I was gripped by an urge I’d never known before. It was the strangest sensation of my life, eclipsing everything I had experienced in my forty-eight years. I wanted to watch. Not the violent outburst, the primal urge to destroy that should have been bubbling within me. Not the imagined rage, the cinematic fantasy of wielding a weapon, a concealed pistol perhaps, tucked away like a secret in my lingerie, ready to unleash fury. No dramatic confrontation, no explosive passion leading to bloodshed. Instead, a quiet, insistent pull – I simply wanted to watch.
My pulse hammered against my ribs, a visible tremor beneath my blue shirt. It resonated in my throat, a tangible presence. This feeling, it seeped into my skin, coursing through my veins, taking command of my being, my actions, my very direction. It was a raw, visceral sensation, like a hidden pulse of life, a primal rhythm – a drumbeat, rising heat, the intoxicating image of Dancing Women Naked in firelight, sweat slicking skin under a midnight sky. For a fleeting moment, a mere flicker of time, I wondered if they, whoever ‘they’ were, could sense it too, this internal upheaval. But it was irrelevant whether they heard it, or if the whole world could perceive the frantic rhythm within me. I was powerless to resist. Drawn by an invisible thread, I crept closer to the doorway, until finally, I could see them. Them. Not a solitary figure, but a pair. A ‘them’. A her and a him.
It was a sound that had initially pulled me from the depths of the basement, a space where I’d been wrestling with the baffling question of why I’d hoarded years of useless papers. Yellowed relics overflowing from boxes stacked against the cold foundation walls, a twelve-year accumulation of forgotten ephemera. The sound was a subtle tapping, an unfamiliar echo, yet alluring, like the whisper of a forbidden pleasure. Not the mundane clatter of dropped coins, the dull thud of falling books, or the jarring ring of an alarm clock silenced in irritation. This was a rhythmic thump against the wall. Consistent. Regular. What in the world? Abandoning my dusty papers, I ascended the basement stairs, moving with cautious quiet, pausing just before the kitchen counter came into view.
I wasn’t supposed to be home. This realization rooted me to the spot, hand pressed against the cool basement wall, the other arm hanging uselessly at my side. Intrusion. That was the immediate, unsettling thought. Someone attempting to break into my house. Why not? Suburban predictability. Empty houses during working hours. The tempting allure of easy targets, imagining valuables carelessly displayed in upper bedrooms. A misguided burglar might envision this neighborhood, with its status cars and backyard luxuries, as a treasure trove. But their imagined riches would quickly dissolve into disappointment. My dresser held only the mundane: worn socks, practical sports bras, and a crumpled tissue. No glittering jewels, no precious metals. My sole inheritance, an antique chest from my great-grandmother, far too cumbersome to steal without heavy machinery. Twenty-three years of accumulated clutter, a car boasting a feminist bumper sticker, tarnished silver spoons destined to remain unpolished, a collection of valuable first editions likely beyond a common thief’s appreciation, my daughter’s discarded dolls in plastic bins, a meager selection of liquor, and a cherished doorknob from my college days – these were the paltry offerings. “Shit,” I muttered to myself, stepping into the kitchen, “it can’t be a robber. They’d have better luck raiding a thrift store.”
From the kitchen, it was clear the sound originated upstairs. Then, the delayed jolt of memory: my car was parked blocks away, a consequence of a morning meeting with a colleague. An unusual out-of-office work session, meaning no one in the world expected me to be home at 10:38 a.m. on a Thursday in June, sifting through basement boxes, and now, eavesdropping for the telltale sounds of home invasion.
Reaching the upper floor, I braced myself for a mundane explanation: a malfunctioning alarm clock, a blaring television left on, or a persistent drip transformed into a noisy deluge. Perhaps a fallen flag, or loose siding flapping against the house in the breeze. Nothing prepared me for the sight that awaited: a woman’s bare foot, moving rhythmically on my bed.
It was a delicate, exquisite foot. I instinctively knew it was soft, warm, like my own. And the man, undoubtedly my husband, whose fingers I then saw tracing the elegant curve of her toes, was likely captivated by its sensuality, wanting to possess it, to press it against his skin.
At that instant, my heart’s frantic drumming subsided, replaced by a chilling certainty. I wanted to watch. The unfolding scene, whatever it entailed, their actions, their state of dress, their touch, their intimacy – none of it mattered except for this primal urge: I had to watch. Sex. Someone was engaged in sexual intimacy in my bedroom, and it was undeniably not me. And I was compelled to witness it.
A strange calm descended, a peculiar detachment. Perhaps there was a clinical term for this burgeoning voyeuristic impulse, this pre-emptive ‘I-Gotta-Watch’ state that had seized my entire being. A novel area of study, perhaps, something to discuss with my academic peers. My mind, moments ago racing with anxiety, now surged with a different kind of energy. I wanted to watch, and I would watch. This resolve propelled me forward, a surge of purpose and confidence unlike anything I’d ever known. I was emboldened, resolute. Nothing could deter me. Nothing.
Her foot was more than just lovely; it was captivating. This thought resurfaced as I edged towards the shelf, gaining a clear reflection in the dresser mirror – a mirror I had long pleaded with Bob to reposition. “Hello, lovers,” I thought with a detached irony. The mirror offered a full view of the bed, the very space I had occupied just hours before. They were on the far side, his side. “How considerate,” a sardonic voice whispered in my mind. “Perhaps I should fetch a snack, a drink, prepare for a long viewing,” like settling into a cinema, determined not to miss a single frame of the unfolding drama. My body seemed to operate independently of my conscious thought. Perhaps this was the training of elite forces, the Green Berets, Navy SEALs. A mental switch flipped. Invisibility. My feet became silent paws, moving with feline grace. They would never detect me, not if I maintained this unwavering mental control. Invincibility, that’s what it felt like.
My husband was beneath her. Another jarring revelation. Our last sexual encounter – could I even recall it? – I was certain he had been on top, and equally certain the entire event had lasted mere minutes before he’d rolled away, a perfunctory pat, and then sleep. Enough of him. Back to the captivating foot.
Nails painted a delicate geranium pink. A slender ankle hinting at a toned calf, sculpted by dedication. I had to see more. I needed to see the full extent of her leg. I lowered myself to the floor, belly down, slithering across the carpet, a surface that held echoes of past domesticity – baby spills, teenage dances, and the fading memory of genuine intimacy. I must have appeared ridiculous, yet I was beyond caring.
The mirror’s angle was insufficient. I needed a different vantage point, the other side of the doorway, a full-frontal view of my husband and the geranium woman. Should I risk it? This was the crux of it, the habitual overthinking that had complicated so much of my life. Hesitation. Weighing the risk of exposure against the overwhelming desire to watch my husband engaged in illicit lovemaking on a weekday morning.
The fact that I proceeded should count for something. It was a bold move, uncharacteristic, impulsive. Once the decision solidified, it was swift. I simply stepped past the door. One decisive stride, and there I was. Positioned by the hallway corner, just before my daughter’s room, a perfect, unobstructed view. I could watch. Of course, discovery was a possibility. But the craving to watch overshadowed everything. Breathing, work, children, sustenance, wine, my research – all paled in comparison to this singular, consuming need.
The need to watch was a physical ache, radiating through my lower back, down my thighs. Sweat trickled down my arms, and a burning sensation ignited in my stomach, a desire so intense that a pack of ravenous dogs couldn’t have dragged me away.
And so, I watched. Jesus. Just… Jesus. Later, in the hazy aftermath fueled by vodka, I would dissect the insanity, the recklessness, the sheer ‘not-me’ nature of this voyeuristic act. But I had to admit, a flicker of arousal had ignited within me. A startlingly pleasant sensation after months of sexual dormancy, where ‘sex’ existed only in late-night television, distant memories, or fleeting sparks quickly extinguished. Sex? Intimacy? The very words, the concept, and now, this live, unscripted performance was pushing me towards a strange, unsettling ecstasy. And there I stood, a silent observer, watching this remarkable woman giving the man I had been married to for twenty-seven years the experience of his life.
The geranium woman was naked from the waist down, save for a blouse. A vibrant red silk, unbuttoned, draping around my husband like a protective canopy, shielding him from the harsh realities I would one day wish to grind into his very being. Her hair was long, dark blonde, similar to what mine might be at that length. Her eyes remained hidden, but I imagined them dark, framed by high cheekbones and flawless skin. I didn’t hate her. I realized, with a strange clarity, I would never hate her. My resentment would be reserved for him, a deep, enduring animosity. But her? No. Though certain aspects of her, her choices, her actions, might forever remain incomprehensible. Perhaps, in time, I could attempt to understand. Perhaps.
She had an exceptional physique. The kind of body untouched by childbirth, honed by disciplined workouts, and pampered with spa treatments, free from the mundane demands of school runs and domestic chores. She wasn’t particularly tall, and when she shifted her position, rising above my husband, I saw her breasts were unremarkable, small, rounded, unlike my own. My breasts, a point of somewhat defiant pride, were fuller, still firm despite years of nursing and a decade of braless freedom during formative years. The geranium woman rode him with practiced skill, a seasoned jockey, while he bucked beneath her, consumed by pleasure, his hands gripping the worn, brown bedspread – a textile I had been meaning to replace for half a decade.
My friends considered Bob handsome. Some had even voiced warnings, years prior, about his potential for infidelity. Whispers of lunches with attractive women, clandestine car rides, a perpetual air of contentment seemingly disproportionate to his middling career in a town where ambition meant relocation. But to me, Bob was just… ordinary Bob. Part of the problem, I now recognized. Yet in that moment, on that day, he was the engine of raw physicality, and I was the woman in the hallway, compelled to watch.
“Oh,” they both moaned in unison, and an unexpected urge to join their vocalization surged through me. Later, submerged in vodka-induced reflection, the sheer audacity of my voyeurism would strike me with full force. But I had to acknowledge, a spark of arousal had been ignited. A surprising, almost welcome sensation after months of sexual oblivion, where intimacy was relegated to late-night television reruns, faded memories, or fleeting flickers of desire quickly extinguished. Sex? Lovemaking? The very concepts, the words themselves, and now, this raw, unadulterated act unfolding before me, was pushing me towards a strange, unsettling form of ecstasy. And there I stood, a silent observer, witnessing this glorious woman rocking the very foundations of the man I had been married to for twenty-seven years.
