voyeurism isn't always sexual...

or maybe it is? what the fuck do i know?

if i haven't come out here and bold-faced said it before, i have definitely alluded to it: i am a voyeur. (and yes, because i am also a big bucket of contradictions, i too am an exhibitionist.)

i like to sit quietly and watch people in their natural habitat. generally, they do little of note, and i get bored and watch someone else. but occasionally, they do something that piques my interest, regardless of how ordinary it appears.

recently, i was out smoking my pipe on my front porch, and about a quarter mile away, i see a woman in her back yard. why did this woman catch my eye at all? well, probably for the usual reasons. she was tall. the distance between us made it hard to judge, but i bet she would be a good six inches taller than me, and i am not short. she was black. she had long thin legs that were on display as all she was wearing were some brightly-colored booty shorts and a tshirt. beyond that, i had no idea what she looked like. so perhaps my initial reason for watching her was sexual: i guessed (as much as i could tell from such a distance) that she was a very attractive woman.

but as i watched her, she became more interesting to me. she apparently was on the phone. one arm kinked at the elbow to meet her head. it wasn't hard to imagine a cell clasped in that hand. she paced back and forth over and over, occasionally gesticulating with the other hand.

i knew why i was outside in my yard. smoking is prohibited in our domicile, even though both my wife and myself are smokers. we don't want our home smelling like it, and we don't want our kids exposed to second-hand smoke. but why was this woman outside? wouldn't she be more comfortable inside her house having this conversation. i tried to see if she too might be smoking as she talked. i would have no way of knowing if she had a cigarette in her hand, but her movements indicating that she was not smoking.

what kind of conversation was she having? she was pacing quite a bit. was this a heated discussion? was she getting some bad news? was she in an argument with a significant other?

as i watched her from a distance, i began to do what i generally do when i people watch: i make a story. "baby, i aint comin' home tonight." "what you mean you're not coming home tonight?" "i just can't do this anymore." "what you mean you can't do this anymore?"

after a bit, a dog ran up. ah, so this is why she is having this lengthy phone conversation outside. she is probably catching up with a family member. perhaps chatting with her best friend about a man, or work.

but she lets the dog in, and continues pacing.

maybe it is like my original story, only several weeks later. maybe there are little ears inside the house that shouldn't be exposed to what she is saying: "you motherfucker, you can't just go off and leave me for that slut and not expect some repercussions. no, i will not cut you a break on the child support. fuck you, you can discuss it with my lawyer!"

but this conversation would burn out too quickly, and the stance of this woman is not one of anger, or of shouting. i play through other possible scenarios in my head.

after a bit, i am not even focusing on the woman any longer. i am wondering if i am the only person that watches someone of interest and makes up stories about them. it's not sexual for me. i will not replay this in my head during a shower. but it is fun to sit there and watch her and imagine what is going on in her life right now. i wonder if the people-watching spawned the writing, or vice versa? did i begin to write as a method for capturing the tales i created around people i watched, or is watching individuals a natural by-product of wanting to write successfully? do my fellow writers spend as much time just watching incidences and persons out of context of anything and creating elaborate tales in their head about what led to that moment, or what was going on behind the scenes?

as i tap out my pipe and notice that the woman is still talking, and still pacing, i come to the conclusion that while the particulars may be a chicken/egg conversation, the crux of the matter is that being a successful voyeur and being a successful writer/storyteller seem to go hand in hand.

darth sardonic

just an interesting thought (or a bit of a rant disguised as an interesting thought perhaps...?)

i am sure it comes as no surprise to the non-existent readers who still stop by this droplet of piss in the ocean of the world wide web (and i know you're out there) that i think sex is a beautiful thing.

yes, i understand that certain aspects of sex are ugly and disturbing and/or morally wrong, but for the most part, i think sex in all its different styles and proclivities is an amazing, beautiful, and yes, even exciting, thing.

except in the presence of children, i generally feel my own nakedness is not something to be ashamed of or hide. i don't feel that anyone else's nakedness is improper or inappropriate. i feel if it shocks you, bothers you, disgusts you, or offends you, you have the right to not look, leave, or even, in some cases, ask the offender to leave.

i guess in one form or another i have felt this way my entire life.

now, to the rub, o my droogs and only friends:

yesterday i was watching a movie with a group of friends. it was an effects blockbuster full of explosions, blood, gore, foul language, nudity, and sex acts. oddly enough, no drug use that i could recall, though it is implied that several of the characters are whacked out of their noggins. but i digress.

the thing that i find strange about all this is that a small group of young teen girls was also present as we watched the movie. every time a pair of boobs flashed across the screen, or characters were depicted in acts that might be considered sexual, their father would say, "eyes!" and they would dutifully cover their eyes and look away and wait for him to tell them it was safe to look again. and i am not judging the father at all for that. that's his right as a father, and in many cases the sex was what might be considered "deviant" and "wanton" and not necessarily the kind of input you would want a young teenage girl receiving.

but here's the deal: when soldiers were depicted getting blown up by rockets and their bloody parts scattered to the four winds; nothing. when one of the characters' head was exploded from her body in a scattering of gristle; nothing. when another person gets mowed down by a vehicle; nothing.

it is traditional in this, the united states of america, to be blase about violence. to be inured to it's sting. it's ok for a 13-year-old girl to watch characters on a screen not only battle each other and die, but to do so in violent and extreme ways. we almost cheer it on. and maybe that's fine.

but suddenly it's not ok for a girl of thirteen, who is already beginning to sprout her own set, to see a pair of breasts bared on the screen? to see two ladies kissing without their tops on? to see someone moon others out of the window of a car?

again, the sex and nudity portrayed in this movie had a bent to it that i also agree is not appropriate for a young teen girl. but then, i would deem the whole movie inappropriate for a young teen girl, hence the rating of "r". but i have watched many movies with this group of people and it is always the same: the violence is acceptable, almost lauded. but nudity and sex, regardless of how loving and open and innocent and reaffirming it might be, is not.

and i personally believe, o my beloved non-existent readers, that therein lies the quintessential problem with the u.s. violence is good, acceptable, the appropriate measure; love, lust, and sexual excitement never is.

i sure hope that one day we can tip that scale the other direction.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

more of the same

after clocking myself in on the computers at work, i called out what i always do: "i just need a bank, and a manager's password (managers have to actually punch in their password to clock the drivers in--apparently we can't be trusted on our own)."

"ok." says one of the managers.

then under my breath to s, another driver who has a cool sense of humor, "...and a bottle of pills, some alcohol, a length of rope, a few razor blades, maybe a samurai sword."

s laughed, as i knew she would, then asked "how wood you lige do close todighd?"

"about as much as i would like being mauled by hungry bears, or gang-raped by angry prison guards."

"aboud as buch as you wood lige to be sig? cause i coug mage that happen if you choose to nod close."

my turn to laugh.

lakewood has a seedy, dark underbelly. well, actually, it really isn't an underbelly at all. it is pretty well known. it is called south tacoma way.

last night, i made one of many deliveries that i have made to deja vu (100's of beautiful girls, and three ugly ones) on south tacoma way. i never make it inside. the doorman always pays. ((matter of fact, i have never even been in there on my off time. hmmmmm, weird. me and my buddy s may have to rectify that before we move) and speaking of that, my wife's clearance is done, and gone through, and we should be leaving for florida in early jan. yay!) he always tips really well. occasionally, some of the girls are out front smoking, their near-nakedness blocked by long and heavy overcoats. only once have i gotten to see one of the girls in her "outfit" (or near lack thereof) and that was because she forgot to give the money to the doorman and was actually on stage when i showed up. i lounged around the doorway like a complete perv and then there she was, in some little black thing made of string and pirate eyepatches. oh, and fringe. yes, fringe. she had a really cool tatt on her lower back as i recall...

god alone knows how many of the runs to the motels along south tacoma way have been either "hungry hooker" runs, or pizza to allay a bit of the aftereffects of too many illegal drugs. i have a funny story or two about those that would require their own post, if i am up to dredging up those otherwise-blocked memories. i think one time i was delivering to a small crew that was filming a naughty webcam out of one of the rooms. lots of flashing lights, those silver umbrellas set up, cables running all over the floor, and a nerdy looking guy on a laptop. the lady paying wouldn't open the door wide enough for me to see anything in the vicinity of the bed, and i am just enough a gentleman not to try and look.

another of the drivers delivered to one of the "spas" along south tacoma way. he was lucky they even opened the locked safety cage, heh heh. might've had him pass the pizzas through a mail slot or something.

that is more or less it, today. nothing too exciting. oh, well, except getting everything into place for this move. that is so exciting that right now i can't even deal, so i will tackle that at a later date.

darth sardonic

madame librarian...

i walk through the double doors and turn to the desk, walking slowly.

the very first thing my eyes fall upon is a full two-inch wide strip of smooth soft tanned skin between the top of a pair of (tight) jeans and the bottom of a (snug) black t-shirt.

o thou jezebel eyes that wander so freely, seeking out the perverted flesh that makes the brain think such things. i would pluck thee from thy sockets did i not need thee so desperately.

my eyes climb quickly from the bit of (bitable) hip to the (deep hazel) eyes that correspond with the patch of skin, taking in the bigger picture as they go. the librarian is on the phone, standing with one thumb tucked into her back pocket, the opposite knee bent, waist thrust out, almost as if she expected me to walk through the door, almost as if she knew the very place my (benedict arnold) eyes would fly first, and wanted to provide the landing strip. she watches me approach the desk from the corners of her half-lidded sockets (not sure how something that our brain would otherwise register as "tired" or "inebriated" began to fall into the "erotic" category, but at the same time, i am not really complaining), a wicked little smile playing across her (full) lips.

as i return the book, and negotiate the loan of another, every time my (hungry) eyes shift from bits of her (unbelievably tight and smooth) exposed flesh back to her green eyes and pouty smirk, i am shocked by the look that i meet there. i feel as if i am fully exposed to her, bare, naked and on display in the middle of the library, but not in a way that she finds unpleasant. to the contrary, the small smile denotes a hint of pleasure and even humor at finding me so easily open for her viewing. her smile is the same that i find on my own face when i have a (wicked) thought that i am loathe to share. i wonder momentarily as my eyes wander her (luscious) body again if it is on my face right now, and if she is wondering the very same thing about my smile that i am wondering about hers...

each time she stands or moves there is a certain sinuous and sensuous air to it. she stretches like a cat to lift herself from her seat, and as she walks to retrieve something from the printer, her hips sway, giving me peek-a-boo shots of the skin that my (bastard) eyes so greedily devoured upon entering the library. her fingers trail languidly across the interlibrary loan slip that i have filled out, her hand takes the pen softly, cradling it as if she is taking...

o thou evil and pernicious brain, how thy thoughts wander, creating lust where there is nought but surfaces reflected in light. how thou dost take the input of the treacherous eyes and build electricity and fire and desire to tease the lower extremeties. i would remove thee from thy skull did i not need thee so desperately.

i am sure she is well aware of the effect that she is having on me, despite my best efforts to appear aloof, cool, and collected. each time her eyes land on me, i am again sure she is seeing right through me. i am also sure that knowing how her attention is effecting me, and suspecting the very things passing through my (wicked wicked) mind, made manifest by my smile, only pleases her more.

i leave with my book, my overactive imagination, my lascivious thoughts, and little else.

***one part reality, and nine parts active imagination and too much time on my hands, o beloved non-existant readers, heh heh. i will leave it to all of you malchickiwicks and ptitsas to decide which parts are which. in the time when i still wrote erotica (before i decided it was mostly uninspired) this would've been the mere beginning, with much more lechery and lust to follow. as it stands though, i think it is made more erotic by the simple fact that it feels real. these kind of situations are, more often than not, more sensuous than any sex that might follow, either imagined or real. well, at least in my head. you be the judge. this still isn't the post i wanted to post, that has been floating in my head for days, i just got sidetracked by this one, so hopefully tomorrow i will get to the other. thanks for playing along.***

darth sardonic

...it's just something i saw in your face

'hawking up no. 2's hair is like trying to draw a straight line on the head of a small bird.

"hold still. hold still! hold still!!"

but in the end i guess it is worth it (no doubt dabblers in the science of psychology will attribute my tenacity with no. 2's 'hawk to the fact i desperately wanted one when i was a teenager and never got to have one. i just think they are fucking cool).

the particular pizza joint i work at abounds in propaganda. there are signs and posters everywhere encouraging us to smile and greet the customer within a certain amount of time, blah blah blahdy fucking blah. not sure how propaganda is intended to work, but on me it has a detrimental affect: if the sign says smile, i will, but it will be the dumbest most smart-alecky cheesiest most fake smile i can muster.

one of the most apalling and ludicrous bits of propaganda is what the other workers shout at the drivers as they leave for a run: the driver, on his/her way out the door, is required to call out, "driver out!" followed by the elapsed time of the order, and any side items or beverages that he/she may be hauling.

supposedly, this is so the manager's can keep track of how long it is taking, and whether or not they need to restock the pop cooler.

truth is, they rarely pay any fucking attention at all.

in reply, the workers still in the store are sposed to holler back, "buckle up, drive safe!"

here is why propaganda makes me snort: it is unlikely, were i not already planning on either buckling up or driving safe, that this line would render me so malleable as to change my mind into doing so.

it does, however, afford me with a veritable cornucopia of opportunities to use my trademark sardonic wit.

some of the most common replies to "buckle up, drive safe" that i have offered: "like you guys care!" "if i must!" "no way, crazy as a loon and unbuckled for me, thanks!"

once, with customers lined up and waiting for pizzas, i shouted back, "the more i work here, the less i wanna!" as i zoomed out the door to a hail of raucous laughter, courtesy of all those waiting patrons.

and now, sex:

(got your attention there, didn't i? you pervy little peope. hahaha. which brings up an interesting sidebar: does being a stay-home parent heighten one's perviness and smoldering libido? or is it more just when a guy stays home? or is it just me? i am gonna go with "just me" seeing as i am quite a bit pervy, and always had a plentiful libido. and another sidebar, since we are already here caught between my accursed parentheses and lost in one of my completely unrelated tangents that will force you, the beloved non-existant readers, (and me too) to backtrack to whatever i was talking about before i got sidetracked on this other thing and attempt to reboard my original train of thought (heading for hell and points west, chooo choooo): i know i really don't talk much about sex or sex-related topics within the scope of this small bit of dust under the bed that is the world wide web, but trust me when i say, o my brothers and devotchkas, i love sex. i used to write erotica (for myself mostly--and that is all i am gonna say bout that!) until i reread quite a bit of it and decided that it was all mostly rip-offs from other erotica i had read, and that while i might've added some clever stuff here and there, i wasn't really bringing anything new to the table, and that few people would want to read any of it. it is simply that i feel that discussing sex specifics in here would be putting my wife's and my personal matters, so to speak, right out on public display, and since we have family that read, that would be, in a word, icky. as far as general observations about sex or whathaveyou, well, i just never really find a moment that presents itself. now back to your regularly-scheduled program--)

and now, sex:

one of the drivers (female) that knew me before i left the confines of the pizza joint and my wife left the confines of the country was recently talking to me about my dubious and unplanned return to said pizza joint, and i told her i had done it to pay for my tattoo.

she asked what i was getting done.

it was a bit slow, so i motioned her to the back of the store where we pile up the broken-down boxes for recycling and keep the empty dough trays, and lifted my shirt to show her the tattoo.

i do this all the time. i am used to the reactions: "wow!" "fuck, that is cool!" "dayum!" etc etc.

this girl began to make what i can only describe as fuck noises: "mmmm fuck yeah. ooooh fuck, yeah! mmmm hmmmm."

then, much to my surprise, she did something that no one, and i do mean no one, has ever done, barring my wife. she reached up, and traced some of the newer lines on one shoulder blade with her finger. while still emitting the fuck noises.

now, last time i checked, i am not made of either ice or wood, so it goes without saying that my lizard fuck-n-fight brain took over momentarily and flashed up all manner of craziness in the form of in-my-head-only porn. (and worry not, o my droogs and only friends, i keep no secrets from my wife. the first story i told her of the evening was this particular one, with one of her friends present no less. we all had a good laugh.)

then i dropped my shirt, smirked my smirk, and hoofed it to the front of the store post haste, because even though she had moved away from me and given me back my personal space, she was still standing there with a look on her face that my lizard brain was reading as "take me now" and the logical and coherent part of my brain was sounding the alarm.

what's the point of this little story? not sure. but it raises a question in my head that i often find myself tackling: as a stay-home parent, one is expected to maintain a certain amount of decorum, shall we say. i mean, i am far from pta material, but we're all expected to behave ourselves.

and i am often surprised, pleasantly, i might add, to find that other stay-home parents (women, mostly, since they outnumber us stay-home dads a million to one) get randy, talk with each other about sex (out of earshot of their kids), scope hot passersby, etc etc.

we are, after all, human.

but i still sorta battle this within myself. it is normal and healthy for me to like sex, it is even acceptable for me to enjoy porn. i'm a guy, shit, what do you expect. but somewhere in my noggin i have the notion that stay-home parents don't do this. granted, it is some kind of convoluted idealistic image based, most likely, on some sort of fifties icon with a woman with perfect hair and ridiculously blue eyes vacuuming in a skirt and heels.

or, you might say, i guess, o my beloved and crazy and randy and vivacious non-existant readers, it is based on a propaganda.

wow, i feel better already!

darth sardonic