I gazed out the window at my midnight caller for what felt like ten minutes, probably searching for some kind of proof that he really was who he appeared to be. Could be just about anybody under that mask of his--well, any Caucasian male of a certain age, that is--but he looked familiar enough. I stared into his eyes, took note of how large and active they were, how they exuded a kind of unearthly intelligence. I studied his chin, his cheeks, the masculine jut of his jaw. My eyes travelled down the upper half of his costume--identical in every way to the one I'd seen in the bank--and rested, as I'm sure anyone's would, on his crotch.
The bulge I found there was too big to be covered up by the pair of briefs he wore over his regular tights (I assume that was their main purpose). His hands were hooked between his belt and his clothes, close enough to the buckle to suggest that he'd perhaps been fondling himself while he was watching me earlier.
Great. Either this guy was the man of my dreams and he shared my every emotion, or he was just some sicko voyeur who'd found a way to climb up a brick wall to check me out and probably murder me. No way of knowing, unless...
I'm getting harder and harder as I write this, remembering how fucking horny I felt at that moment. It occured to me then and there that even if my life was in danger, I didn't care. I was willing to risk anything for the chance that the shadowy creature outside my window was really the Batman.
I unlatched the window and pulled it upward.