Vantage, Ogling, Yearning, Exhibitionism, Undetected, Roving
♫ Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Stock Aitken Waterman S.S. Paparazzi
 Mud Tiger Feet
 The Police Tea In The Sahara
 Rockwell Somebody’s Watching Me
Peek-a-boo Grueheads and my apologies if I caught you at an inopportune moment but you can blame that shit on my inner voyeur. You know, voyeur, the one that exists deep down in all of us. And don’t even think of playing the whole “I have no idea what you’re blathering on about” card either as I’m reasonably certain we all harbor some kind of hidden desire to cop more of an eyeful than we bargained for. It’s human nature after all and there’s really no reason to feel at all ashamed (unless you get caught in the act, in which case, lay that innocent act on thick and be prepared for some serious back-peddling). While not looking to point the finger at any one profession in particular, it’s the fault of the Paparazzi dagnabbit and the rest of us are just easily led.
You see, these snide little snappers will go to pretty much any conceivable extreme to zoom those roving lenses up the skirts of celebrities as they attempt to exit their chauffeured rides with a degree of dignity that doesn’t come natural to them and think nothing of tailing the stars to the Seychelles just to grab themselves the exclusive topless beach shot that will earn them a hefty paycheck once they auction it to the highest bidder. Of course, there are many different ways to grab that elusive nip slip and, should the slightest wardrobe malfunction occur during a public engagement, then it’ll be front page news by the following morning and everybody’s hot topic for the next 24 hours. Occasionally their job is made easier when some idiot has the smart idea of mixing one measure of Paris Hilton, one of Britney Spears, and another of pear cider to create a one-night exhibitionist and, needless to say, the Paparazzi don’t miss a solitary trick when catching whiff of that bald Britney beaver as it puckers up for its close-up.
So I guess we should get to the bottom of what makes voyeurism such a moreish endeavor anyhoots and it hardly takes a degree in neuroscience to work this one out. It’s the Advance to Go card in Monopoly, a fast track to the place where we’re pretty sure we have no right whatsoever to be. Please allow me to explain by way of fictional anecdote. Mark and Caroline have worked in the same human resources department for six years and, despite crushing on her massively, Mark knows only too well that she wouldn’t lower her standards to give him any more than the time of day for all the tea in China. However, one Friday evening after the firm has secured a global contract worth billions, the workforce are treated to a last-minute pool party to celebrate. In all her haste slipping into her bikini, Caroline doesn’t realize that one of her flaps never quite made it inside. Now no amount of judgement impairing alcohol is likely to increase Mark’s chances of waking up on Saturday morning in so much as the same zip code as the object of his affections. However, thanks to her vaginal discrepancy and his photographic memory, he can now console himself with potentially a full year’s wanking material. Meanwhile, he gets to turn up for work on Monday and know precisely how many bristles she bears. And the kicker is that he doesn’t even get brought up on a workplace harassment charge. You see, it pays to be a voyeur.
I’m sure we can all recall at least one time when a flash of flange or wayward winkle has caught our attention when we’ve least expected it. This is why husbands agree to spend the entire day on the beach with their wives, even though they are albino and could well burst into flames at any given moment. Their only stipulation is that they be provided with a nice all-encompassing pair of blackout shades (for their delicate retinas you understand) and suddenly that day on the beach becomes a far less excruciating proposition. From behind those RayBans, those minds are racing wildly, attempting to process the dozens of bare bosoms presented by way of seaside titty spread and store them all for later when their wives ask them to slap the after sun onto their backs. Ladies, have you noticed how willing your spouses are to assist? You know why that is? That’s right, while your back is turned, they’re piecing every last breast together into a mental mosaic and that boner you can feel digging into your spleen as they massage the oils, isn’t actually for your benefit whatsoever.
And then we have camel toe and, while the above pictorial provided me with a wry enough smile to decline my deviant side the opportunity to be more literal, I can assure you it has nothing whatsoever to do with either camels or toes. To be fair, there is a faint relevance to the hoof, as it attempts to straddle both sides of the fence and gets snagged up in the middle against its will, creating an effect I like to refer to as The Upside Down Seagull Effect. This is a sure-fire way for fellas to have a Kenny Powers moment in their Wranglers but it doesn’t always end up so amorous. When a seventy-five-year-old spinster decides to take up Zumba to fend off the reaper for a little longer after a gym hiatus of over half a century, someone really should inform the old dear about the downsides of lycra after a prolapse. Meanwhile, guys are just as culpable of crimes against public decency as they hang those slacks high in order to disguise their girdles, unwittingly fashioning their own little alpha toe. Needless to say, it’s considerably less attractive a sight and tends to resemble a double jointed ferret in a burka. Don’t ‘cha feel that pinch at all? Speaking of which, I happened to bring along my lute for the occasion, and it would seem a shame not to engage in a mostly harmless sing-song to further raise our spirits right?
The Shanty of Camellia Toeworthy
Camellia Toeworthy liked to turn heads
she dressed herself sharp made an effort
her fragrance was fine and her locks just divine
every passing glance fashioned a zephyr
Those bucks could but pause as she passed in the halls
second takes were a frequent occurrence
She found it all dandy to be their eye candy
and likely one or both of their parents’
She was dainty and sweet from her head to her feet
so damn hot that it was barely legal
but it wasn’t her hair which provoked them to stare
’twas the sight of that upside down seagull
It put up a fight as she packed it in tight
with intention to make it look pretty
but her cotton white briefs armed her up to the teeth
and the feast was too much for her clitty
With lips at full pout was no choice but stand out
and this left her poor clunge all at sea
when the panties grew famished her grace and poise vanished
as they took several tugs to wrench free
‘Tis regrettably stale the tail-end of our tale
for tragedy knew when to take its strike
she got it all wrong as she tripped in that thong
and bled out in a way most unladylike
I know right? Tell me you wouldn’t take a little sly lick of my balls should they be presented via serving tray and spruced up with a little side garnish. That said, after such a downbeat ending I feel as though we need a little pick me-up so I have dusted off one of my most cherished old memories for your public perusal and it has the added bonus of tackling a different side of voyeurism entirely. You see, it’s not all nip slips, undocked flaps, and desert hooves, as sometimes it’s nice to play the part of fly on the wall. And just like those pestilence peddling pests, the intentions tend to be just as pitiful. Confused? Then settle down with a nice mug of warm cocoa and prepare to throw up a little in the back of your throat.
During my final year at school, I was required to spend a fortnight on work placement and, given that I was such a keen writer, it seemed to make sense that I apply to my local newspaper for my work experience. To my divine pleasure, they agreed to take me on, and I decided not to share with them the fact that it was their free weekly publication that I used to dislodge any unwanted hunks of dog excrement from the treads of my L.A. Gear every Friday. Anyhoots, I actually got on rather well there for the most part, but there was this one persistent niggle that stayed with me throughout my two-week tenure and, like that lecherous uncle at family barbecues after six Rolling Rocks, it was nigh-on impossible to shake.
My spider senses were all a tingle and it always seemed to be the same individual flicking my nerve endings just to make herself feel more important. You see, she was a bottom rung clerk, barely three-years older than me, and tired of being regarded the office plankton. I presented her a fresh vessel through which to channel her angst and she knew full well that I had absolutely no desire to be there. Perhaps it was the fact that I spent any time between incoming calls plucking out pubic hair and fashioning them into letters on my desk that gave me away but, while she saw through my veil of false interest, I had her number right back and was biding my time until she made the grave error of pushing me too far.
On my very last day, after a solid hour of listening to her bark her rancid orders, she piped up with something along the lines of “can you get me this and on your way back pick me up a handful of that?” and may even have concluded with the dreaded “chop chop”. Condescending fuck beaver fed my fury a whole jar of anger-cookies and I would have had sleepless nights imagining the most heinous manner in which I could repay her favor if it wasn’t for the fact that this was my final shot at revenge. One booger was all it took; one greyish ball from the old nose bag. When she requested that I make yet another round of teas, I plopped it in her tepid brew as a little in-joke with myself for later. Got to keep your pecker up as eight hours in an office is, after all, eight hours in an office. I stirred this green goblin into her nectar ferociously until the whole cup was awash with twister-like currents of rage. I then prepared my tray of refreshments to hand out for a quick take five and everyone huddled around, momentarily forgetting their duties in favor of some good old-fashioned team building. After securing front row seats for her maiden slurp of tainted tea, the words “gotcha you trout-faced murkin!” reverberated through my earlobes. Should this booger become lodged in her tooth then she could potentially be attempting to lick that shit out for days. Victory was about to be mine and, to sweeten the deal even more, it would come at the sole expense of her defeat.
Regrettably, as I puckered up for that sweet tasting triumph, the whirlpool subsided in her mug, skies cleared, and guess who should pop up to the surface? Dr. Gene Booginton-Smythe that’s who. I was perilously close to being rumbled and the situation only grew more dire as she openly quizzed “what’s that floating in my tea?” followed by “it’s…it’s a bloody booger!” Instantly I felt the gaze of a handful of sentinels piercing me with their disdain akin to a thousand sharpened blades in harsh unison. Mercifully, you can’t DNA test mucus, so I was afforded the chance of concluding my work experience without another word of the matter ever being spoken. Better yet, that was the last time I was ordered to make the refreshments. While I’m coming clean, I may have negated to mention that I also made a short pilgrimage to the lavatory and dunked her tea bag in my urine. Mom’s the word Grueheads remember. What? She was a real fuck badger. You’d have done the same right? Guys?..Guys?
Moving swiftly on before you all start offering me cups of tea, that Mr. Skin is a rapscallion and a quarter ain’t he? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of him, looks like a poster boy for brylcream but has a completely different method for securing his hair in place. Now this loveable little blighter is something of a statistician but not the kind that threads the beads on an abacus for minimum wage. Instead, he times those titties and downstairs tumbleweed to precision and records the results in his very own pervert’s almanac. Suddenly every kid in state cycles home as fast as their bandy legs can peddle, commandeering the family toploader in a frantic attempt to knock one out before their sisters return from after-school band practise. Using Mr. Skin’s findings as a guide, they are now aware that there is a glimpse of side breast at 16:21 and blink and you’ll miss it flash of beaver at 32:19. It seems unfair being too hard on Mr. Skin as, while undoubtedly a wrong ‘un, he sure made wanking fun. Besides, how could you not be slightly won over by his dimpled cheeks and approachable smile?
So there we have it Grueheads, that’s voyeurism pretty much sewn up for the foreseeable. To be completely honest, this one has far too many legs for the amount of shoes I packed and I could’ve gone on way into the wee hours waxing lyrical about one of my all-time favorite topics. But that’s what sequels are for right? For now I feel that I have likely grossed you out enough so shall leave you to digest a closing gallery of Keeper’s finders and slink back into the undergrowth, my home away from home. There I should be in with a shot of copping an eyeful of the M.I.L.F. at number 43’s ass dimples as she climbs out of the shower. And if that makes me a Peeping Tom, then I’ll just blame it on mother.
Sin is only sin when rumbled,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014 (Revised Edition 2016)