I Don't Belong Here.

a humor blog from the trenches of suburbia.

My house is at the end of a cul de sac, the type of living situation that’s so suburban that when I’m driving home I feel like I’m in a Hallmark movie. Because there’s no through traffic, it’s only taken me a couple of months to learn all of my neighbors’ vehicles by sight and sound, and when I hear a motor I don’t recognize, I peek through the shades like a paranoid shut-in, wondering just who the hell this intruder thinks they are.

My neighbors aren’t used to much traffic either, which I assume is why I saw one of their penises this morning.

I was on my way out to run some errands when I passed a woman on the phone in her driveway. Based on her hunched concentration, it was the type of intense call you walk outside to take so you’re not disturbed.

A few steps behind her, in the entryway of the garage, a man stood with his shirt hiked up to his armpits and his shorts pulled past his hips. He waggled back and forth, his dick slapping his thighs like one of those party favors with the plastic hands you wave to make them clap.

He caught my approaching car from the corner of his eye and quickly covered himself, and we never made eye contact. But even in the quick seconds it took for this scene to go down, I knew exactly what was happening.

After all, who hasn’t occasionally snaked a ball down the leg of their shorts while their wife is on a particularly important conference call, or purposely dropped the soap and subjected them to a full view of man-ass in the bathroom mirror? If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

That’s why I wasn’t grossed out. His flapping hog was merely a token of his love for this beautiful woman, and while I’d never have the guts to swing my piece around in public like this guy, I admired his particular brand of I’m crazy about you and I don’t give a fuck who knows it.

It’s moments like these that makes me love the suburbs, observing these gestures of affection worthy of a Hallmark movie.

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