Sheeba My Neighbor Part II
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She Looked Right At Me free porn video
She Looked Right At Me
by DKB
When I was really young my favourite show was called "Storytime with
Neela". Neela was a cheerful, friendly young woman (though of course I
didn't think she was young then) who lived in a fairytale cottage and
told stories, Cinderella and so on. I loved that show and I really
loved Neela. She was very pretty. And I don't know if it was her
choice, or the director of the show or whoever, but she changed her
outfit a lot. I remember she didn't have a regular look. Every episode
she wore a different style of skirt and top, always in bright colours,
and sometimes she had her hair loose, or in braids or in a ponytail.
And she wore lots of bangles, I remember, and sometimes big dangly
earrings. When the show went into repeats I could sometimes remember
what the story was going to be from what Neela was wearing.
Also, when each episode began Neela would be in the middle of doing
something. She'd be painting a picture or baking a cake, or whatever,
and she'd say, "Oh, hello! Come in! Let me just finish up and then
we'll get started." And then she'd paint a few more brush strokes or
put the cake in the oven, and then get out her storybook. So I got to
thinking about her life outside the show. She seemed to live on her
own, but she was always busy and always cheerful. She seemed to have a
lovely life and I wished I could live there too, with her.
When I was a bit older the show was still on and I still liked to watch
it when I could. If I was off school or it was a holiday then I'd tune
in, in my bedroom, and watch Neela. Maybe it was a bit ridiculous that
a boy the age I was then was still watching a show that was really just
for little kids, but I didn't care. I didn't bother about the stories,
but I liked to see what Neela was up to and what she was wearing.
Obviously, by then I knew about how tv shows are made. I knew that
Neela didn't really live in that cottage, but that she was an actress,
called Susan Miller. So then when I thought of her life outside the
show I thought of Susan Miller going to her dressing room, changing back
into ordinary clothes, and going back to her house, perhaps one a bit
like mine. When I watched her I thought of what it was like for her,
in the studio, under the lights, performing as Neela. I knew the
director would be there, telling her what to do. And there'd be an
autocue, with her script on it. And she'd have to look in the camera
and imagine she was talking directly to the kids who were watching her.
And I thought she was really good at it.
I started to watch other women on TV in the same way, not just
actresses, but presenters and singers, and so on. I'd enjoy watching
them, but I also found it kind of exciting, for some reason, to think
about how it was for them, doing their job, in whatever clothes they
were wearing, normal clothes, or costumes, acting or presenting, or
whatever their job was. Always women. I had favourite male stars as
well, obviously, and I liked the ones that seemed cleverest or coolest
and I fantasised about hanging out with them or doing the kind of things
they did, and so on. But it was the women that were more interesting,
more mysterious, somehow. It was only with the women that I wanted to
know how it was for them, as they really were, underneath the costume or
the character, whatever.
I was a shy kid and I stammered. I didn't make friends much. I was
tall for my age, and then I was fat. I don't think I was bullied much.
But I didn't really mix with other kids. In the playground I mostly
hung around on the edge and watched the other kids playing. I watched
the girls, obviously, playing skipping or whatever. I thought girls
were better than boys, smarter, nicer, and so on. I tried to make
friends with them and sometimes I think they felt sort of sorry for me.
But it was a bit awkward, and mostly I tried to hang out with the boys,
even though I didn't like them much. But more than that, I just stood
on the side and watched, watched girls and women, how they stood and
walked and spoke. I wanted to know what it was like for them.
I got into porn, in due course. Just girly mags at first. The only
internet connection we had then was the family pc, and I wasn't going to
try anything funny on that. So it was the traditional mag and
flashlight under the bedclothes for me. I remember there was a girl
called Tracy Jackson who was quite popular at the time. She did some
hard-core later, but when I knew her she was just starting out as a pin-
up. She had a typical soft-porn look, big hair, big knockers, permanent
pout. Sometimes she was made up to be really glamorous, with silk and
satin, and complicated underwear. But she was a bit too busty to be
like some elegant lady. So mostly she was like a cheeky teen, with bare
legs, tiny skirts and halter-tops. She was supposed to be like the girl
next door, but needless to say she didn't look like any girls I knew.
She was always heavily made up, of course, and her breasts were that
size where they didn't look as if they quite belonged to the rest of
her. They were like a star double act and Tracy a supporting performer.
Even as a teenager I vaguely realised that this was more like a
caricature of sex, like a cartoon, than it was like the real thing. The
peculiar poses Tracy adopted and the stilted captions that went with the
pictures were supposed to signal pleasure to the viewer rather actually
represent anything real. To be honest, I think I found her a bit scary,
but fascinating as well, and she had the predictable effect on me.
Everything I know about masturbation I learned under the inspiration of
Tracy Jackson and her colleagues.
But of course I added my own twist. I wanted to know what it was like
for the real Tracy Jackson, in the job that she did, being a nude model,
and I found it extra exciting to think about that. I'd think about her
turning up to work in jeans and a sweatshirt. Then she'd be with the
make-up girl and she'd change into hotpants and a tight t-shirt, with
ankle socks and training shoes. Or maybe it would be a pink basque and
black stockings, with very high heels. I thought of her, being directed
by the photographer - "Come on luv, show us how much you want it. Tha's
right. Good girl." I thought that maybe it wasn't very comfortable for
her. Maybe the studio lights were hot. Maybe the basque was tight and
the shoes didn't fit properly. But she bore it, because she was a
professional and she knew how to do her job properly. To imagine myself
into her life I even tried to imitate her poses, under my bedclothes. I
went on all fours, stretched my head up and stuck my chest out or looked
coyly over my shoulder, while licking a finger. Or I writhed on my back
with my legs in the air. I fondled my own chubby chest, while trying to
imagine what it would be like to have tits like Tracy. Many of the
poses were just different ways to get face, tits and bottom into the
same shot. I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my own gross
body, to better imagine how things were for Tracy, on her knees, with
her tits hanging down, pouting for the camera. When she finished she
would be back in street clothes and back to her flat. Maybe she shared
it with another model. Or maybe she lived with a boyfriend.
When I found out about transsexuals that was quite interesting. But, no
matter how much I admired those women, for their dedication to matching
outer life with inner life, I did not feel as drawn to them, as I did to
born women. I considered the matter, but I did not feel that I was like
them. I was not interested in transforming myself. I barely felt I had
a self to transform. My interest is entirely projected into other
people. I am a sort of voyeur. I don't peek into windows. I want to
peek into souls. Every woman I see I want to know her from the inside,
realise what it means to be her. I live a solitary life, I do not mix
socially. But everywhere I go, I study women. I study their clothes,
their gestures, how they move, the way they talk, as if by examining
every outward detail I can get to know the inner woman.
I might spy on a shopworker taking a break for a quick cigarette. Or I
might eavesdrop on a couple of young mothers having a coffee while their
toddlers squabble over the cake. There's an office girl, slightly
chubby, strutting down the street in her heels. She has her hair in a
tightly controlled blonde bun, she's wearing tailored jacket, skirt and
blouse, all slightly too tight, and she's got a phone clasped to her
ear. She's a picture of anxious ambition. And here on the bus there's
a very proper looking schoolgirl, from some posh school I think, in a
white blouse and school tie, and a navy blazer with gold trimming. She
has elaborately braided hair, and glasses. She's a senior, maybe
seventeen. Next to her is a scruffy looking young man, with rough
stubble, a t-shirt and denims, tattoos down his arms, muddy workboots,
maybe a couple of years older then her. He has his arm draped around
her shoulder. There is something proprietorial about the gesture. But
she accepts his embrace comfortably, with the confident air of someone
used to getting what she wants. She keeps up a continuous chatter. He
is quiet, but attentive, nodding and uh-huhing. Occasionally he says
something and she laughs. She puts her hand to her shoulder, on top of
his hand, holding him to her. They are comfortable together. They
don't look like new lovers. How many months have they been together?
Maybe a year or so? What is it like, to be her, with that relationship,
with that boy? Does she show him off to her friends? What do her
parents think of him? I want to know. I want to know what it's like
for her to have him with her.
I wonder, sometimes if I am gay, or bi. But I don't really fancy guys.
(That should settle the matter, shouldn't it?) But if I were her, I
would fancy guys. I have to accept that. I want to understand it. If
I was Susan Miller I'd have a husband and two kids and a nice house.
I'd have a recurring role in a daytime soap opera and I'd do voice-overs
for commercials and occasional theatre work. And I would treasure the
fan mail I get from kids who love the show where I tell fairy stories
that I first did when I was just starting out, over twenty years ago.
If I was Tracy Jackson I would have big fake boobs and a reputation for
being good at blowjobs. I'd have a short-lived pop career then
reinvention as a yoga teacher, with a sideline selling health
supplements. And I'd have a long string of B-list boyfriends, but then
marry my manager. And if I was this girl, in front of me I'd be a well-
behaved middle-class girl with good grades. But I'd also have a bit of
a wild side, with my bad-boy boyfriend.
I drift through life, as if in a dream, forever detached from the people
around me. I don't feel I really understand them, but I watch them, or
rather I watch the women. They don't notice me. I am an anonymous lump
shambling through their peripheral vision, unheard, unregarded.
Bank holiday Monday. Miserable weather, but I didn't want to just hang
around my flat. There were no movies I wanted to see so I just sort of
wandered around town. I pretended I was clothes shopping, but I hate
everything I see and none of it fits. Even XL isn't right for me.
The sky was grey and then suddenly the clouds burst and a torrent was
pouring down. I took shelter in a record shop and when the storm was
over I came out and found the sun shining and making everything look
sort of grey, but sparkly in that pretty way that almost makes up for
the rain. It just needed a rainbow over McDonalds to complete the
picture.
My feet were killing me, so I took a rest on a bench in the precinct and
then I couldn't help noticing a couple sitting down on a bench across
from me. She was breathtakingly pretty, a tiny little thing with an
incredible figure. Her skin seemed brilliantly clear, almost
luminescent, though slathered in make-up. But she seemed brittle,
fragile, with sharp, nervous features. Her clothing was really flimsy
and she had not been as quick as I had finding shelter. I couldn't help
appreciating the way her skimpy top was drenched through and clung,
damply, to her cleavage. She had a little denim skirt and purple
tights, made blotchy by the rain. Her hair hung down in a sodden
tangle. On top of that she seemed to be arguing with her boyfriend.
She was sort of hunched into herself and she was holding her hands up,
palm out, whether to placate him, or push him away or just to tell him
to "stop" whatever it was, I couldn't tell. She made occasional abrupt,
choppy, accusatory motions, then lapsed back into a defensive posture.
He seemed to go through a cycle of wheedling and pleading, angry
denials, dismissive contempt, then back to pleading again. Then his
manner seemed to harden. He was pointing and cutting the air with his
finger for emphasis.
I could feel what she felt. I could feel how tense she was. She was
breathing heavily and clenching her fists. She was soaked through, the
bench was rough, she must be tired. Her outfit was frankly ridiculous
for the weather. But maybe she had a boring job, an unexciting life,
and maybe dressing up a bit, for Saturday night, was all the glamour she
got. But this was Monday afternoon and she was putting herself through
whatever it was with this dull, sour, self-absorbed man. Was she
accusing him of something or breaking up with him, or both? Maybe she
had deliberately planned to confront him like this now, out in the open,
but she hadn't planned for the rain to add to her misery. And he
clearly only cared about himself. He was louder now, trying to force
her to accept his position. I could make out some of what they were
saying - "You better not fuckin' tell anyone ... Oh come on, Mands! It
didn't mean anything! ... You're no fuckin' angel yourself, you know" -
"Christ, Paul! I can't believe you!"
Then she looked at me. She looked right at me. I tensed up, nervous,
but I couldn't turn away. She looked right at me and I was afraid
there'd be a scene - Hey! Look at that weirdo watching us! - but it
didn't come. She looked right at me, but only for a moment. Then she
looked away and the bastard was still shouting at me and then he pulled
his hand up and he hit me! Slapped me in the face! I felt the burning
sting of it. I felt rattled. Fuck it, I started crying. Now of all
times I can't lose control, but I couldn't help it. I could feel myself
snivelling and sobbing. And Paul was like "Oh, come on! Don't give me
that bullshit!" Like I was doing it deliberately.
"It's over Paul," I said. "Just..." But he was smiling, watching me lose
it and I snapped. "Don't fucking laugh at me, you bastard!"
He stopped smiling and made a gesture with his fist. Then I heard a
loud voice call out, "Leave her alone." It was the big guy I noticed
earlier.
Paul turned his temper on full then, quick as a flash, at this guy.
"Shut the fuck up fat boy! This is none of your business." Then the
guy stood up and fucking hell, he was huge. Like way over six foot.
And he was massive all over. He walked over to us and Paul stood up,
but I could see he was wondering if he'd make a mistake.
The guy spoke slowly, hesitantly. "There's n-no need to talk to me like
that."
And Paul said, "Yeah, well what are you going to do about it?" He had
his fists up, but he looked ridiculous next to the big man. He barely
came up to his chin. Paul's not really a fighter, he's a scrapper. But
he's also too stupid to know when to retreat. He took a couple of
swipes but the guy put up an arm like a log and deflected them. He sort
of advanced and Paul stepped back and stumbled against the edge of the
bench and fell on his arse. And when he got up he was spitting with
fury, like a wild animal, and he turned it back on me. "You bitch! You
want to watch yourself!" But then the guy stepped towards us again.
And Paul decided to leave it. He stalked off, shouting over his
shoulder, "Well fuck off then. Who needs you?"
And then there was just me and this guy. If I was thinking straight
maybe I should have been scared. I mean the guy was so big, and maybe a
bit creepy. Or maybe I should have been angry, like who was he to poke
his fat nose in like that, like I was some damsel in distress that
couldn't look after herself? But for some reason I didn't feel like
that. Maybe I was too tired to feel anything.
Now that Paul was gone the guy seemed nervous suddenly. He couldn't
look at me. He sort of shrugged and fidgeted. He said, "Uh, sorry, I
shouldn't have..."
"Nah. It's alright."
"I mean, I d-didn't mean to cause any trouble. Will you be ok?"
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and I said, "I'm fine. Honest. He's just
an arsehole."
Now he looked at me.
I said, "Really! It's ok. He never did that before," like I was making
excuses for him. Or making excuses for myself maybe. "And he's never
bloody going to do it again."
"Uh, ok. That's good." Then he said, "Um, I better..." and then he
turned and trudged away.
And then there was just me. I sat on the bench and it started raining
again. I could feel my bra pinching. My tights were soggy. I could
see a tear in the hem of my skirt. My nail varnish was chipped. I felt
miserable and I wanted to go home. And all of a sudden I got the
biggest fucking fright of my life because suddenly I couldn't remember
where my flat was. I mean, I know the city like the back of my hand,
but I didn't know any more where I fitted into it. I just felt totally
and completely lost. There was me, on a bench, in the rain and I didn't
know what to do or where to go. I thought I was going to completely
freak out, before I pulled myself together and realised that even if I
had had some kind of memory wipe there were things I could do. I looked
through my purse and found my bank cards and work ID - Mandy Stevens.
(But of course I knew that! I wasn't that far gone, I think.) And I
had keys. But there was nothing with my address on it. I took a deep
breath and closed my eyes and let my mind drift. And then thank God I
could see it, like in a dream when you suddenly realise something you
knew all along. I could see my street, the stair, second floor flat; my
room, with my teddy bears and my shoes; and my bathroom with, oh bliss,
my bath. That was what I needed, to get myself into a great big tub of
steaming suds and let my worries wash away. To hell with Paul. Forget
about him.
So. Bus, bath and bed. And tomorrow I wake up and it's a new day.
Kaylin
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