Growing up in a California house full of skylights and glass walls, I’m a huge fan of natural light. Which is one of the biggest appeals of my new apartment: with giant windows running along the front of my living room, and along two sides of the bedroom, sun streams in, and I can stare out at the city bustle on the street corner below.

Only recently, however, has it started to dawn on me that a window, by definition, works both ways. In other words, while I can look out, people can look back in as well. Not the people on the street, fortunately, as I’m high enough up to be out of the line of sight of pedestrian traffic, but certainly the lawyers in the huge office building directly across 8th Avenue.

I tend to forget about the lawyers, as, most of the time, they seem to completely forget about me. Working from home, I have the general sense that I could tap-dance naked in front of my window and still not generate much interest.

But, as the lawyers seem to work far too many hours to sustain even the vague semblance of a nightlife, a window-side female invariably causes them to sit up and take notice.

In the last week or two, due to the string of excellent repeat dates, and a slew of equally excellent evenings drinking with close female friends eager to critique my apartment decoration efforts, I’ve had attractive females passing through my apartment more evenings than not.

So by now, at eight o’clock, the lawyers across from me start frequently glancing in my direction, scoping out the evening’s potential for vicarious entertainment. I could, I suppose, draw the blinds (seeing as I’m not one, the contents of this site to the contrary, to derive real-life exhibitionist pleasure), but the evening city view is far too good to ruin for the sake of keeping out occasional stares from overworked drones I’m unlikely to ever actually meet.

Still, given the number of different girls that have passed through, and given the exceedingly unglamorous life I lead the rest of the time, I’m sure they’ve (rightly) determined I’m no ‘new date each night’ Cassanova. Instead, I suspect they’re convinced I’m simply moonlighting as a pimp.

Never one to pass up a good opportunity, I’ll therefore be picking up a set of dry-erase markers and scrawling my phone number on the office-facing window. While my visiting friends don’t seem to mind being part of an ongoing faux-reality-TV show, I’m sure they’d be much happier if it was pay-per-view.