What Were You Watching

What were you watching? The thought crept randomly into your mind one afternoon as you sat in traffic. You were in your car listening to Bret Easton Ellis narrate his latest novel, The Shards. And you think, maybe the sound of his soothing voice helped stir the memory loose from your subconscious as he spoke about illicit sex.

The light turned green, and you started driving again. But the thought didn't go away just then, not that you'd expected it to. In fact, it kept repeating in your mind, twisting itself deeper into your memory vault like a corkscrew working its way down the neck of a wine bottle. The question kept presenting itself to you again and again over the next several days, and you couldn't stop thinking about it. What were you watching?

Taken as a singular question, of a singular event, it doesn't mean much, but to you, on the night in question, it means a lot. It was November of 1999. You were seventeen, a high school senior. You were hanging out with your friend—your best friend. Something you did often back then. You can remember all that.

You'd picked up a large pepperoni pizza from one of your favorite joints in town but didn't get a drink. You didn't need to. You knew where the two of you were headed that night in his blue car, already had what you wanted—a bottle of Kahlua.

You were going to eat pizza, drink Kahlua Sombreros, watch something on the television, and get fucked up while your friend, your best friend, was in the next room having a marathon sex session with a woman in her twenties. You can remember all that.

You didn't know it then and probably didn't even figure it out until much later, when you were in your forties, but that night, your friend, although a willing participant, had been the victim of a crime, of a rape. Not a violent rape, sure, but due to his age and inability to consent, a degree of rape, nonetheless. The woman was a high school teacher, but not one of your teachers. She wasn't even a teacher at your school.

She was twenty-five years old, which, of course, meant she was old enough to know better. She was short, cute, and blonde. She was tanned, with a toned, athletic body. You can remember all that. And you can remember the blue and white striped bikini she wore that cold night in the hot tub. But for some reason, you can't remember what you were watching. Why? Or perhaps 'why not' is the better question.

After running these thoughts through your mind repeatedly, you think, maybe you don't remember because the couch you were on was pressed against her bedroom wall. And maybe you were so distracted by the sounds of their hot, illicit sex happening on the other side of that thin wall that you wished it had been you fucking her instead. Maybe that thought was so distracting that you can't recall what you were watching. Maybe.

You remember she opened the bedroom door at one point and asked you to cover your eyes so she could walk to the bathroom naked. You said you would, but actually faked it, peeking through the slits between your fingers as she moved quickly across the room. You were looking at her ass. But then, on her return trip, when you could've seen her whole body in full frontal nudity, you didn't want to risk her seeing you try to sneak a glance, so you averted your eyes down, only managing to spy her pink pedicured toes as they moved across the cream colored carpet. You can remember all that.

You remember being drunk with a belly full of creamy Kahlua and greasy pizza. Somehow, you managed not to pass out or puke. Good for you. Later that night, back in his car, you congratulated him, entirely unaware you were helping him celebrate the crime committed against him. At seventeen, you thought he was cool. You thought he was the man. Whether you wanted to admit it or not, you were jealous of him.

You went more than two decades without a single thought about that night. But now, you recognize that he was the victim of a crime—a sex crime. One that you'd wished had happened to you. Whether he sees himself as a victim or not is irrelevant. But you have no idea. It's been more than twenty-five years since you've seen or spoken to him.

So, you can recall everything that happened at her house and even acknowledge that a crime was committed against your friend that cold night in November of 1999. But one question still remains: What were you watching?

Bio: JJ Landry lives in the Cincinnati area with his wife, three children, and two dogs. His work has appeared at Shotgun Honey, Close to The Bone, and Punk Noir Magazine, among other places. He’s a U.S. Marine Corps Veteran and enjoys reading and writing about crime fiction and WWII.

Follow on Social

Literary Garage: Storytelling with grit, heart, and no off-ramp.

© 2025. All rights reserved.

Connect

Follow us on Substack for updates and news

Special Features Editor and Warrior God: Michael Downing