I surely would be in jail had anyone seen me. Peeking cautiously through a gap in our brown wooden fence. 
But here I was peeking. 
And there they were in their backyard. Engulfed in fresh flowers and unhindered lust. She wore an over sized white t-shirt. Her firm nipples peaking through the thin metal material. He wore black basketball shorts. His pudgy belly covering his elastic waist band and braided string. 
She kissed him repeatedly, as if to make sure that he was ready. And to absolutely guarantee that she was too. 
His hands were all over her. Up and down her legs. Over her shoulders. Through her hair. And especially on her bare behind. I was supposed to be watering my herb garden. A new thing I had started ever since my husband decided he was tired of the processed taste of supermarket food. What a hippie. 
But instead, here I was, watching this man slowly slip this white cotton tee over this woman's head and reveal her vulnerabilities to the world. No panties to cover her feminine parts. No top to cover the young perkiness that he was so eager to enjoy. He remain clothed, only pulling what he needed up over the top of his baggy shorts. Her naked and free. Him only giving and revealing what he wanted her to have. The part of him that would give him the most pleasure. What proved he was a man. 
More kisses shared and I realized that my sage was over-watered and my oregano was dry as a bone. But I didn't care. He has begun positioning his body under hers. Ready for lift off. Preparing to enter outer space and shoot straight for the moon and stars. 
He was so rough. But she was so obliging. And commanding. She wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her hips, and sat down on his pleasure stick. And so she began rocking them to heaven. Slowly. Surely. Confidently. 
I was hypnotized. I just couldn't make myself look away. Not even when I heard my husband come through the front door. They were moving with the rhythm of their own desires. Rocking to their own gratification. Her arms casually draped around his neck. His arms falling lower. His hands gripping her hips, squeezing her behind, causing the cheeks to turn red. 
My husband called my name and I felt the heat rising in my body. This gap in the fence  was consuming all of my thoughts. I was watching the body movements. Watching him rise to her buck. Watching her toes curl. Watching his fingers tremble. Watching her back arch. His chest rise and fall. Faster each time. She bites her lip. He pulls her closer. They dig deeper. Fly higher. Push harder. 
She finally verbalized her gratification. A low, throaty moan. I felt it deep down in the forbidden parts of my own womanhood. And in walked my husband. Not a moment too soon. Perfect. Passionate. Sexy. Edible. 
I gave him the eyes. 
didn't even say hello. He grabbed me. We dropped to the floor. Crushing all of the greenery beneath our weight. I was no longer concerned with the gap in the fence. I had my own zealous cries to make. Our love sounds and passion cries competed with those next to us. 
And quite frankly, there is no competition. 
Perhaps next week they will be peaking at us through that same gap in the fence. Staring. Gazing. Observing. Learning. Taking us all in. And they surely would see a few new things. My husband and I are great teachers. 
But for now, our chords and theirs would come together and create a beautiful symphony of love, affection, and sex. For now, we would prove that Black Love is alive and well. No competition. Just enjoyment. And we had just one for our naughty neighbors. Touché.