There are things in life you feel are a birthright. Privacy is one of those things. When you are a child you get none, and you learn that the moment you realize there’s stock to fiddling with yourself, and that stock plummets the younger you are, and the fonder your parents are of storming into your room without knocking. My father left us when I was six years old, because of math. We were three, and the children he engendered with another woman were a tribe of six. Six is greater than three, so he packed his things and moved twenty minutes away.
If I could revive a single person in history, it would be Einstein. I would grab him by the shoulder, sit him in front of me, and demand he explain how twenty minutes become an eternity my father could not surmount but infrequently. My mother became clingier, and every time I closed a door behind me, she smoked me out with the cloud of her emotional dependency. My father was no longer around to form conversation in cahoots with her, so my siblings and I had to do. The marvelous discovery of my penis was often ruined by my bedroom door crashing open, and the shrill voice of my mother’s suspicious exclamation.
What are you doing in here for so long?
Those words now have PTSD value. Maybe that’s why I studied hard as a child, and harder when I was in college. Privacy was my object, and when I moved into a high-rise apartment downtown, I congratulated myself with the knowledge that I would no longer be interrupted by the presence of any single human being. Happily ever after, right? No, not right. That was about the time some people began to grow. Not many, thank goodness. Men and women with some awkward mutation trapped in them that broke free in the form of tremendous height. Fuck it all.
It wasn’t that bad where I lived. Some of them went mad when they grew out of their homes, crushing their every possession and loved ones. They went on rampages and flattened entire city blocks. That giant in Chicago targeted pizza parlors for some reason, and they had to put him down. When the stench of his rotting body suffused the city, nearby giants were brought to check. That helped. Yippee-ki-yay, Illinois. That meant nothing to someone like me.
I had a morning routine. I woke up as sunlight flooded my bedroom and blood rushed to my groin. Every morning my right hand got up before I did, and dealt with that rush of blood. I then had breakfast in peace. If the quiet impinged upon me, I checked my work messages, which always carried the perfunctory amount of turmoil. I dealt with it as I ate a soft boiled egg, half a grapefruit, and a couple of cups of coffee.
I used to enjoy my morning showers, made longer when I jerked off again, and only ended when more than soap suds had gone down the drain. It might not sound like much of a life—working, sleeping, cumming, eating— but it was enough for me. I could have gone on forever that way, but then they up and grew taller. Fucking giants.
I was happy here, in my apartment on the fifth floor. I had little cause for complaint, not even when the power went out because of those giants and their clumsy bodies tearing into the grid. I had my privacy, and even without electricity I could close my eyes and indulge in matching my strokes to those obliterating steps down there. I could stand anything because I had privacy… but then she had that growth spurt.
I don’t know her name. I’m not one of those people that learn everything they can about their local giants. I wish I could say the same about her. All I knew then is that I had the misfortune to see her every morning because my drive to work intersected with her government-mandated Whatever The Fuck Giants Do Every Day. It disturbs my peace to see her straddling the highway, almost pointing her crotch at every driver that speeds under the arch of her legs. I never look up. Well, almost never.
Her “job” is to say things to those that drive below; government-mandated things, I suppose.
YOU ARE A GOOD DRIVER.
DON’T TEXT WHILE DRIVING.
STAY UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT.
I guess it’s a job like any other. Traffic motivational speaker and I bet she lives down by the river, as no home will fit her. I should have moved somewhere similar when she started tailoring her messages to me.
GOOD MORNING, PETER.
PETER, I LOVE YOUR SUIT.
PETER, LOOK UP.
I never did. She never wore clothes, ignoring city ordinances left and right. It was mortifying. I finally changed my route one day after a large glop of sticky wetness landed on my windshield, one too large to be a raindrop, and too thick to be water. I think she flung it at me intentionally, so I started taking a different route to work. That only worked for a couple of weeks.
It was then that giants all over Earth grew a few dozen feet, and I lost what was most precious to me, my privacy. She claimed it for herself one morning when I woke up particularly horny. There was someone new at work, a lovely young lady I was eager to see again. I thought of her as I entered my shower stall, and soaped myself up. Hot water ran down my body as I started stroking fast and hard. There was no need to edge. I was ready just thinking about her.
You know how it is when you feel that way. Your heart is pounding in your ears, and you feel nothing but the thwap-thwap-thwap of your lubricated hand on your skin, and hear nothing but thousands of water drops rushing down from the showerhead. I should have heard the wind of her breathing thumping at my window like a huge beast caged out in the world.
It was her breath that awoke me to my circumstances. Just as was ready to leap over the edge and offer the drain something other than water, I smelled her breath. It smelled like day-old croissants and raw broccoli. I also detected a strong undertone of arugula and pond water. I opened my eyes and caught the clouds of steam in my bathroom radicalized by the breeze from her lungs. The stiffness in my hand came to a stop, and my pleasure died in an instant. I was ready to groan, and I screamed instead.
It was a scream of anger as I saw her giant face pressed against the glass of my bathroom window; thick glass I could have never broken myself, but she made it look like a translucent sheet of sugar with the plumpness of her cheek as long cracks radiated from the pressure of her fingertips. How long had she been watching me? And when did she start following me, to find out where I lived?
I stood there, paralyzed under the drumming water, one hand against the tile wall to keep me balanced, and another one still wrapped around my cock. I felt the muscles of my face trapped between pleasure and pain. The blood in my veins didn’t know where to go, and a murdered orgasm that weighed more than I could bear. So I yelled at her.
HOW DARE YOU!
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY WINDOW!
YOU’RE GOING TO PAY FOR THAT!
She smiled and said nothing; she just watched me and the path of my hands as I hid what I could from where I stood. I shouldn’t have done that, because that’s when the entire window shattered in my direction. What were cracks on that surface became a million shards that flew inward as her hand invaded my home.
I forgot about my anger and my desire for privacy. I only remember fear as her fingertip reached me and pushed, her palm darkening the room more effectively than the night. Her middle finger pinned me against wet tiles as her thumb flicked the length between my legs as though she was turning on a lighter.
I know I pushed with my hands and kicked with my legs. No one can say I didn’t resist. If the cutie at the office ever asks, I can tell her I fought her hand with all my might. In the end, my efforts amounted to nothing. I wriggled like a collected insect in her hold as she finished me off, her left brown eye all I could see beyond her knuckles; unblinking, reflective even as her head blotted out morning sunlight. I could see it crinkling in the corner, making fun of me.
I screamed again, and not from pain. I don’t know how she did it, but what she exerted from me was so great I lost consciousness. When I came to she was gone, and I was sprawled on my bathroom floor, my shower was running cold water, and time was running away from me. I drove myself to work following the old route, but I didn’t see her anywhere.
I know she’s coming back for more. Tonight I’ll go home and hear the wind’s shrill scream as it blows into my bedroom because the soonest it can be replaced is tomorrow afternoon. And what for? I saw the way she looked at me. She’s got a taste for me now, and I’m afraid next time she won’t put me down when she’d done with me. I should move. There are taller apartment buildings. But I think she’s just going to keep growing.