the grey-stained type that permit only a blurry silhouette to be seen through them from outside, right? Well, it depends on the proximity of such silhouette to the actual window, I have come to reluctantly discover. It turns out that if one was to put an object flush against the window, it would appear as if through a normal window and as you move it away, the image diminishes relative to its distance of the said object away from the window. This probably has something to do about how this particular type of glass refracts light, distorting the image — well, that is the theory anyway, one which has failed our new neighbours so ghastly.

As I have cited; there are no blinds hanging over that particular window, the distorted image is the last and only line of defence against roving eyes. Someone didn’t think through all of the possible particularities of the requirement of distance for the window tint to distort the image when designing the apartment and things have gone terribly awry because the bath tub is placed flush against the window, and the window spans across the length of the tub! This is where things get visually captivating at bath times for neighbours across from that apartment, as you may imagine.

So one day I was upstairs in the bedroom entertaining myself when I was jolted to life by blood-curdling though suppressed scream barely escaping from one KD the AC who was downstairs in the kitchen the last I saw of him. He was calling out to me in a squeaky, girly voice and tones became more hushed as I came plodding nearer down the stairs. Horror of horrors! I thought. Is it possible, do we have no more beer left in the house?! (for this is the only situation that would reduce KD to such sheer raw emotion, otherwise he feels nothing or little, from what I can tell. All who have come across him will attest that KD is the coolest character they have ever come across).

I rushed downstairs to see what was eating Doggo, but as I came down I could see him standing behind the kitchen counter with beer in hand (all is well then?). He was peering past the lounge through the sliding doors and across the parking lot his eyes focused on something that captured his imagination on the building opposite ours.

Concerned, I enquired as to what the big idea was. Reservedly excited, Doggo told me to quickly come closer to the counter and proceeded to point out where he was looking with his one free hand, the other still clutching the can of Hansa close to his heart in a loving embrace as if it were a treasured member of the family.

I waddled next to him and focused my eyes across where he was pointing, and lo and behold, right there in the afternoon glow through my neighbour’s bathroom window, I could clearly see the rather well-developed ripe form of a female body of fair proportions, well-endowed in all the right areas and very pleasing to my hungry eyes. She was going through the final touches of her bathing ritual.

I blinked a few times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing “we will deliver on this manifesto” on me, then I took a glance at KD the AC and the broad smile he had been displaying since I got to the kitchen had not left him, but had rather grown broader with an accomplice pervert to share his glorious discovery with.

“Eish…” was my natural though hushed reaction, then I began to reach under the kitchen counter, but quickly reprimanded myself for having that vile reflex, thinking how inappropriate it would be for me to take this course of action in the kitchen, a shared space where food is prepared … oh, and with KD the AC right there next to me, that matter would be likely handled later and in private.

But back to the story — the young lady was naked, drying herself for the whole block opposite her to see and/or catch on video if they so wished. She had no idea what was going down. I think she may have even been humming a sweet melody as she went along exploring crevices and ensuring proper hygiene. Or maybe that was just my imagination filling in the gaps my ears failed to capture.

I can vouch for her ignorance in this regard because I too have been known to parade around in my bathroom in the nude and until that very moment, had never known just how vivid the visual was to the poor neighbours across the way for I too have no blinds on that window. I guess this is why my neighbours always sneer at me when I drive past, knowing fully well what I had gotten up to the previous night in the assumed privacy of my bathroom. Again “eish” is the only proclamation I have to that. Thank God I don’t blush…

But back to the unfortunate, unwitting stripper across the way; since that fateful day, it always just so happens that KD the AC and I are always situated around the kitchen counter with the lounge sliding door and curtain open giving a full view of the bathroom window just across the divide. This, by sheer coincidence of course, always happens in the morning, around midday and in the evening with both of us jostling for prime real estate and the best view across the abyss that separates us from the other block and this always seems to happen around common bath times.

So we will loiter there talking about this, that and COPE — generally passing time with useless banter — waiting for a figure to saunter into the bathroom. Then our eyes sharpen up and all mindless chit-chat is lost as we observe the daily sneak-peak, with our imagination filling the gaps that our eyes fail to illuminate.

This has gone on for a few weeks, but in passing conversation, usually after a show and when the effect has worn off and we have returned from our unexplained trips to our respective bathrooms — we always agree just how wrong the situation is and that “someone” should find a way to put a stop to it. We could just not peep, but that’s hard, man. Nature dicktates how we react to these situations.

But, how do we go about alerting the lovely nubile forms across the way that they are unaware strippers? We always get stuck at this juncture and leave the matter unconcluded until we pick it up again after the next show and subsequent, pressing bathroom run.

You see, this is one of those situations where absolutely no one wins, even the women themselves are not going to win if we tell them what is going down. So how do we handle this? Because deep in our hearts between the layers of lard, beer and bad cholesterol, we do feel sorry for them being exposed like this to the perverted neighbours who just smile and wave at them at the boom-gates every day, not alerting them to the folly of their ways and the impromptu show they each put on twice every single day.

Doggo and I haggled over this very matter after a particularly steamy show, we agreed that “someone” should alert them, but how? The ladies will feel violated, and ignorance being bliss, who are we mere mortals to take it upon ourselves to set this situation right, depriving this woman of blissful bathing (until they buy blinds) and also stripping them of their dignity in the process. Surely we do not need to be wielding that much power and we do not believe it has been bestowed upon us, this is clearly not our responsibility, but whose is it.

We have debated many possible ways of handling this matter:

1. We walk straight up to their door, knock and just blurt out our observation and leave with the words “… use it, don’t use. It’s up to you”.

My fear here though is that we might be chased down the parking lot with a sharp object and branded perverts as we bleed into the drain. I can’t risk that; I’m slow, even at the most pressing of times, I will stumble and fall and be victim to my angry, probably still naked, assassins.

2. Slip an anonymous note under their door and walk away.

This has its own perils — we will be found out as the writers of the note — ours is one of the few occupied apartments on this block facing directly opposite theirs. They will know it is us and think ill of us (see sharp object and bleeding into drain comment above).

3. Complain to the body corporate of the disturbing display of bath-time nudity we are being forced to participate in four times a day by our neighbours.

Can’t do this either, can’t stand the chance of being petitioned off the complex; life is too sweet here to risk that.

4. Tell Mrs Top directly below me about it in passing and then hope for the best.

The story will get around within a day with her, and I can assure you the strippers will hear about it and our names will be all over it too (see sharp object and bleeding into drain comment above).

5. Let live.

It is not a matter for us to sort out, it is for the universe, we should let it run its natural course.

KD and I settled on number five after lengthy and very thoughtful deliberation, searching deep within our souls for guidance in making the best decision for all involved. We decided that we cannot save everyone in the world, that burden is too heavy for us to bear and suited for one with a beard and a flowy robe who is known to be good at this saviour business. We agreed to let it slide and let it play itself out.

If you are wondering, yes we did still gather around the marble kitchen counter at around bath times. We did — until last weekend that is. On Saturday morning, as it had become habit, we met up around the observation point with beers in hand and biltong set out, ready and hoping for a great show and we were not disappointed. It seemed there was already a person in the bathtub seated and apparently putting the final touches to their hygiene routine. In no time at all, and to our expectant delight, they prepared to stand up — our excitement peaked as they did.

I started to notice, however, that this person’s skin tone was a bit darker than what I had come to be accustomed to and, as they stood up, that they were not so well-endowed of the bosom as is so of the two ladies. And then they fully stood up, flush against and facing the window — giving us a full frontal as they wiped their behind. I groaned with disgust first, spitting beer into the bowl of biltong. That was followed by a yelp of terror from the Doggo as we both cringed. He must’ve been some sort of overnight visitor. Needless to say, Saturday was just not a good day after that. That incident was not mentioned further and no sudden urges to run to the bathroom were experienced.

These days the sliding door might stay open but the curtains stay drawn, in fear of seeing the unthinkable twice.

I rest, on heavy sleeping tablets each night in the hope of forgetting my ordeal and having a decent, nightmare-free night’s rest.

The Sumo