Peeps

The memoir of a voyeur.

          There are so many supposed reasons why people enjoy this activity.  Individuals make up a plethora of silly excuses, trying to justify their unfailing enjoyment when they participate in this.  They use scientific words and evaluations of their psyche to describe just why they need to look in on naked people, people having sex, people taking a bath or shower, people sunbathing, or anything else they can catch a glimpse of.  My mother beat me when I was younger.  I never had a sexual partner of my own.  My handsome father rejected my affections.  I accidentally walked in on my brother and his girlfriend having sex and became completely enthralled with the whole process.  My parents never told me the “birds and the bees” story so I needed to learn somehow.  I’m a sex addict, I can’t help but watch!  These people, these criminals, these sickos, they claim insanity when all else fails.  Me, I have my reason.  It’s the simplest of them all.  I won’t try to get around it by explaining away the necessity of my activities.  I watch people because I like it.

            Once, when I was spending a day in front of the lovely television, an episode of some talk therapy show was on.  These shows, they don’t do anything but embarrass the troubled and screwed up souls that appear on them.  This particular installment was on “Peeping Toms.”  This one guy was so great.  He installed video cameras in the changing rooms that girls went into.  He ran a photography place or a store or something.  The girls had no idea they were being recorded as they stripped.  I bet the genius got some great shots from that angle.

            The memory of my first glimpse into the world of sex is still vivid in my mind.  By my initiation into this glorious realm, I do not mean the dull scenes you see in movies and low-budget soap operas, nor am I referring to the instances one reads in shoddy novels.  No, I am talking about a real-life situation involving real people right before my eyes.  What an unbearable rush it was that day!  The elation and release has never been quite on the same level as it was in my original experience, although it remains immensely enjoyable.  It is possible that the euphoria was brought on by the fact that I was not at all expecting to view such a scene.  No word is adequate to describe the intensity of those moments and the awe of my revelation this activity transpired all around me, all the time, and that I could probably witness it again if I merely looked about me.

            I was eleven years old that day.  It was the twenty-seventh day of June in the year of 1988.  The trees danced in the wind.  Insects fluttered about foolishly in the sunlight.  Emerald blades of grass broke underneath my step.  As an only child with a father who had long ago abandoned me and a mother too strung out on drugs to even care to know what I did with my time, I often came to this park in an attempt to alleviate my boredom and rid myself of the oppression that staying in the house forced upon me.  Oftentimes, parents with their children, joggers running up and down the sloping land, or women with too much time on their hands visited the public area.  I never approached anyone, let alone allowed myself to go near them.  Solitude was my preferred companion, later to be replaced by my camera and unsuspecting subjects of entertainment.  This day, the park was full of people for whom I had no desire to be around.  I sought a place of isolation while meandering down a path enclosed and surrounded by trees.  Hearing voices coming toward me, I deserted the dusty tan trail and walked into the woods.  Hiking for about ten minutes brought me to a rotting log, upon which I sat, wondering if the park would soon clear of all these annoying people so I could have peace and leisure.  Then, I heard gasps.  The rustle of foliage.  A thud.  A grunt.  A scream.  Sprinting toward the sound, my fear was that someone was hurt.  (The fact that I did not appreciate company does not mean I had no compassion.)  I spotted two people, a man and a woman.  He was on top of her, attacking her!  That was my first impression, anyway.  Something made me stop at a distance, hidden behind a tree, doing my best to remain unnoticed while staring at this seemingly horrid behavior.  I could not decide whether I should run for help or run away.  Even had a decision been made, I could do neither, because for some reason, my feet would not move.  My body was stiff, motionless, hands holding onto the tree in front of me, breath barely audible.  The poor girl!  The man assaulted her and I did nothing to help or deter him.  Their faces were turned away from me at first.  Then, the girl moved her head and I saw her face.  Her black hair was splayed haphazardly across the ground.  Her shapely eyebrows hung above their natural place.  Eyelids with long, curling lashes covered her eyes, never opening.  A gentle smile pulled at the corners of her lips.  I noticed the two bodies moving together, the woman’s fingernails drawing blood from the man’s arms.  Wonder began to replace my alarm as I comprehended what I was seeing.  Exhilaration made my stomach quiver, my breathing quicken.  They had no idea I was there, standing behind that tree, perfectly still, intruding on their privacy!  As I walked home that evening, my steps were a bit unsteady.  That night, I dreamed the scene all over again, visualizing each minute detail, from the man’s sweat droplets splashing on the grass to the woman’s toes curling and uncurling.   

            Curiosity, desire and having nothing substantial to occupy my time drove me to seek out more encounters like the one I had seen the day in the park.  Success was not easy.  Part of me felt guilty for having looked upon that couple during their most intimate, vulnerable moments.  The other part didn’t care about what was right but didn’t know where or when to look.  I went on long walks around town.  When nobody was in the street or around, I would glance in windows of houses, trying to see inside, hoping to chance upon an exposed person or two.  I only observed one more situation that summer, in August.  I’d begun to creep around yards and houses, looking for a better vantage point.  A bathroom window was clear of obstacles.  The silly woman was in broad daylight, in a shower with glass walls and a window that took absolutely no effort to look into.  It will always amaze me how trusting people are of those they do not even know, that they do not think to promote secrecy or protect themselves from unwanted visitors, such as me.  I’m not complaining, though.

            Time passed.  My activities continued with more satisfying results.  I learned the agendas of my neighbors.  The woman seen in August continued to take showers at around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon.  A husband and wife had intercourse on the second Thursday of every month.  Why they scheduled it, I have no idea.  A man a few blocks away from my home would pleasure himself in the morning every other day.  I’m not homosexual, but the power I felt watching him, knowing he’d be embarrassed if he knew, was irresistible.  The more I witnessed people’s private events, the greater the desire became to see them.  I felt a bit shackled to this urge, as if I was a prisoner.

            During my high school years, I remained the outcast, the loner.  I had one girlfriend and was extremely surprised when I realized how crazy I was about her.  She was smart, unpopular, and had a mediocre appearance.  She didn’t mind sitting quietly with me, and we lasted for many months.  For some reason, instinct told me to keep my voyeuristic activities a secret from her.  As normal as that form of entertainment seemed to me, I felt as though others would be appalled.  Also, this was a personal part of my life, not to be shared.  (That is an ironic statement, I know.) 

            As much as one who has never known love can love, I loved her.  She was my only companion.  Meaningless chatter didn’t constantly fall from her mouth the way it did from the lips of other girls.  Sometimes we would spend the night at each other’s homes.  We occasionally had sex, but to me it felt like a piece of the experience was missing during those times.  I began to try to fix that.  This involved sneaking over to her house when we were supposed to be separate.  She wouldn’t know that I was there, looking in her bedroom and bathroom windows.  When we made love, it was easier.  I could picture the way she looked in the evening, undressing and crawling into bed, or the way she looked after a shower. 

            I got a job at the local grocery store, knowing I needed to save money to move out of my house.  College wasn’t in my future.  I would find work as I needed.  In the window of the store was an advertisement for a night photography class.  I had never thought about recording my endeavors, but the notion was alluring.  I bought a moderately expensive camera with the money I had saved and went to the class.  Much knowledge and skill was gained throughout the course, and I ended up having quite a natural talent for this form of art.  I set up my own darkroom, in a small old building on our property.  The doors had a lock on them at all times. 

            It was a night in February of 1994 that my hopes of having a truly enjoyable life vanished.  She was at my house that evening, staying over.  I was sleeping in my bed, as she was supposed to be.  I heard the door to my room open, feet shuffle on the carpet, a sniff.  I looked over and there she stood by the door, holding about twenty of my three hundred forty-seven pictures, clenching her fingers so that they became wrinkled, ruined. 

The girl had gone outside for some fresh air.  Apparently, she woke up and could not fall asleep again.  I could have punched myself in the face, because I left the darkroom unlocked.  I knew she had been curious what was in there, for she had asked me.  I replied that it was just some old belongings, useless, that my mother wanted to keep around.  She held out the pictures.  Her mouth opened, paused there, and then shut, lips pressed together.  Her eyes asked the question her voice failed to say.  What is going on?  She approached the bed, placing the pictures in a spread upon the mattress.  Her in her room, naked, rubbing a towel on her wet hair.  The 4:00 woman in the shower, steam billowing over the top of the glass walls.  Two college-age girls in the park where this all began.  Her, again, sleeping in bed, covers rolled off to the side, her body clearly visible.  Four legs, intertwined, in black and white.  Now she knew my secret.  Now she left me.

My life has not progressed since that day.  I work.  I stare.  I photograph.  I develop the film.  I repeat.  Forever will I be a slave to this sick, unacceptable form of gratification.                 

           

           

         

 

Reviews

[Holly]

plethora is a fun word, I bet you learned it from the three amigos too? I give you props for your good taste in words. =)