Chapter 1: 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.