Chapter 3: Watching and Waiting

What's the hardest part about watching? Easy: it's the waiting. Most people lead pretty boring lives. Maybe a better way of putting it is, they aren't having sex, alone or with someone else, for much of the day. They aren't even nude, for that matter.

I got better at it, though. Summer offered more chances to see something, sure. Fewer layers, looser clothing. Lots of factors contribute to success. Still, most of it was boring. I'll be honest, too. A little voice inside was telling me this was a waste of time. I ought to be doing something, anything, rather than waiting.

Gradually, the feeling got stronger. It got so I couldn't bear to wait more than a half-hour outside whatever window or other locale I thought would pay off. Beating off got to be a chore, too, even. For one thing, it made my cock sore. For another, there were only so many times in a day I could do it.

The alternative, I hated to admit, was worse. It was that I had no idea what to do if I wasn't watching and waiting for some girl to take her clothes off. Pathetic? Ya think? Why, yes. I made a promise to myself that when I told this story I wasn't going to varnish the stupid parts or, I admit it, the pathetic parts, so I won't. It took me a long time to realize that girls were interested in a guy who did things, who had something to offer, something in addition to or--better yet, instead of--a pathetic desperate leer while hiding behind a bush or something.

It took a long time for me to understand that.

In the meantime, I altered my strategy a little. I decided that there was no need to limit myself to whatever lighted window I might find during the evening or night. Besides, it was pretty tough to find a reason to go out after supper every night, especially when Jim and Kathy and their parents were out of town.

So, I switched to looking down girls' tops. I got to be an expert in buttons, in scoop necklines, in what kind of bra was likely to offer the best view. (Answer: One that was a little too big for the girl.) I even looked down Mom's front a few times, but although she looked pretty good for an old person, it wasn't the same kind of thrill.

At first, what girls wore under their blouses was a mystery to me, to Jim, too. We'd checked the Sears catalog, of course, and we'd made one or two explorations into our mothers' dressers, but that was only a start, really.

My first nipple was Carolyn. She'd moved to our town at the start of ninth grade, and I could tell she was unhappy. I'm not sure why, but our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Jones, decided early on that I would be her buddy. Yeah, right. On the other hand, I wasn't a total jerk--despite what this story may be sounding like--and I hated to see someone unhappy. Another middle child thing, I think.