Voyeur
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Seriously, being a voyeur in the modern age sucks. There’s nothing to see. All anyone ever does is sit at home watching television. Together or alone, they stare like zombies at a screen. They don’t bother to move, talk, or do much of anything.
Where’s the drama?
Back in the day, you could peep though someone’s window and see some real action. Scarcely would a night go by that you wouldn’t see someone fighting or fucking. But now the only action is on those God damn screens.
At best, a night of observation will yield a fat guy or two, home alone, solely illuminated by the dull light of their phones, viciously jerking it. This of course is followed by witnessing his face contort into post orgasm shame, as he checks into what he has just been doing.
Their faces don’t have quite the same pull as that of woman’s who has lost herself to the pleasure of her lover’s embrace whilst her husband’s away on business. Nor does it have the intensity of a plate shattering against a wall to the screams of, “Please stop, you’re scaring me”. For good or ill, those intense scenes rarely play out for me anymore. Look through a window and it feels like you are witnessing the slow death of human connection.
No, voyeurism holds little joy in the modern era.
Ultimately I find myself scrolling through social media, hoping for a just modicum of that feeling. That little something that shows an unguarded moment of pure emotionality, an expression of life in its truest form. Yet every time I scroll, I am disgusted to discover that the only thing on offer is over curated garbage designed to look as superficially appealing as possible. I’m sorry honey but your perfect ass, whilst tremendously appealing on one level, disgusts me on a much deeper one. It is as fake as the materials that make up the device I am viewing it on. Besides, those images are not real.
You do not look like that.
No one does.
Real beauty comes in transition. It comes from the balance between light and darkness. The good parts are good in contrast to the bad. The dimples, wrinkles, stretch marks, and every other ‘blemish’ you try so hard to hide, is in fact what makes you beautiful. By posting only perfection, you are taking away what makes you human. You are separating yourself from reality by creating a fiction. One that you can’t even attain.
Every night I come home feeling more and more dejected. Sometimes it feels like I am the only one pursuing my passion, but in the process, I am slowly witnessing its death.
What’s the point of looking through a window when there is nothing worth seeing on the other side?
This short story is from the book, ‘Kink, Volume 1’
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