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The audience should feel like voyeurs. Their response is absolutely crucial.
—ALAN RICKMAN
I like to watch.
Oh yes, I do. I live to peek, to spy, to peer. Confession time: I am obsessed with the concept of apartment buildings—simply because I love to think that there is a different story unfolding in every room. And in my world—all the stories are X-rated. My voyeurism fantasies run deeper than solely watching. My number one fetish, as I’ve said for years, is to know what other people are doing. (In their bedrooms, in their cars, beyond closed doors, behind closed eyes.) And isn’t that simply the bonus round of voyeurism? Maybe I’m not seeing the scenarios with my own eyes—but I’m seeing the visions with my imagination. Trust me—that can be even more intense.
As can be expected by a writer in my genre, fetishes I own become part of many of my creations. My characters are always watching, like in this sliver from a story I wrote called “No Good Deed”:
She turned her head to watch him over her shoulder, dark bangs fluttering in front of her eyes, so that she saw him through the wisps of her hair.
Or being watched, as in this description from my dark, erotic “Boilermaker”:
He felt someone watching him and turned to catch the glance of one of the pallbearers—pale-blue watered-down eyes—recognized the man from warm evenings spent sitting on his father’s porch after work.
Or talking about watching someone else, like in a story I wrote for Sommer Marsden’s Coupling 2 called “Reunion”:
He told me later that watching Rhonda eat me out had taught him more about going down on a woman than any dirty video he’d ever seen.
In my threeway, spanking, voyeurism story “Want,” there’s a trade:
“You can stand in the bathroom. Sit on the counter. Press your face to the slit. Whatever you want. You’ll be able to eavesdrop on Lia’s discipline.”
I was instantly wet. I couldn’t tell if Vincent knew, but I felt the dampness in my panties. I crossed my legs, and Vincent smiled.
“Of course, there’ll be a payment involved.”
“What do you mean?” Did he expect me to give him money?
“Tomorrow night, she’ll get to hear you.”
“Get to hear me what?”
“Get to hear you cry.”
I’ve always had a wet spot for peering into other people’s worlds. Maybe this is why I get off on being an editor. I am allowed to run my gaze up and down the bodies of work of my fellow writers. Is there a name for that sort of Peeping Tom, or have I created my own personal paraphilia?
Being a consummate voyeur has helped me identify the top writers in the industry. There are certain authors who know how to spill a scene in a way that makes you feel just a little bit dirty for watching—and when they’re writing about watching, expect explosions.
In her current work-in-progress “Bird in the Hand,” Helena Black peels open the curtains so you can see:
He leans back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed, head thrown back. He is beautiful in his nakedness, one hand cupping his balls while the other moves up and down his cock in long, slow strokes. I love watching him and he knows it, knows how badly I want to see him make himself come.
He lifts his hips, pumping hard against his fist, and his breath is coming faster, increasing in rhythm with his thrusts. I can tell he’s getting close now and his body starts to tense. He curls his toes against the floor and when the first moan escapes his lips I think I am the one about to come.
Elise Hepner describes the arousal of watching in “At the Time”:
She can’t keep thinking about fate. Not when things happen with an intended frequency every day that leaves her wet and aching, helpless, as if on cue.
“Thursday at six,” she mumbled.
This was the time. She stumbled onto her groaning, rusty deathtrap of a fire escape. Risk was well worth the temptation. She curled her toes, as they conformed against the cool metal grate. Despite the chill, her heat flared. A twirl of her robe between her fingers. Slick silk coursing through her palm. She shifted, enjoying her bare ass beneath the lightweight fabric.
Her thoughts emptied, lips slick with the weight of her tongue.
She lived for one peek.
Anticipation tickled across her flesh in goose bumps that wouldn’t rub away as she smoothed her hands up her arms. Her arousal sweetly scented the air. Wet and ready. Prepared for pleasure.
She looked down at her watch.
“Showtime.”
Andrea Dale takes the level even higher by adding a camera in “Now You See Her”:
Shane was taking picture after picture, glancing up from the camera every so often to just watch the action across the street. Emilie was spanking Katy, and while Katy’s hips jerked forward every time Emilie’s palm landed, they rolled in pleasure in between the blows. I doubted Katy was even aware she was doing it, and I wished we had a video camera as well.
Now Katy had her hand between her thighs, and I gave up trying to keep the binoculars perfectly steady because I had to do the same thing with my hand.
I jumped when Shane caressed my ass.
“I don’t know where to look,” he confessed.
I kissed him, tasting myself on him. “Watch our show,” I said. “You can see me later.”
