So the other day I’m up on the top floor of one of those swank high-rises on Michigan Ave., just looking at the view. I notice that on the very top of each of the buildings below me is a comparatively small American flag. But the wind as that point is so strong that the flags can’t wave. They’re being shredded by the wind. They’re fighting against themselves and then wrapping tightly around their poles.
There’s an apartment building across the street and as I look into it I notice a man sitting by his computer just looking out at the view too. But then he stands up and I notice that his hands are underneath his boxers and performing a motion that, even from far away, I’m able to recognize.
He performs the motion casually, lazily. Hypnotized by the buildings, by the cold October air or by the simple rote of this ancient motion, his hand pumps up, down, up, down, up while the sky sets behind him.
He starts to pull his pants up and tuck in his shirt when suddenly he notices me. There is a pause as his eyes catch mine. Another pause, and then he slowly unbuttons his pants again with a deliberate hand, slips his hand back under his boxers and performs the motion again.
I’m shocked, yet still staring. He leaves, but he comes right back and now he’s not wearing pants. I can’t make out his face at all, and I hope to God he can’t make out mine, but he’s really going at it now – he’s pressed up to the window and jacking off.
I am looking at him intently, but when I sort of back up and I see the entire building, with all the little boxes lit like some insane cage with flickering blue lights. Behind that cage is the shadow of other cages and the horizon is pink and melting into blue with creamy clouds and the sun is one big burning nipple in the sky… and within all of this, the two of us are locked into each other.
He starts motioning to me and then motioning to his cock – like I should start going at it too. I shake my head slightly and try to casually walk away, but I can’t because I’m entranced by this picture. He sees my reticence and now he really wants me to join him – he points at my hand and then at my crotch, while furiously pumping with his other hand, but I’m not about to. I turn on my heel to leave, but look over my shoulder one last time. And that’s when I see it.
The faint outline of a man, in a bright box 50 stories above a concrete street, jacking off. Above rooms and rooms of other men who probably couldn’t afford this view. Some businessman or doctor, who I’ve probably waited on, going at it. One manicured hand is pumping and the other is pressed against the window of his $500,000 studio. Alone, bringing himself to a climax and ordering some girl whose face he’s never seen to get off on it too, and I’m thinking…
“Man, that’s it. That’s it. That’s the 21st century American dream.”
– Sabrina Chapadjiev