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.

Pure fantasy with no chance of ever becoming a reality.

After all, it’s not like Felix Fitzgerald is about to show up at my front door.