I CLIMBED OVER THE BACK FENCE and hurried down the driveway. They probably hadn’t seen me at the window, but I couldn’t afford to take chances. The police had caught me once. I certainly did not want to be picked up again.
It was horrible when the police caught me. I admitted everything but that wasn’t enough for them. They put me in a chair with the light shining in my eyes so that I could barely see. Then they started hitting me. They used rubber hoses so there wouldn’t be any marks. They hit me so much I nearly fainted.
The beating wasn’t the worst of it, though. They called me names. They called me a sex fiend and a pervert. That hurt me more than the beatings.
Because I’m not a pervert, you see. All I want to do is watch people. There’s no harm in that, is there? I don’t hurt anyone, and I never really bother anybody. Sometimes someone sees me watching them, and they get frightened or angry, but that’s only once in a great while. I’ve been very careful lately, ever since they caught me.
And if they think I am a pervert, you should see some of the things I’ve seen. You wouldn’t believe the things some of these normal people do. It’s enough to make you sick to your stomach. Yet they are normal, and they call me a pervert, a Peeping Tom. I can’t quite understand it. All I do is watch.
Ever since they caught me I have been very careful. That is why I left the window when the man looked at me. I’m almost sure he didn’t see me, but he glanced toward the window and I hopped the fence and got away from there. Besides, it wasn’t much fun watching at his window. The woman with him was old and fat and I was getting bored with the whole thing. There was no sense in taking chances for that.
When I got out to the street I didn’t know where to go. I used to have a perfect spot. A pretty young prostitute over on Tremont Avenue who saw at least ten men a night. I could spend night after night watching her. The backyard was dark and I had a perfect view. But one night she saw me watching.
She was nice about it and sensible, too. She didn’t call me a pervert. But she said the men might notice me, that they wouldn’t like it. She told me to stay away. It was a shame that I had to give up the spot, but at least she didn’t call the police or anything.
But I couldn’t watch there anymore, and I had to find a new spot. I walked down the street looking for a lighted window. I stopped at several places, but there was nothing much to see. There were just people sitting or reading or watching television.
Finally I found a house with a light on that looked promising. The backyard was dark, too, which was important. It’s harder to see out from a lighted room when there is no light in the backyard.
I stood close to the window and watched. A man and woman were sitting on the bed, taking their clothes off. I watched them. The man wasn’t bad looking but my attention was confined to the woman. I’m not queer, you understand.
She certainly wasn’t beautiful. Better than average, though. Her face was nothing to write home about, her breasts were rather small, but she had beautiful legs and a generally nice shape all in all. I watched her undress and began to get excited. This was going to be a good night after all.
They undressed quickly, which is not the way I like it. It’s better when they take a good long time about it. But they just pulled off their clothes and turned down the bedcovers. I guess they had been married for some time.
I was really excited by this time, and my eyes were practically glued to the window. Then the man stood up and walked over to the wall. He touched a switch, and the room was suddenly plunged into complete darkness. I was so mad I could have killed him. Why did he have to do a thing like that?
I stared through the window, but it was no use. The room was black as pitch. I couldn’t understand it. How could he enjoy it with the lights out? He wouldn’t be able to see a thing.
I was mad, and just about ready to go home and call it a night. But the little I had seen left me so excited that I could not stop there. I walked around looking for another window.
By this time it was late and I had no idea where to go. Most of the people in the neighborhood were asleep by now. But I continued walking around, hoping against hope that something would turn up.
I was just about ready to quit when I saw a lighted window on Bushnell Road. Never having been to that house before I decided to give it a try.
I approached the window and looked in. It was a bedroom window, with a woman reading there. She had her back to me, reading a magazine. She was all alone.
Ordinarily I would not have waited. Sometimes a woman will sit like that all night, just reading. But it was late and, having nowhere else to go, I waited. Besides, I had the feeling I would get a real show for my money.
As it turned out, I was right. She put down the magazine in less than five minutes, stood up, and turned toward me. I was stunned when I got a good look at her. She was beautiful.
She was wearing a flower-print dress that made her look like a schoolgirl, but one good look at her would tell you she was nothing of the sort. Her body was far too mature for a schoolgirl’s with proud, full breasts that nearly ripped the dress apart. Her face was as pretty as a model’s, and her hair was that soft reddish-brown that drives me crazy. I was ready to watch her forever.
She started to undress. I stared at her greedily. There was no one else around, and my eyes studied every detail of her body. She undressed slowly, tantalizingly, slithering out of her dress and hanging it up in the closet. Finally she stood there nude, and it was worth all the waiting, worth all the walking that I had done that night. She was like a vision, the most perfect woman I had ever seen.
I thought I would have to go home then. I expected she would turn off the light and go to bed, and if she had I would have been satisfied. It was enough for one night. Instead she walked to her mirror and began to examine herself.
It was the perfect view for me. I could see both her back and the mirror image of her front. She looked at herself, and I watched her. Then she began to dance.
It was not exactly a dance. She moved like a burlesque dancer, but there was nothing crude about it. She knew how beautiful she was, and she moved in rhythm, making a symphony of her body and watching herself as she did. It was something to watch.
Finally she stopped dancing. She slipped on a housecoat and stepped through a door. I guessed she was going to the bathroom, which meant it was the end of the show. I could have left then, but didn’t. I wanted to get another glimpse of her. She had to come back.
I stood silently at the window, waiting for her.
Suddenly a door opened. I whirled around to find her standing there, in the doorway, pointing a gun at me. “Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
I froze in terror, staring down the mouth of the gun, which looked like a cannon to me. “I wasn’t doing anything,” I stammered. “Just watching you. I didn’t hurt you.”
She didn’t say a word.
“Look,” I pleaded, “just let me go. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise I’ll stay away from here.”
She ignored me. “I saw you in the mirror,” she said. “Saw you watching me. I danced for you. Did you like the way I danced?”
I nodded dumbly, unable to speak.
“It was for you,” she said. “I liked your eyes on me. I liked the way you looked at me.”
She smiled. “Come inside.”
I hesitated. Was this a trap? Had she called the police?
“Come here,” she said. “Come inside. Don’t be afraid.”
I followed her into the house, into the bedroom. “I want you,” she said. “I want you.” She slipped out of the housecoat and tossed it over a chair.
“Come on,” she said. “I know you want me. I could tell from the way you looked at me. Come here.”
She set the gun on the dresser and motioned for me to step closer. “I want you to make love to me,” she said.
I walked over to her, and she threw her arms around me. “Take me,” she moaned.
I pushed her away. “No,” I said. “I don’t want that. I just wanted to watch you. I wouldn’t do that.”
She pressed against me again. “I want you,” she insisted. She opened her arms and I felt her hot breath on my face.
There was only one way to stop her. I picked up the gun from the dresser. “Don’t come any closer,” I warned. “Leave me alone.”
“Don’t be silly.” She smiled. “You want me and I want you.” She kept coming closer as I retreated.
That’s when it happened—when the gun went off. The noise resounded in the small bedroom, and she crumpled and fell. “Why?” she moaned. Then she died.
The police beat me. They beat me harder than last time, and they called me a pervert. They think I tried to rape her, but that’s not true. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.