Naked & Unafraid (Until He Waved)

 

So… turns out I’ve got a full-blown Peeping Tom living across the way. How do I know? The heathen waved.

Here I am, minding my own business, ironing clothes and getting ready to hit up Lucky Strike with the crew from work. Nothing wild. Just good vibes, strong drinks, and coworker drama I pretend not to enjoy. And okay, okay—SWV’s “Anything” remix came on. Look, I don’t care how many times they said “I’m down for you”—that beat still knocks, especially with Wu-Tang jumping in like uninvited cousins at the cookout. And that little slow body roll they do in the video? Yeah, I still do it too. Like muscle memory from the womb.

Anyway, I’m in my panties—no shirt—because the first thing I do when I come home is liberate the girls. Bras? For who? For what? I genuinely believe if I snatch it off early enough each day, the Universe will reward me with a full cup size. I mean, I went from a training bra to a full-blown B-cup in 10th grade off of a wish and a Flintstone vitamin. Don’t play. Twelve-year-olds got grown-woman bodies now, meanwhile I’m still praying over mine like it's a Chia Pet. But whatever, I got an ass. An honest-to-God, stop-traffic, cousin-of-Meg-thee Stallion ass. So I take my blessings where they fall.

Now, maybe I’m a touch of an exhibitionist. Not in a "flash the mailman" way, but in a “I know I look good and I like to see it” kinda way. I primp. I preen. If I lived alone, I’d probably walk around like Erykah Badu in that "Window Seat" video—just floatin’ through the house like a poetic nudist. But I live with my man now, so privacy is a fictional genre. Still, I’m not posted on the couch eating snacks in the nude. And I'm on the 7th floor—so I thought I was safe.

Wrong.

I'm over here ironing, doing my lil' 90s R&B sway, shaking a little holy ghost in my hips, and I glance up… and there he is. This man. On his balcony. Smoking a cigarette like I’m his late-night cable subscription. Just… watching. Not even pretending not to. He looked comfortable. Then—this bold bastard waves. WAVES. Like he just finished a good movie and wanted to thank the cast.

Naturally, I screamed, slammed the blinds shut, and sprinted to grab my robe. Why? I don’t know. The man already got front-row seats to my cheeks doing the Lord’s work, but I guess a woman’s gotta leave a little mystery, right? I peek out the blinds. Yep. Still there. And what does he do?

Waves again. And then strolls inside like he just got off a cruise ship.

I was mortified.

Didn’t even get a good look at him—don’t know the apartment number—but best believe, I could find out. I’m not about to go marching across the building solo though. I’ve watched too many episodes of Snapped and Dateline. I show up demanding answers, next thing you know I’m zip-tied in his pantry while he feeds me Cap’n Crunch and reads me old Facebook posts like bedtime stories. No ma’am. Not without backup.

But ohhh, I imagined what I could say. Except—what do you really say to a man for… being a man? Let’s keep it a buck: if I was dancing around in my underwear and he didn’t look, I’d feel disrespected. Like, sir. Do you not see all this glory? I’m Tenacious, baby—put ‘em on the glass and let heaven weep!

(Okay, I wouldn’t actually do that… but I’d think it. I’m only half delusional.)

Anyway, later that night my man walks in from work, and I tell him the whole thing—waiting for him to puff his chest, threaten war, call the HOA.

This fool… laughs.

Then says, “Your conceited ass would’ve been mad if he didn’t look.”

Tuh. And unfortunately… he ain’t wrong.

So for now, the blinds stay closed and the clothes stay on. Last thing I need is my head photoshopped onto somebody else’s body on a Reddit thread titled "Thicc Neighbor Caught Vibin’ to 90s Bangers."

Because one thing about the internet? They don’t miss.