www.philipquinn.ca
Suburban Pornography by Matthew Firth
Richardson’s at it again. Fourth Saturday night in a row. I’m sitting here in relative peace and comfort in my modest suburban bungalow watching the Habs redefine mediocrity while he’s across the street, distracting me, fucking up my leisure time again.
He’s got the blinds up and the curtains open on the big bay window at the front of his house. He’s got his big screen TV set dead centre in his living room so all the neighbours can see the images thereon. From my place I can see the screen perfectly. Richardson’s even parked his sports car and SUV inside the big double garage, making sure there’s no possible obstruction for me. How courteous. The bastard.
I grab a beer and take a hit, my eyes never leaving Richardson’s TV. I can hear Harry Neale yammering in the background from my TV, something about the Habs’ dreadful power-play record of late. I’m not bothered, even though they’re playing the Leafs. I can watch the highlights later. The real action is about to take place across the street.
As he’s done on past Saturdays, Richardson’s fast-forwarding through a porno, getting a preview of the action. I watch blurred images of naked women and men fucking at break-neck speed, all the while massaging the cold beer bottle in my left hand. Richardson hits play now and again, taking a closer look at this or that blonde or brunette, sucking this or that cock, and then it’s back to bolting through the videotape. He’s likely making mental notes for later: i.e., “there’s when I make my first move,” or “that’ll be when she’ll be really fired up, ready to go.”
I shift my eyes away from the TV for a second. He’s rewinding now anyway. I take a handful of pretzels out of the bag by my feet and let my eyes drift to the second storey of Richardson’s place. There’s his wife, right on cue. Through their upstairs hallway window I can see her slinking away from the baby’s bedroom, down the hall to the master bedroom. No shame. No self-respect.
In the master bedroom she flicks on the light, illuminating her silhouette. She turns sideways, starts disrobing, giving me a profile, like one of those old-fashioned cameos. I can see every curve and rounded mound this way. Fuck sakes. She’s over at the lingerie drawer next. It’s like I live there. Like I’m her damned husband. No secrets in that household. And I thought this would be such a quiet, clean and tidy neighbourhood, way out here away from the grime and din in the city. All these perfectly normal, suburban middle-class folks lined up like ducks in their matching grey-brick houses.
Normal, my ass. These people are weirder than the miscreants downtown. Nothing normal about any of it. All a fucking façade. Closets just brimming with skeletons. Look at Mrs Richardson now, bent over, red thong riding up the crack of her plump ass, rummaging through the drawer of sex toys. Wonder what it’ll be tonight? The riding crop? Transparent dildo? Butt plug? Maybe Richardson’s glow-in-the-dark cock-ring with built-in clit stimulator? I’ll know soon enough.
She’s made her choice but her back’s to me now. She turns, glides out of the master bedroom and heads downstairs for the main event. I rub my eyes for a second, making sure they’re working okay. Making sure I’m not delusional. Everything’s in working order. I can see all too clearly. I jump up from the couch. I’ll need another beer, maybe two, for what follows.
**
I know where Richardson gets the movies. There’s a place called the Naughty Mart in the strip mall at the end of the street. It’s wedged between a Horton’s and one of those First Choice haircutting places. Like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Like I said, normal. While the wife gets a trim you grab a coffee and then rummage through the new releases, fingering your favourite form of porn, making a selection. The twenty-one year-old girl with a silver stud in her tongue working for minimum wage at the counter doesn’t bat an eye when you give her the tag and she makes you sign for “Backdoor Bonanza” or “Where the Boys Aren’t: #18”.
After that – porn in hard – pick up the wifey and drive across the street to the big box stores. Do some groceries. Grab some supplies at Home Depot, maybe cruise through the electronics at the Future Shop. Future, my ass. This is the present. Suburbanites racing around in vehicles that have more in common with tanks than cars, flaunting disposable incomes that baffle the mind, lusting after tax cuts, spending it all on entertaining themselves to death. And these, these are my neighbours. The Dorfmans. The Harveys. The Marcellinis. The O’Briens.
And then there’s the Richardsons. Those purveyors of porn. Those suburban seducers. Those sex-hungry thirty-somethings. I’ve seen him coming and going from the Naughty Mart. I’ve been sitting in Horton’s on a Sunday morning, reading the paper, when their SUV pulls up and he jumps out, slipping the video through the overnight return slot, feigning discretion, his chin nudged into his chest to obscure his face, baby in the car seat, the three of them on their way to the 9:30 service round the corner at St John the Divine’s. Fuck sakes. Sex slaves one day, genuflecting Christians the next. What can I say? Welcome to the suburbs, my friend.
**
They’re about twenty minutes into the filth now. I’m on my third beer. Two more sit on the carpet at my feet, slowly warming, next to the empty bag of pretzels. In the background I hear that the second period just ended and the Habs are down 4-1 to the Leafs. My, my, how things have changed. The first thirty years of my life the Leafs were whipping boys for the great and powerful Habs. Of course, that was a simpler era. Everything was straightforward and in its proper place. A time of order and discretion. Long before everything became so pornographic.
It’s the second sex scene of whatever dreary movie they’re watching across the street; I forget the title. A bronze-shouldered man with slicked black hair and a tongue like a viper is making a Chinese babe writhe in apparent ecstasy. His head is tilted left just so, her clit at the centre of the shot. This’ll go on for a minute or two, then they’ll switch roles and she’ll pump his cock in her mouth for a while. Then it’ll be on to the plundering penetration scenes and those frightful close-ups of various holes and hairy ass cheeks. Good thing I’m across the street. Then, finally, his sputtering climax – the cum shot.
If the format is followed (and when isn’t is?), sex scene #3 will be girl-on-girl action. Then, a threesome. The last segment should be something marginally kinky – a little spanking and black PVC undies. Although the Richardsons might not make it that far.
Propping myself up on an elbow, it looks like he’s about to make his move. Oh Christ, he’s peeling off the Y-fronts. Here comes the action. Richardson’s an eager beaver tonight.
Pornography is one thing. It’s typically vile and predictable on its own, harmless, mostly. But when regular suburban folks start mimicking pseudo-sex, a fine line is crossed. But still, I’m drawn to it. Like flies to shit. Fruit flies to sugar. That is, at least until I cum. Then it’s on to feeling momentarily unclean, recognizing my subhuman behaviour for what it is: a base, uncontrolled urge that goes way beyond obsession and want. That’s why I watch. Can’t help myself. Can’t take my eyes away, no matter how sickening and silly the neighbours’ stunts are. It’s Saturday night; I should be watching hockey, drinking beer and farting in my empty living room. But I need something, a fix to fill my void and anything remotely pornographic will do. This, this scene across the street is a cornucopia of depravity that strikes right to the marrow and fits snugly, like a condom on very hard cock.
They’re right into it now on their couch. A minute ago I glanced away; the Habs are down 6-1, which is too painful to watch. Mrs Richardson has shed the red thong, her legs are parted, knees in the air, head thrown to one side, mouth puckered just so, eyes closed, while Richardson pounds away. And hey, he is wearing the glow-in-the-dark cock ring after all.
The movie glides on lustily behind them, the actors not bothered that they’ve lost their viewers. The Mrs looks over at it once in a while, simulates a grunt or groan, like she’s reading a teleprompter. Richardson bites her neck. Squeezes her shoulder. Sucks a nipple firmly between his lips, distending it. Takes up her hair in one fist and gently tugs. Spanks her thigh. All the while fucking his wife with all the verve and virtuosity that a husband of ten years can muster.
“That a boy, Richardson. Hustle. Get it in there, big fella,” I say out loud in my living room, concealing a snicker.
His face starts to contort. Her back starts to arch. The veins on his neck stand out like cables. Her toes curl and she’s panting like a dog in the throes of mid-summer heat wave. He’s coming. I think she’s faking it. A couple more plunges and he collapses like he’s been shot with an elephant gun, rolling off her. She coos, rubbing her tits a little. Then leans over and kisses him on the top of his balding head, nuzzling in next to him, seeking warmth and comfort; a post-coital cuddle to reassert their humanity. This is the boring part. Time to check the final score and maybe listen to Don Cherry’s post-game rant.
But I’m too late for Cherry. I’ve got Peter Mansbridge on screen instead. Fucks sakes. Nothing sexy about him.
I drain the dregs of my last beer, stand, and walk the empties back to the kitchen. I turn, head down a corridor to my first-floor washroom. Piss, shaking off my semi. Grab a bottle of hand lotion. Head back to the living room. Hit rewind on my video camera that’s been focused in on my neighbours for the past two hours. Make the necessary mechanical manipulations. Then draw the drapes across my window. It’ll be a private showing for me. I have some shame, some semblance of pride, respect for my neighbours, after all, despite living in this den of iniquity on the outskirts of town. Maybe Richardson should take note, but I fear he’s beyond saving; in way too deep.
##
