Chapter One
The Voyeur
For as long
as I can remember I have lived my life in the shadows, gazing at the flesh of
women. As a man needs air to breathe or water to drink, I crave to see the soft
cleavage of a woman’s breasts or the vulnerable spot of her backside where the
perfectly rounded halves of her cheeks touch. The sight makes my heart race, my
palms sweat. The sound of her heels clicking on the floor pricks my soul. Her
musky scent makes me dizzy, as if I am swept out to sea. I have told my story
to no one until now.
I’ve tried
to conceal this obsession of mine. I thought if I could devote myself to one
woman and direct my passion to her alone, it would ease the constant burden of
this lust I carry like a heavy weight in my heart. I eventually met a woman at
the bank where I work while arranging a business loan for her. The ruse of my
position as a responsible loan officer allowed us to strike up an innocent
friendship. I fell in love and we married after dating for over a year. The
entire time I kept my perversion a complete secret from her.
Early on in
the relationship, I was happy for a time. I especially enjoyed watching my wife
dress for work in the mornings or undress as she prepared for bed at night. The
bonds of matrimony gave legitimacy to my obsession. Since we were married, it
seemed perfectly appropriate to watch my wife disrobe. One could even say it
was an act of devotion on my part. I would sit quiet and unashamed in the dark
corner of our bedroom, mesmerized by the slow, innocent striptease she
inadvertently gave me every evening. I gazed at her, breathless, falling a
little bit more in love with her each time she removed an article of clothing,
exposing her body only for me. Seeing her standing in the middle our bedroom in
her red bra and panties was always the most sensual part of my day. I would
imagine grabbing her around the waist, tying her to the bedposts, ripping off
her panties and spanking my wife until her ass turned beet red, but I never
shared my fantasies with her. I was always too ashamed to tell her.
Unfortunately,
my pleasure was short-lived. My wife admitted it made her feel uncomfortable to
be watched so intensely in her moments of privacy. I apologized for staring and
told her it was difficult for me to look away from such a charming and
attractive woman. Despite my compliments, she started changing her clothes in
the bathroom. Soon thereafter, I only saw my wife’s body in brief morning
snippets, usually after she took a shower and before she picked out her clothes
for the day. I would see a calf here, an exposed thigh there, or a momentary
peek at the luscious cream-colored side of her breast as she turned away to
tighten the bath towel around her torso. Even those rare moments fed the lust
within me, like crumbs thrown to a starving man.
As the first
few years of my marriage passed, I kept my desires locked away as best I could
and committed to the tedious rituals of life. I got up in the morning, dressed,
had coffee, went to work at the bank, sold loans, came home, ate dinner with my
wife, undressed, went to bed and then did the same thing all over again the
next day. When I had the chance, I would steal quick furtive glances at other
women, in my discreet manner, to feed this insatiable hunger inside me.
Despite the
veneer of self-control, my condition only worsened. My wife became quite angry
when she caught me looking at other women and my addiction became a major issue
in our relationship. We tried marriage counseling, joined a church. She even
went with me to see a psychiatrist. When asked by the physician why I was so
compelled to stare at women, I replied that I didn’t know. My response only
frustrated my wife further. The doctor referred me to a 12 Step Program for Sex
and Love Addicts. But even standing up in front of a group of strangers to make
the disgraceful admission that I was a Sex and Love Addict made no difference.
No “Higher Power” could save me now. The cancer had spread throughout my soul.
The visual stimulation of a woman was as essential to me as the blood that
pumped through my cold blue veins. There was nothing I could do to cure my
perversity.
As my
marriage crumbled, I would often go several weeks before my wife allowed me to
be intimate with her. During this time I would occasionally resort to watching
pornography on the internet. Curiously, I never found the monotonous scenes of
raw sex and fake moaning of the actresses very erotic. It was nowhere near as
exciting and sensual as stealing quick looks at my shy pretty wife in the
privacy of our bedroom, but the cheap videos served to soothe my cravings.
One
afternoon on my day off my wife returned unexpectedly and caught me looking at
pornography on my computer. She became quite irate, calling me a “dirty man”
and shouting that I had humiliated her for the last time. Though I pleaded for
her forgiveness, she asked me to leave the apartment we had shared during the
three years of our marriage. Ashamed, I did as she requested. I packed a few
things and moved into a hotel room.
After a few
days apart I desperately needed to see my wife. I called her to apologize for
my behavior, hoping her anger had cooled. I thought we could try starting over
by going out on a romantic date again, as if we had first met. She told me, in
what I thought was a friendly manner, that she still needed more time to think
things through. I apologized once again and told her how much I missed her.
When our call ended, she said goodbye to me in a kind voice. It gave me hope
for the future.
I played a
fantasy over and over in my mind where we would meet for dinner and she would
tell me she had found it in her heart to forgive me. We would go back home and
she would undress in front of me in our bedroom while I watched, just as she
had done at the beginning of our marriage.
A week into
our separation I thought perhaps enough time had passed. I called to ask for
her forgiveness again, pleading with her to take me back. I suggested we meet
at our favorite Italian restaurant where we had always celebrated our wedding
anniversary. In our time apart I had learned my lesson, I told her. I promised
never again to look at pornography or another woman. Like a drug addict going through
withdrawal, I needed my fix. I would do or say anything if I could catch even a
fleeting glimpse of my wife’s body once more. I had difficulty sleeping, felt
out of sorts emotionally and it took all the self-control I could muster not to
break down with her over the phone.
“Please take
me back, honey. I miss you terribly, please,” I begged.
That’s when
she told me she had become involved with another man. In a rather cold tone of
voice she told me her lawyer would soon be in touch with me to work out the
details of our divorce. She asked me to never call or speak to her again. If
there was something I wished to say to her, I was instructed to call her lawyer
from now on and he would pass the message on to her. I felt the air escape my
body, as if a hole had been drilled through my chest.
“Divorce… I
don’t understand… I love you, honey… I don’t want a divorce… I -”
Then she
hung up. That was it. Our four year relationship ended in a thirty second phone
call.
I could
hardly blame my wife for leaving me, but still it was a rather painful and
shocking way to end our marriage. In just over one week she had already become
intimate with another man. How could it have happened? Was she already involved
with this person? Was catching me on the pornographic web site just an excuse
to get rid of me? During the time we were together, I had never been unfaithful
to her. How long had she been unfaithful to me? In the end, it hardly mattered.
My wife left me. My marriage was over.
After the
divorce I fell into a deep depression, blaming myself for the failure of my
marriage. I tried to carry on with my life as best I could.
Three months
after our separation I called my ex-wife on her cell phone just to hear the
sound of her voice again. Maybe the relationship she had with the person she
met didn’t work out. I still held on to the fantasy that we could start over
and she would fall in love with me again.
As soon as
she heard my voice she hung up on me.
To embarrass
myself further, I tried calling her back a week later. I had prepared a
pathetic speech that started with the words, “Please don’t hang up. I just want
to talk to you for a moment.” When I called again I got a recorded message that
her phone number had been disconnected and there was no further information
available about the number.
That evening
my life went from bad to worse. I started experiencing an extremely bad
headache. I had headaches before, but nowhere near this painful. I took the
strongest aspirin I could buy over the counter, but rather than going away the
throbbing pain intensified. It was so bad all I wanted to do was get in bed,
shut off the lights and pass out.
After
sleeping fitfully for a few hours I awoke in the middle of the night with an
even more terrible headache, the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced in my
life. It was unbearable. I tried to stand up and get some water but immediately
felt nauseous and dizzy. It was dark in my bedroom and when I tried to turn on
a light, I realized I had left the hallway light on. When I looked directly at
the light it stung my eyes and made the pain worse. All the objects in my room,
my TV, dresser, night stand and book shelf, looked blurry to me. I saw c-shaped
spots and flashing lights. My vision appeared like I was looking out through a
sheet of cracked glass. As the pain intensified, my eyesight grew dim to the
point I was unable to see anything but shadows in the center of my vision. I
became frightened I was dying or going mad. In a panic I fumbled around the
room like a blind man, knocking items off the bed stand while looking for my
cell phone. I lay down in my bed with my eyes wide open, but seeing practically
nothing from one side.
Thankfully,
after about 40 minutes, my sight returned and my headache and dizziness
subsided. When I felt well enough to drive, I went to the local emergency room
to see if I could find out what had just happened. The ER Doctor referred me to
a Neurologist. He asked if I had a family history of migraine headaches and I
said I didn’t know. He asked if I ever had these symptoms before and I told him
it was the first time I had such a horrible headache. After the exam, the
Neurologist told me I had just experienced what he called an ocular migraine. I
asked if it could be the beginnings of a major health problem like brain
cancer. The Doctor said since it was my first such episode, it was highly
unlikely it was something that severe. He advised me to monitor my condition
and seek medical help if a headache accompanied by blurred vision ever occurred
again. There were medications we could try, if the pain and temporary blindness
ever reoccurred. He gave me a referral to see an Ophthalmologist in order to
rule out any serious eye-related problems.
When I got
home from the hospital I was exhausted. Even though the Neurologist told me not
to worry, I had the feeling there was something seriously wrong with me. The
pestilence within had taken root and soon would spread. It made perfect sense
that my eyes, the root of my corruption, were the first affected. Though I was
under tremendous pressure to meet my sales quota, I called in sick to work that
day.
When I woke
later in the afternoon, I wrote this miserable self-pitying letter to my ex. I
told her of my severe pain and temporary blindness, that I was worried I might
have the beginnings of a brain tumor or cancer and needed her help. I begged
her in the letter to come back to me. At the end of the letter I tried to make
an ironic joke. I told her we wouldn’t have any more problems with my wandering
eyes because I was probably about to go blind.
I don’t know
if it was my lack of sleep or overall emotional exhaustion, but my eyes became
moist when I wrote that I still loved her. My tears dripped onto the page. I
folded up the letter, mailed it to our old address and waited for her response.
Two weeks
later the envelope was returned unopened and marked “returned to sender”. She
moved away and had given no forwarding address. I knew then I was as good as
dead to her. Like a stone tossed into the middle of a deep lake, the fantasy of
our reunion sank into a dark abyss.
Several
weeks passed. My bad headache never returned, but the possibility of my
debilitating illness loomed over me like an approaching storm. I tried to get
back in shape by going to my gym, but after a few days of exercising I gave up.
I sank further into a state of depression.
One morning
while looking at myself in the mirror and putting on my tie for work, I simply
could not carry on another moment with my normal life. I was about to go in for
a meeting with my supervisor to review my sales numbers for the month. Back
when I was married I was the bank’s star procurer of home and business loans,
one of the top producers in the state. But after the divorce my numbers went
down and I hadn’t reached my sales quota over the last few quarters. When my
performance first started to slip, my supervisor arranged a meeting with me. He
told me the bank was “concerned” and asked if I was depressed about something
in my personal life. Back when I was at the top of my game my supervisor couldn’t
care less about me or my state of mind, as long as the new loans and refinances
kept coming in. I knew there were ambitious employees at the bank just waiting
for a chance to take over my position and my job security was only as good as
my last sale. I told my supervisor I wasn’t depressed and would refocus my
efforts at increasing my numbers for the bank. But my job seemed more
meaningless and corrupt to me every day, arranging shady loans during the
recession for people whose homes or businesses might very well be foreclosed
upon in the future. I realized I didn’t want to be a part of it anymore, so I
made some changes.
I quit my
job at the bank, liquidated my assets and purchased a cheap bar on the wrong
side of the abandoned railroad tracks of my town. I had the interior renovated,
turning it into a dimly lit night club with a stage, table seating and a
stripper pole. I had a flashing neon sign designed with a silhouette of a nude
woman and mounted it above the front entrance. I applied for a liquor license
and learned how to mix drinks and make various cocktails. A few months later I
opened my disreputable business. For lack of a better name, I called it The
Voyeur. Since my attempt to live a proper life failed, I decided to stop
fighting my obsessions. Biology once again took over.
Like any new
business, it started out slowly. From a Craig’s List ad I was very fortunate to
hire my first employee, a very nice and pretty waitress named Veronica who had
worked at similar establishments in the city. In the interview she told me she
had just quit her last job at another topless bar after the manager continued
to hit on her. She was suspicious of me at first as well, but I promised to
treat her professionally. I tried not to stare at her body while she served
drinks or make her feel in any way feel uncomfortable working for me. I had
placed mirrors on all of the walls and made sure she never once caught my
wandering eyes raking over her body in the reflection. When she approached the
bar to drop off or pick up a tray of cocktails, I kept my eyes focused on the
bottles of alcohol or the polished brown oak of the bar.
Since I paid
a higher hourly wage than her last job, didn’t take a cut of her tips and
treated her with respect, she told her other friends in the business about the
club. I was able with her recommendation to hire an experienced staff of
waitresses and exotic dancers. After six months the bar was filled to capacity
even during the week and began to turn a profit. There was often a line to get
in on Friday and Saturday nights. I hired a security guard, an innocent young
man named Jason, to screen ID’s at the door and protect the employees from
overzealous patrons. The degenerate men in my provincial town creeped into The
Voyeur like ants in search of sugar.
My office
shared a common wall with the women’s dressing room. Once my business was
established I am ashamed to admit that I installed a transparent one-way mirror
which allowed me, without being seen, to watch the ladies disrobe before we
opened for business at 6PM and dress when we ended the shift at 1AM. I hung a
light red fabric like a curtain across the wall and would only open it when I
was alone in my office and the door was locked from the inside. However
perverse this may appear, it allowed me to fulfill this gnawing hunger inside
while not making any of the women uncomfortable. I knew what I was doing was
highly illegal. I could lose my business and face jail time if I was caught, but
the reward was worth the risk.
And what a
reward it was. I would sit at my desk with the stem of a water glass in my
trembling hand and watch the ladies prepare for the night. They were all on
friendly terms with each other and were quite comfortable with their nudity. I
watched as they helped each other unzip the back of the dresses and skirts and
unhook their bras, and then hang their articles of clothing on a free standing
rack against the corner wall. Often I would see them chat while sitting on the
lounge chairs or reclining on a white leather couch I had placed for their
comfort in the center of the room. Depending on the night, there were between
five to eight women on call. In the narrow room they would sit in front of a
long brightly lit table and I watched to my heart’s content as they applied
layers of makeup and eye shadow and fixed their hair. Each lady had their own
assigned spot where they placed their purse and various female accessories they
had brought with them to the club.
Staring at the
breasts and bodies of these attractive nude women, completely unaware of the
fact that they were being watched, was intensely erotic for me. It reminded me
of happier times during my marriage when my ex-wife dressed and undressed in
front of me in our bedroom. It occurred to me then why the pornographic movies
left me so cold. What I now enjoyed through my secret mirror was a depiction of
the beauty and sensuality of the female form in its truest sense.
The twenty
minutes of time it took the ladies to get ready for their shift each night
passed in the blink of an eye. After the hostess and waitresses came out of the
dressing room in their sheer stockings, heels and G-Strings, I closed the red
curtain, left my office, locked the door behind me and opened the front doors
of The Voyeur for business. I would go behind the bar to cut the limes and
lemons and prepare the other drink garnishes for the night. The patrons would
file in, be seated by the hostess, and the first round of drinks would be
ordered and served.
Standing
behind my raised bar at the corner of the room, I had an unobstructed view of
the topless waitresses as they served the drinks. I admired how their breasts
would sway and the back of their thighs become taut as they bent forward with a
full tray of cocktails in their hands. I gazed at their reflections in the
mirrored walls as they sat ever so lightly on the knees of the gentlemen who
paid to have a lap dance. Like the curator of a museum, I fully appreciated the
beauty which surrounded me. But rather than cold framed portraits, my works of
art were warm, sensuous and alive.
Two years
passed. Business was doing well and my headaches never returned. I felt like I
had finally moved on from the collapse of my marriage. I hardly thought about my
ex-wife any more. I liked my job. Though I was the bartender/manager, I also
tried to be a friend and confidant to the vulnerable women who worked for me. I
advanced them extra money when they needed it, helped to resolve various
problems in their lives, even paid for drug or alcohol counseling when
necessary. I gave myself permission as manager to look but never touch or
become sexually involved with any of my employees. I am proud to say I never
treated a single woman in my club in an inappropriate manner. Not once. After
almost three years of operating my club I had honored my vow, until a young,
extremely pretty woman came through the doors one memorable afternoon.